Before yesterday I had never spoken to anyone 100 years of age. The first thing I said was happy birthday Dad.
He was already having one. The Rest Home had made a real party of it.
It was in fact the second celebration. We’d already had one on the weekend because not everyone could be there on the big day. What’s not to like about saying happy birthday more than once, blowing out the candles more than once when it's a fresh delight for him each time?
Maybe you were here three years ago when I said they were living very quiet lives, Mum and Dad, on their own. Maybe you were here three years ago when I said Dad had always said he never wanted to end up in one of those places. Maybe you were here three years ago when Mum was thrilled to find there was a place available that was warm and comfortable and welcoming. And maybe you were there three years ago when we held our breath and hoped Dad would go along with it.
Boy did he end up going along with it. He cheerfully exchanges with everyone, they all enjoy his amiable company. My brother said some words before birthday cake number one and they were just perfect. He told Dad how over and over throughout his life it had been apparent how much people liked and respected him, and it has been again, in this last of his homes.
When it was my turn yesterday I described the calm, careful and unhurried way he has always gone about things. We could often be bringing in hay long after sunset, but every bale he stacked would be perfect. It can actually be pretty good, taking your time, breathing in the summer air under a full moon. I said If you want tips for making it to 100; there’s a clue.
They've been looking forward to it, this day, at the home. Jo, who organises the activities, said she could only recall two others in her 14 years there. She had made a huge collage of photos of Dad and Mum and their life in their new and unexpected home.
Underneath the collage she had mounted four model horses at a gallop. Dad has measured his life out in furlongs and a love of horses. They know him by his Trackside.
But the biggest story the collage told was of a fresh happy chapter, Mum and Dad among people who really care.
The carers had all written message in the birthday card saying in various ways you’re a true gentleman. It was affecting. The King and Queen offer a more measured message but it was a lovely card all the same. The mayor and deputy mayor had come the day before. Dad enjoyed all of it, he'll no doubt go on getting enjoyment each time he picks up a card and learns afresh that he’s turned 100.
Loveliest of all, though, Mel, one of the carers, had promised to put adhesive transfers onto his arm of the same artwork that’s on hers. Not only that, her uncle had carved a gift for her to give to Dad. I could try to tell you how much it meant but the photo says it so much better.
He's the most amiable of people and yet he is also someone who would have been entirely content to be a lighthouse keeper. I’m not making some vague observation, I mean he often said so. He’s both the most genial of people and wholly self-contained.
Back in his room, he looked out the window, admired the cherry blossom, and said It reminds me of Japan when we were there after the war. Karren asked him a question to carry the memory a little further. When he said, no he wasn’t sure, she tried another tack, but the moment was gone. Memory shines for a moment, then clouds over again. He was never sure how much he wanted to talk about it even when he recalled it all.
He’s enjoyed his hundred greatly, he’s been bemused by it all. He is, at this great age, content enough and maybe at the end that’s as much as you can want.
