Note: this piece was posted to Facebook on 24 April 2021.
Even when retired and without a standard working week, Saturday mornings are still special. Today was no exception. The sun was warm, the sky blue and the autumn leaves motionless.
People at the shops moved comfortably from coffee with a friend to the weekend newspapers. Some in scarves, others still in shorts as if refusing to accept the change of seasons.
As I joined the modest throng it felt like a time to exchange meaningless niceties with strangers. “It’s beautiful isn’t it!” For human connection. “Isn’t it gorgeous!” For familiarity. “Have a good day!”
The barista in the sandwich shop – always cheerful, speedy – took my order: for some reason, a small cappuccino rather than my usual flat white – and I moved seamlessly to the newspaper shop next door.
The proprietorial couple, reliable as ever, were instantly respectful and polite, like head waiters in a fine dining establishment.
With the pink credit card having done what is expected of it, I returned to the sandwich shop to pick up the coffee. Then on and around the corner to the grocery store for a Three Mills crusty white loaf. I thought to playfully remind the woman in front of me “Not to pinch all the good stuff!” But resisted.
Waiting in the properly spaced queue to pay, a quick rehearsal of what was required to make my perfect Saturday morning: newspapers, tick; coffee, tick; fresh crusty bread: in hand.
Singing is valuable therapy for people with Parkinson’s. In Canberra the Bushlarks are proving the point despite symptoms which mitigate against easy vocalising.
______________
Where flowers are concerned my obsession is the cowslip. For authors it is Anthony Powell. His 12-volume series, A dance to the music of time, has long intrigued me and a gift from me of a full set is my fondest way of welcoming new members of the family. (Fergus isn’t reading much as yet but I stand ready to bless him whenever he’s up for it.)
In a piece posted to this blogg entitled Bob Carr, Anthony Powell and me (19 June 2018) I wrote:
“One of the characteristics of Powell’s novel is the occurrence of coincidence at what might be regarded as an unlikely rate. People keep meeting in unexpected circumstances with those with whom they have had previous contact; newly-introduced characters turn out to have links with people and events that have gone before.
I have often defended the notion that ‘coincidence’ is more of a reality of life than is connoted by a normal understanding of the word, which goes to its rarity and surprise. Events do seem to recur, albeit with different personnel, and certain people encountered years ago seem incapable of escaping the ebb and flow of one’s own life.
This of course is the dance to which Anthony Powell refers. Often life has a kind of circularity which eventually brings back the partner with whom one traced figures around the floor when the music began.”
I am reminded of this assertion every Monday morning when three of us travel together to Bushlarks, the ACT Parkinson’s choir.
Alpha and I were married in the registry office in Canberra in 1976. Six persons were present: one Celebrant, two subjects and three witnesses. These three were Bert and Jan, old friends from Armidale, and their eldest child bawling his eyes out in a stroller. (It would be unkind of me to speculate about what was disturbing him.)
Fast forward 17 years. Having moved from Armidale to Canberra I spent just three months in the Public Service. It was the period between working for John Kerin and being employed by the NRHA. In those ‘fantastic’ days, in April-June 1993, my Branch Head was a thoughtful, kind, reformist and spiritual man who I shall now call ‘Robert’.
Jan-the-wedding-witness drives the three of us on a Monday morning to the Parkinson’s choir. Jan was diagnosed about three years ago. And in the front seat is ‘Robert’, diagnosed about eight years ago.
What are the odds against being reconnected thus with a witness at my wedding and the only Branch Head I have ever had?
We make our way to the northern wilds of the ACT to a hall attached to a church that apparently welcomes refugees. Robert progresses slowly to the door on a stick. We sign in with only slight technical difficulty and then sanitise our hands. For some of us there must be a curious familiarity with the act of holding out hands, left over right, to receive something consecrated to human improvement.
We greet our new-found friends, necessarily sotto voce, in the small group that gathers. We are about twenty in all. Five carer-PwP pairs and ten or so still presenting individually.
Meeting up with these people brings me feelings of relief and wonder. It is like searching a mirror held up to one’s face for signs of changes to that face. These are the types I might become myself – or perhaps I am already one of them.
The Bushlarks includes a lot of troubled gaits, soft voices, slow movers. The mum and daughter in the front row provide the best voices – the centrepiece of the choir’s sound: almost competing with each other, singing the high notes with great gusto and accuracy.
Sue shakes all over like a leaf in a storm. Her partner attends to her. Sometimes three or four of us peel away from the singing to find her mobile phone as it demands to be heard from the bottom of her bag. There are a couple of men of my age with that fixed, unsmiling countenance the condition often brings – which makes it difficult to smile for the mirror – or the camera. And all of us stoop and cross the room slowly.
There is a woman whose mobility seems unimpaired but upon chatting with her it becomes clear that she is troubled, constantly on edge. But, she, like the rest of us, is trying to sing up a storm. Speaking for myself: some days I have a voice and can pitch it by design; on other days I am effectively mute.
We are under the control of ‘Dot’, a generous and politicised woman who has honed her musical abilities since the Conservatorium with a range of performance modes, many of them in service to her community. Dot is both Music Director and accompanist. In singing we are encouraged to stick together, in unison, except for the last chord of a piece when we are allowed to venture a third.
We met for nearly a year on Zoom. It was interesting but ultimately frustrating. Given the mess of different latencies, we were all muted and so were only singing to ourselves. Choral that isn’t. Now that we’re back together, we space out, sanitise and wipe down the church chairs. If we’re muted it is symptomatic, not by design.
This Sunday (2 May) Parkinson’s ACT is holding its Picnicin the Park to mark the end of Parkinson‘s Awareness Month. [https://www.parkinsonsact.org.au]
The Bushlarks will perform at the picnic under Dot’s watchful eye. There may or not be other eyes as well. But it won’t matter; we’re in it for the meeting and mixing, the getting out, not for the performance or the show.
