There is one thing that I don't particularly like about being a freemason. That's seeing those who are coming to their end. End of life that is.
The average age of the members of our lodge is somewhere around 75. Let me thing, I know of an 89 and 87-year-old - they're sisters. One's 84. Another in her late seventies. Another who's pushing 80 and one who's in her early seventies with energy to burn. Most have all of their wits about them. But many are becoming increasingly frail.
We had a mason's convention this weekend where masons from all over the country came and congregated at our temple. It was a good. I made a hell of a lot of tea. We had a ceremony, which was nice. Having more than ten people in the temple was a great thing.
For me, one of the young ones, who makes a lot of tea, without grumbling, because this is what you do, the really hard thing is seeing people who you have previously known as fit, lively and vivacious heading into their decline.
One of my favourite interstate masons was there. I'll call her Beryl - which she would hate me for, but for the purposes of the blog, this is what I'll call her.
Beryl is 94.
Beryl has lived an incredible life.
Beryl has a companion, Joan (also not her real name). They come as a double act. Joan's ten years younger - a very sprightly 84.
I've known these women for over ten years now. They come from Queensland. When I first met them they used to come to Melbourne driving a big fuck-off Valiant wagon towing a caravan. In their seventies and eighties now.
These are amazing women. Courageous. Fun. Intelligent. Vibrant. Beryl told me of how her grandkids call her "Fun Grandma". She's the 70-year-old who joins her grandkids ON the slides at the water park. The one who goes on bush walks. The one who's manning the barbeques at the scout's sausage sizzles at Bunnings. The one who goes to the odd march for social justice issues.
You want to have women like this in your life.
Well, Beryl and Joan were at the event yesterday.
Beryl, at 94, is looking very frail.
She still has a blaze of purple in the front of her white hair - you can find her in a crowd. There still the cheeky smile behind her cataract-ridden eyes. She's got her wheelie walker nearby. Joan is faithfully at her side.
Mason's ceremonies like Catholic Mass, has a bit of standing and sitting. I watched as Joan and another helped Beryl to her feet. After a couple of ups and downs, the look of exasperation when we were called to our feet was telling. She wanted this to be easy. It wasn't. To not stand would be admitting defeat. We had a final call to move to the centre of the temple.
"You can sit this one out, mate," Joan said to Beryl.
Beryl remained seating as the rest of us joined hands in a circle in front of the altar.
On returning to my place, I walked over to Beryl, took her hands and gave the papery thing hands a gentle squeeze, followed by a soft kiss on her forehead. My very small way of including her in something I know would have been killing her not to be a part of.
We said goodbye later in the evening. She said she hoped to see me next time.
I'm not sure there will be a next time.
All I know, and this is something that masons drives home more than anything else, is that aging is very cruel and death robs you of some bloody marvelous people.
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