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Om een of ander rede is Moose Jaw ŉ gewilde aftreeplek. Moenie my vra waarom nie want dis nou nie juis asof ons ŉ subtropiese klimaat het nie. Die dorp is vol ouetehuise, die hoogste gebou in Moose Jaw (15 verdiepings) is ŉ ouetehuis skuins agter ons woonstelgebou.
Saam met ouderdom kom ook die onvermydelike aftakeling en ek sien elke week twee of drie pasiënte wat nie weet waar of wie hulle is nie. Ek staan soms verstom oor die handevol pille wat hierdie ou mense gebruik – en dan nie oor-die-toonbank pille nie maar medisyne wat net op voorskrif beskikbaar is. Dit wil my voorkom asof Kanadese dokters refleksief na die voorskrifboekie gryp wanneer ŉ pasiënt ŉ klagte het. Of Kanadese so oud word as gevolg van al die pille of te spyte daarvan weet ek nie…
Selfs in die middel van die winter sien mens soms ou mense stap met daardie looprame op wieletjies, hul emfisemateuse asems wat wit wolke voor hul gesigte blaas. Meestal word hulle deur die provinsiale departement van gesondheid se “Home Care Department” versorg en ek moet sê dat Saskatchewan baie goed na hul oumense omsien maar dit plaas natuurlik ŉ geweldige las op die provinsiale begroting. As die huidige tendense voortduur sal mediese sorg van die bevolking as geheel teen 2030 sowat 70% van die beskikbare finansies opslurp – ooglopend ŉ onhoudbare situasie.
Glen Sorestad, die Saskatoonse digter wie se verse ek al voorheen hier geplaas het, beskryf in sy bundel Today I belong to Agnes hoe hy sy moeder se stadige aftakeling beleef het.
The woman from Home Care talks with Mother,
asks her various questions; Mother proffers
quite credible replies and everything is well
until the assessor asks how old Mother is.
“Oh, I’m a hundred years old,” Mother says
without the slightest hesitation; she’s eleven years
off the mark this time. “Really? One hundred?”
“Oh, yes,” Mother smiles her sweetest affirmation
as the other seeks corroboration in her files.
Now why has Mother decided that today
she will be a hundred years old? Was she
thinking of her favourite aunt who lived
to her hundredth birthday? Has she decided
if her aunt could do it why not she? Or is
Mother engaging in a bit of harmless sport
with this earnest woman, leading her on
before her laughter lets the other know
she’s been duped by an eighty-nine year old?
I’m leaning towards the latter when the woman
asks Mother to tell her what time it is. “Why?”
Mother wants to know, “Can’t you tell time?”
I sense a caginess from Mother that is beyond
the game she may be playing with her opponent.
“Yes, I can. What I want is for you to look
at that clock,” and she points to the wall,
“and tell me what time it is right now.”
Mother looks at the clock for a few seconds,
then turns to woman and says, “I don’t see
why I should tell you the time, if you can see
the clock perfectly well yourself.” Then she refuses
to play the match further. But perhaps she knows,
even at this moment, that time has made
an unexpected turn, one she’ll not set right,
no matter how she plays the game.
It’s been weeks, but seems years now
that we’ve been cleaning Mother’s apartment.
Now that she’s moved to a private care home
she has no need and less room for all
these possessions that have surrounded her –
reminders of who she is, where she’s lived.
At times these comfort objects become puzzles
she’d pick up and stare at: tangible links
to fading times, the confusion of years.
This burden of survival to her tenth decade
is that she sees parts of herself fall away
like dead skin: two husbands, a succession
of homes in different places, two children,
grandchildren, great-grandchildren – all
become many-faceted pieces grown
harder to fit in the jigsaw puzzle
that her life has now become.
But what are we to do with all these things?
At times despair mounts that I must be
the one to decide what shall be kept,
what discarded of this, my mother’s life,
part of me in the history of these keepsakes.
Of course, we too have gathered our own,
the incriminating evidence of a lifetime,
plot details of a fiction all too real.
Are we to leave four decades worth
of our own packratting to our children
so that they too must someday
lift and hold each item and agonize
over what has meaning or worth,
what is treasure and what is trash?
Dit is natuurlik nie net die bejaardes wat deur ouderdom en aftakeling geraak word nie maar ook hul kinders.
Each Thursday the tall
immaculate man arrives
without fail to visit
his mother, but only Thursdays.
Newly retired he now
looks for meaning in life
an organisation man
bend to chaos.
