Golden Oldies

1963 was our Annus Horribilis, when my father and my sister died within six weeks of each other. But don't worry, this is not a gloomy story. For the next twenty-five years, I was the man in my mother's life, taking care of those practical matters that women of her generation never dealt with. I had to replace my sister too, which I did willingly, and which is why I know so much about female matters: hairstyle and clothing and so on, as well as matters emotional and psychological.
During her years of widowhood, I tried to ensure that my mother had new experiences: adventures with foreign cuisines, visits to place old and new to her, a trip to Switxerland (she had never been abroad or in a plane before), a drive across France, and so on. Here are three highlights from those years.
Jubilee Monument
I took her on a trip back to Quernmore, the village where she was born and brought up. We went by way of Clitheroe and on through the Trough of Bowland to Lancaster. On the way , she suddenly pointed and said excitedly "Look! Over there! That's the Jubilee Monument!" I stopped the car and contemplated a rather uninteresting piece of masonry plonked in the middle of nowhere. My mother sighed. "That's where Albert Brindle kissed me!" she said, a little breathlessly. She was suddenly sixteen again, recalling a beautiful moment in a beautiful romance. She might have become Mrs Brindle, except that Albert emigrated to Canada and she was considered too young to marry and go with him. I saw my 76-year-old mother in a new light at that moment.
Submarine
One day, when she was in her early eighties, I asked her if she would like to go into a submarine (There was a visitable one in dry dock in Liverpool being refitted). An enthusiastic "Yes!" So, down we went, sailors in front of us and behind us as we were taken along the passageways. When we came to what we landlubbers would call a door, you know, those oval shaped openings with low top and raised threshold, my mother stooped and managed to get one leg over the raised threshold, but couldn't manage to get the other leg over. She was stuck. Sailors in front held her hands and tried to pull her through, but in vain. Finally, my mother looked over her shoulder at the sailor standing behind her. "Young man," she said, "put your hands on my bottom and give me a good hard push." I teased her afterward that she had faked the whole incident just so she could get a handsome sailor to fondle her bottom. I just hope I can persuade some pretty young woman to put her hands on my backside when I am in my eighties.
Party
We - children, grandchildren and friends -celebrated her ninetieth birthday in an Italian restaurant. After one glass of wine, my mother was already mellow. "So, Grandma," I asked, "what does it feel like to be ninety?" She thought about it for a moment, a wistful look in her faded blue eyes. "I wish I was seventy again," she sighed. That's a moment I will never forget. What's more, her answer means more to me now than I could ever have imagined.