My Almanac Three; 02/10/2015
I was listening to Bob Dylan sing or crocking “The times are a ‘changing”, the song starting his mould of home spun philosophy for the young while the old looked on in silence in some sort of bewildered. Now I am much older, looking on at the young perhaps not muddled but slightly amused as the fledglings make their mark… similar to the young generation of yesterday.
No one likes change, apart from the young who would change to anything just to change and be prickly with the old…as they should believe they are the future. I reckon it has been an unspoken tradition since man started to walk in all two’s.
I do believe its bundles of myths we grow wiser as we grow older because our minds are set when we are very young indeed. I personally make the silliest mistakes the older I become and the only difference from my years is I am more ready to admit my foolishness.
However somewhere along the line, we collect useless baggage complete with phobias of all descriptions and biasness, sometimes willing and sometimes unknown but we do with some degree of foregone conclusion.
For me the one thing is certain…there is always uncertainty of the future being known as the unknown to react or prepare…when suitable and appropriate …what is normal or conceived to be normal. The up and coming young generation attempt to break down dusty traditions as they have a new horizon and holy grail….which is the same as the last horizon seen through virgin eyes. The old hang on to tradition….in hope of safety having not to change.
Tomorrow is our; ‘She who must be obeyed’ and my self’s…. 46th wedding anniversary, a personal tradition of our own. Although when we married we had visions of growing old together but never in our wildest dreams did we guess what lay ahead. We have, and do love each other which has matured throughout the years…different but just as strong for I miss Rebecca when she is not there but always in my mind. My only question to my bride is how she managed to accept all my faults without laughing out loud or making my position redundant. I can only say with authenticity…I am lucky.
One thing which has become a tradition is Aunt Becky’s wee hurls in my old carriage jalopy around Strathblane and the Kilpatrick hills. For Becky it could be anywhere however she takes great delight, singing along to traditional Scottish songs, tapping her feet to the pipes and accordion while chucking through the hills, and countryside, abundant with trees and greenery which supports walking lamb chops, cattle and many a horse. I certainly have noticed it is also a soothing drug for me as each trip while returning home I feel relaxed almost ready for anything…now that is a tradition worth having.