by Mary Moody
All this has given me cause for deep reflection and self-examination. Not navel-gazing, but a shot at using the problems that have cropped up to help gain insight and understanding. It’s not ‘meaning of life’ stuff; more a striving to crystallise how I really feel about these big issues. I spent a great deal of my life just living day-to-day, carefree and loving every minute of it. Now I allow myself some quiet thinking time, and I sense this is a natural part of the ageing process. Although I’m not physically slowing down too much yet – I’m just as busy as I ever was – these days I use my head as much as my heart when I make decisions. Is this the coming of wisdom? Is this why we are told that growing old has its compensations – because as our bodies deteriorate our minds store the knowledge of a lifetime and we (finally) become wise? I’m not so sure about this. My youngest son, Ethan, aged twenty-eight, has a very old head on young shoulders. The same applies to his partner, Lynne. They always had plenty of commonsense but the advent of Isabella into their lives has brought them wisdom and insight beyond their years. They have had to consider the possibility they may still be caring for a disabled daughter when they are in their sixties, and may never have the chance, as I did, to escape from their responsibilities.
How do I really feel about ageing? To be totally honest, I dislike it intensely. I desperately try to think positively about it, but the downsides loom large. I don’t equate ageing with dying. To me, they are two separate issues. Somehow death doesn’t faze me quite as much as the actual ageing process. I see death as inevitable and not to be feared. I don’t look forward to it, especially if I am unfortunate enough to experience a long, lingering and painful demise. But I accept it and believe that it’s OK to die.
Yet I can’t seem to be as philosophical about growing old. For me, the process is accompanied by a sense of loss. I’m no longer as strong as I once was. I don’t have the vigour and the stamina to work endless hours in the garden or to haul large bags of grain around for the poultry. I can’t carry children on my hip any more – it throws my back out and I end up hobbling around for week. This makes me wild because I have always loved having a child on my hip, especially when I’m cooking dinner. I can run but I’m not as confident climbing a tall ladder these days and my eyesight is failing to the point that I never know the shampoo from the conditioner in the shower. I can’t even read a newspaper headline without my glasses. My skin has become dry and papery, no matter how much moisturiser I massage into it day and night. Quite frankly, my hair is also falling out. This may all seem trivial and vain, but I just can’t help resenting it. David is eleven years further down the track than me and he doesn’t like it any more than I do. His teeth are breaking off, one by one, as a result of poor dentistry in the 1940s and 50s. His late-onset diabetes means his hair is also disappearing – his luxuriant beard has thinned dramatically and even the hair on his legs and arms has fallen out. His back causes him problems and he creaks out of bed every morning, often muttering ‘I’m so old, and I don’t like it’.
Yet we both still have energy, we both work, we make love, we exercise and eat well and enjoy our lives. It’s just that after fifty-five the ageing process seems to accelerate and while we have to accept it, we certainly don’t have to say that we like it. I don’t see us as a pair of whingers, complaining about minor ailments. I’m sure very many people feel exactly as we do, it’s just that our society doesn’t encourage us to say so.
Our relationship has been through so much over the past eight years and it’s now stronger and more resilient than ever. I no longer dwell on my husband’s negative attributes, nor simmer with resentment about his failings. He feels the same way about me. Perhaps that’s one positive aspect of growing older. A growing acceptance and a greater tolerance. I’m very keen, however, not to allow our partnership to slip into complacency. I still like to surprise David; to keep him on his toes. The frisson is still there between us and I know that’s partly because we managed to pull our marriage back from the brink. We no longer take each other for granted.
In an interview on ABC-TV, Woody Allen said he would rather trade the wisdom he has gained over the past thirty-five years and have those years back to live again. I don’t feel quite that disturbed about growing older, but I do understand exactly where he’s coming from. I applaud his bravery in admitting his dislike of growing old.
Ultimately I know I have a great deal to look forward to. My grandchildren sustain me with hope and optimism and I feel confident that I will live long enough to meet a great-grandchild or two. Even Isabella, with her ongoing problems, has such a grasp on life and a profound impact on our family that I cannot imagine the world without her. I hope that if I do live to be a grand age I will be a thoroughly impish and eccentric old woman with a sense of humour and a capacity for loving, laughing and having fun.
Christmas is coming round again, and this year I have a little more time for preparations. We’ve had a wet spring – even some snow in late November – and the garden here at the farm has never looked more beautiful. The bird life is prolific in this district, and as I write the bottlebrush outside my office window is filled with upside-down wattlebirds and honeyeaters feasting on the nectar. There are more snakes around this year too, and I’ve had several hair-raising close encounters. My vegetable garden is planted and I’m about to cut back the first flush of flowers on the roses. I feel contented.
Predictably, my life has recently become even more complicated. Both my children who separated have now found new partners, and so has my former son-in-law. I’ve met them all and warmed to them, and needless to say there are more children involved. When I add on my extra grandchildren, as I like to think of them, I’m now up to fourteen. All our extended family will come to stay at various times over the holiday period, including Miriam and her new partner, Mark, Lorna, and Rick and his partner, Shelley. My long dining table, designed for an expanding family, can no longer accommodate the entire ménage at one time. The children will have to be relegated to the other long table, on the verandah! I’m pleased that everything seems to be working out in the end. Through all the ups and downs we have remained close and the farm is still at the heart of it all.
AFTERWORD
When I’m not writing or gardening, or spending time with my grandchildren, or travelling around the world for work or to care for my sister, I spend time as a public speaker, which is a sideline I thoroughly enjoy.
It started back when I was first writing gardening books in the early 1980s. After the publication of my very first book I was approached by a local gardening club in the Mountains to be a guest speaker at their monthly meeting in the church hall. I was petrified at the thought. Although I had been a debater at school I had not stood up in front of an audience since that time.