Still, I’d like to ask
him why it must be
be pleased to see him
any day, frequency
especially since her days
are swiftly moving
one Thursday she
his afternoon its purpose
and the neat order
of his week will
collapse upon him.
This woman must be a school teacher
because she wants to scold her mother:
sit up straight now! Where’s your hankie?
Tuck in your blouse! Are you listening?
Is this a daughter’s revenge on her mother?
Must it come to this? The daughter can
not help herself, it seems. No matter how
warm her greetings, no matter how much
or little they have to say to each other,
at some point the visit always comes to this.
Perhaps it is a kind of love, the only kind
These two have ever known, or ever shown.
Each time this woman comes
she works so hard to hide
how her mother’s falling back
to childhood upsets her –
as if somehow this should
not be so, as if someone here
what she sees happening.
She is not yet ready
in her mother’s place,
what each of us must see.
Ou mense het nou maar eenmaal die manier om dood te gaan en baie sterftes beteken noodwendig baie begrafnisse. Die kombinasie van ysige winters en teraardebestellings kan soms nogal problematies wees. Sommige bejaardes stipuleer in hul testamente dat hulle nie veras moet word nie en dat hulle op die konvensionele manier ter aarde bestel moet word. Nou is dit so dat die grond hier in die winter sowat twee meter diep vries en dus lol dit maar om grafte te grawe. Niemand wil ŉ lyk maande lank in ŉ koelkas laat lê tot die grond ontdooi het nie, dus het die munisipaliteit van Moose Jaw ŉ spesiale apparaat aangeskaf wat die grond oor ŉ tydperk van ŉ paar dae ontvries sodat ŉ meganiese graaf dan die graf kan kom grawe.
Rosedale Cemetery, die eerste begraafplaas in Moose Jaw, is in die 1880’s in gebruik geneem en in daardie tyd was daar natuurlik nie sulke moderne gedoentes soos krematoria of meganiese grawe nie. Die Moose Javians van daardie tyd het ŉ eenvoudige en baie praktiese oplossing gevind: ŉ kapel is in die gronde van die begraafplaas gebou en van ŉ groot kelder voorsien. Voor die preekstoel was ŉ groot luik waarmee die kis na die roudiens tot in die kelder laat sak is. Wintermaande was die kelder koud genoeg om die lyke bevrore te hou totdat die grond genoegsaam ontdooi het om grafte te grawe. Ek neem aan dat daar destyds nie so baie bejaardes in Moose Jaw was as tans nie want vandag sal die kelder beslis nie groot genoeg wees nie.
Een van die grafte is dié van ŉ jong lid van die Heilsleër-orkes wat tydens die Titanic-ramp omgekom het en om een of ander onbekende rede in Moose Jaw sy laaste rusplek gevind het.
Soos die gewoonte destyds was kon net blanke Kanadese in Rosedale Begraafplaas begrawe word. Hierdie tradisie is in 1910 verbreek toe die eerste inheemse Indiaanse vrou, Tasinaskawin Brule (Kombersvrou van die Wit Maan) daar begrawe is. Of dalk klink dit beter in Engels: Blanket Woman of the White Moon.
Sy was lid van die Lakota-stam, wat tesame met die Santee en Yankton-groepe die Sioux-nasie gevorm het wat kolonel Custer in 1876 by Little Big Horn verslaan het. Na die veldslag het die Indiane na Kanada gevlug en in die omgewing van Moose Jaw gevestig. Tasinaskawin was die eggenote van Swart Bul, die plaaslike opperhoof. Toe sy besef dat sy sterwend is het sy versoek dat die flap van haar tepee oopgemaak moet word sodat sy vir die laaste keer die son kon sien opkom. Sy het al haar besittings (sewe ponies, ŉ wa, die tepee en ŉ kombers) bemaak aan ŉ blanke Kanadese vrou met wie sy bevriend was. Sy het ook versoek dat sy in Rosedale Begraafplaas ter ruste gelê moet word. Haar graf is die enigste een bekend van al die inheemse Indiaanse vroue wat sowat ŉ eeu gelede hier geleef en gesterf het.
Monday, August 23rd, 2010 | Buiteblik.
Een Kommentaar op “Leon Retief. Om in Moose Jaw oud te word”
‘n Lekker stuk, Leon! Baie dankie. Glen Sorestad se gedigte bly indrukwekkend. Voorwaar ‘n genotvolle ontdekking. 🙂