For that first talk I made copious notes and in the end wrote a speech which I intended to read. I wasn’t going to be caught out making any mistakes.
I surprised myself by not even glancing at my notes, let alone following my prepared lecture. I spoke off the cuff, made a few jokes and stimulated an easy question-and-answer session at the end. The hour flew, and the next time I was approached I did not have the same reservations.
Over the following fifteen years I cut my teeth as a public speaker, talking to gardeners in clubs all over Australia. I loved meeting people, and laughing about the eccentricities of keen gardeners. I loved the warm-hearted banter and exchanges that became an inevitable part of the public-speaking process.
More recently, I have talked to large groups each time a new book of mine has been published, and I have also set aside time to speak at events organised to raise funds for charity. It’s extraordinary how a simple gathering – a morning tea or cocktail party with a guest speaker – can raise such large sums of money in just a few hours (although of course there’s a lot work for the organisers in the lead-up to such an event).
Over the years, from my days as a gardening writer to my current role as the unofficial spokeswoman of
middle-aged women yearning to run away from home, I have developed a great rapport with my readers and this always makes for a lively exchange of ideas and viewpoints. Keen readers love to meet authors and because I write in an honest way they really feel as though they know me, which is great. It means, of course, that it’s no holds barred when it comes to question time and I sometimes reel at some of the questions I am asked on these occasions . . .
‘How did your husband react,’ one well-dressed woman enquired, ‘when he realised you were having . . . an extra cup of coffee after dinner?’
Audience laughter. I knew what she was getting at.
‘I don’t drink coffee,’ I think I quickly retorted. Then went on to answer her question more earnestly.
‘Do you still see your lover?’ asked another.
‘Yes. But it’s different now.’
‘How did his wife feel?’
‘She didn’t know, thank heavens.’
And so it goes.
Inevitably I am asked if there will be another book in the series. People must love to hear other people’s stories. There is a thirst for books that take people on a journey through the life of another. There are so many people who lead fascinating lives and we just can’t seem to get enough of them.
The feedback I get through my website confirms this. Almost every day I am sent an email – sometimes two or three – from readers wanting to talk about my books. Their letters bubble with enthusiasm and they always ask . . . what happened next?
I picked up your book Au Revoir at the library recently and I just wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed it . . . and I absolutely loved the funeral you gave your Mum . . . that was just the best!!!!!
I look forward to reading more
Wendy
I know i’m a bit slow off the mark but i love your books and feel i know you and you make me feel normal at our age. In your writing you say it how it is warts and all. I’ve just realised you have the third book – the long hot summer. I can’t wait to get my hands on it. Thank you once again, you are an inspiration to all us 50-something chooks. I like you don’t want to get old because i’m really only 30.
ha ha
regards judy
You are an amazing lady Mary! I have just finished reading The Long Hot Summer following on from your previous two books and my head is still spinning thinking of all you have been through and how you have survived it all. You would be an inspiration to so many women. I hope to get to the NSW Art Gallery so I can hear you in person for the first time. Many blessings to you and don’t ever stop being so honest and open.
I’ve enjoyed getting lost in your books and would like to know what tours in France you may have during 2009. Thank you for such wonderfully descriptive stories, I certainly got lost in them – with a cheeky little glass of red in hand!
I am a huge fan and have enjoyed all three of your biographies (just finished The Long Hot Summer). Fantastic, I felt everything with you throughout your journey . . . A devoted fan, Heather
I have thoroughly enjoyed reading your books. I can relate so well being 49 myself and dedicating my life so far to my family, after reading Au Revoir I decided I needed to travel myself and find my old self. I have just returned from Europe which was wonderful but just a taste for the future.
I have finished Last Tango in Toulouse and am just starting The Long Hot Summer. I commend you on your honesty, and hope one day to find my way to the little part of the world you make sound so wonderful in your books. Keep the stories coming please.
Love Maree
I try to respond to most of the emails, although when I’m on the road it isn’t always easy. However these messages encourage me enormously, and give me confidence to keep writing on subjects that are touchy for some people (especially male book reviewers).
In France, people now coming looking for my house. If I’m at home they sometimes knock on the door and say hello. I’m usually happy to see them, unless I’m in the middle of some domestic crisis, or right on deadline for a piece of writing. But it can be a little unsettling for me at times, because it’s the last thing I expect when I’m in such a remote place as the tiny village of Frayssinet-le-Gelat. People leave notes for me at Jeannette and Sylvie’s restaurant in Pomarede, and every time I return I am handed a small bundle of messages and cheerios, often written on paper napkins. Once, I was photographed unloading groceries from the boot of my car and carrying them into the house. The couple who took the pictures didn’t approach me at the time but later mailed me a copy of one. I have to confess I found that a bit creepy.
I look forward to my next tour when I can talk at literary and fundraising events about the issues I have raised in this latest book. Naturally, my readers are still probably thinking of me as a free spirit, and it will be interesting to see how they react to the latest chapter in my story. Will they think I have hung up my fishnet tights in favour of pastimes more sedate and saintly?
I certainly hope not!
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Although writing is a solitary occupation, creating a finished book is a collaborative effort. During the writing of Sweet Surrender I was offered tremendous love and forbearance by my family, my friends and work colleagues. My husband supported my spending as much time as I could with my sister; my children and their families listened and laughed at my blunderings through mid-life. I am fortunate indeed that my agent Lyn Tranter has been such a staunch ally and that my compassionate publisher Tom Gilliatt no longer looks alarmed at anything I tell him. Sybil Nolan, as editor, found the storyline amid the confusion and was later capably backed up by Pan Macmillan senior editor Emma Rafferty and copy editor Ali Lavau. The typesetters, proofreader, cover designer, publishing assistants and publicists — a huge thank you to everyone involved.
