Together we can make it

This week saw the release of the much heralded Federal Treasurer's Intergenerational report 2010. One of the themes of the report is the challenges posed to this nation, as to many others, of an ageing population. Given the media reaction, one could be forgiven for thinking the older generation is dragging the country to its knees. At the well worn feet of our senior citizens has been laid the blame for the most pressing problems facing this country today. According to the report, Australia is facing escalating pressures on its social, economic, and health systems. Commentaries on the report suggest the country is reeling under the escalating burden of those among us who have the temerity to keep on keeping on, despite their wrinkles and grey hair.

One can't help but think, being so unjustly targeted as the prime cause of their country's woes, our ageing citizens may well react with escalating pressures of their own. Perhaps this is the aim. As we all know, raised blood pressure leads to cardiac crises, sudden strokes and other such nasties, which with a bit of luck may take a few more oldies out of the game and give poor old Oz a bit of breathing space.

Falling just within the demographic that could be statistically (if unkindly) defined as ageing, I am beginning to take exception to this. Philosophically speaking, we are all ageing, indeed from the very moment we spring from the womb. Some of us are however getting a lot closer to the bottoming-out end of the slippery dip, and that's the point. The tide of life is going out for us, whether we like it or not. Despite grasping at bits of driftwood here and there, otherwise known variously as Viagra, HRT, Botox, dermal fillers and the like, we will inevitably wash up at the final shore.

Articles about the societal ills this country will face over the next 40 years leave me cold I have to say, as cold as I'll doubtless be by the time 40 years have elapsed. It is only the young who can realistically see themselves dealing with the next 40 or 50 years and it's all very well for them to write about it in tones of dire foreboding. What they tend to forget is that by then they will have joined the ranks of the dreaded ageing themselves.

This I think is where the problem lies with all this blathering on about the imminent geriatric takeover of the world. Just because the baby boomers caused a demographic blip back when our parents thought the war to end all wars actually had, doesn't mean the world will grind to a halt under the weight of an unprecedented mass of oldies. Subsequent generations are, after all, continuing to have babies, even if the Gen X'ers and Y'ers wait a bit longer. Even the Gen Z'ers are probably already thinking about it. In fact the very Intergenerational report that so castigates the grey haired brigade states that Australia's population is, if not booming, definitely on the increase thanks to a higher than expected rate of childbirth. This can hardly be attributed to the euphoria of post-war celebrations this time, so one can only guess it must have been our late un-lamented Treasurer's exhortation to the nation's families to have "one for your husband, one for your wife and one for the country".

Rather than so fixedly delineating the generations, as government reports and human resource managers tend to do, perhaps it would be more fruitful to adopt a more holistic approach. Generations are comprised of individuals, who while they may share birth dates within a certain range, are equally as multi-skilled, talented and diverse one from the other as grandparents are from their grandchildren. This is not to deny the existence of generational traits which clearly manifest themselves and can be glaringly obvious in such things as choices in clothes, hairstyles, music, attitudes to sex and in a multitude of other ways. What I'm saying though is that these characteristics are not the whole person.

Like sexism, ageism sadly focuses on casting people beyond the pale, based on a small component of their identity, over which they have no control, about which a huge fuss is often made, and on the basis of which it is totally unjust to judge their worth in any context whatsoever.

I would like to suggest that rather than shuffling people into generational compartments and correlating their capacity to make a contribution or not to their span of years, we build bridges between the generations. How do we do that? Although the phrase "celebrate diversity" has become trite with over-use, that is what is needed in the fullest sense of its meaning. And as well as celebrating we need to sanction and honour that diversity.

Older people have much to learn from the young exuberance, enthusiasm, idealism, adventurousness and a hunger to question and learn. There is much to be gained by appreciating the brashness of youth, their courage to forge ahead despite setbacks, unencumbered by bitterness, cynicism or regrets. Sure, they have a lot to learn and because they never listen to our advice or warnings, we know they'll come a cropper eventually. But, that is just how you do learn and hang on just a sec, how many of us turned a deaf ear to parental remonstrations, thinking what could those old fogies know about life?

Well actually they do know something and it is precisely that richness of knowledge that older people bring to the mix, whether it's within the family or the workplace. We might not look as good as the young, but we have wisdom, often gained at a price, and too often only in hindsight. There are those wholly undervalued skills honed at the university of life, where no-one gives you a degree at the end, but you know they are there to be called upon when needed. OK, so we're getting a bit droopy here and there and we may not bound from bed in the mornings with the same zest as a Gen Y, X or Z'er, but we can be relied upon in the long haul. We have that innate knowledge that even though things can look totally black today, the sun will still come up again, eventually. None of us are saints, but mostly the edges have been rubbed away, we've calmed down, learnt patience, acceptance and compassion.

We, both old and young, would benefit from recognising that we have unique and valuable ingredients to add to the recipe. More can be achieved by working together in mutual respect and collaboration, than by pointing fingers. The aged already comprise a major component of most workplaces. Although the government has raised the retirement age and the message on the wall is clearly that we who are still working will have to keep on keeping on for longer than ever before, ageism continues to prevail. Bias against older workers manifests itself in various forms, from the none too subtle implication that they are past it, not worth spending money on to train or develop, to the refusal to pay any more than lip service to the concept of flexible working hours and transition to retirement arrangements. Apart from seriously devaluing the worth of an organisation's most loyal and committed employees, this is short sighted in the extreme.

Benefits to the organisation of respecting and accommodating the needs of its older workers should be glaringly obvious. The up and comers rely upon the wisdom, support and mentorship of older employees. Often the intellectual property of an organisation depends upon the wealth of knowledge, skill and experience, usually unacknowledged, of a handful of its older employees. If there is a mass exodus of grey power, many work places will be, not just impoverished, but crippled. There are younger workers with qualifications, that isn't the problem, although there are some who would do well to polish up their spelling and writing skills. Talented though they are, what they don't have though is experience, either in their chosen career or in life. This is the stuff that can't be measured or rated, but leaves a huge gaping hole when it isn't there. A recent report commissioned by the National Seniors Productive Ageing Centre found that the loss to the nation's economy by not using the skills and experience of older Australians can be measured, and amounts to some $10 billion a year.

That's serious bickies, and when measured across the nation's work places, would be enough you would think to make a few decision makers sit up and take notice. It's no use bureaucrats sending down recommendations from on high. Unless they have the weight of law, they can be too easily ignored. Those who deal in human resources, which, let's face it, are our most precious and indispensable resources, must sit up and take notice.

Let's get real. Let's drop the stereotypes of all the generations. Let's address the needs rather than the differences of all our citizens and learn ways of adapting to them. If we don't, we risk confronting not only an economic, social or health care crisis, but a crisis of humanity, where our young are left floundering, and our older people are disempowered, devalued and cast out on the scrap heap.

Ecology can be a health hazard

There I was yesterday staggering to support the weight of my vibrantly hued ecologically aware cloth shopping bags filled to the brim with the fruits of the supermarket, when two things happened.

First, I remembered when long ago at the very beginning of the enviro-bag revolution, I used to scoff at the greenies who would turn up at the supermarket each week religiously spurning the plastic bags offered to them and producing from the voluminous folds of their rather "aged hippie" weekend attire, their precious green bags. For some reason, perhaps my fondness for sticking a pin in the pompous and politically correct, this species of shopper always seemed to me to be inordinately hairy as well as decidedly unattractive. But now, I thought, here am I humbled at last, albeit through the coercion of the law, laden with my own greenie bags. So I sent off a mental apology to those vanguard greenies, so unfairly maligned.

Second, I put my back out. Thanks to the improved tensile strength of the new enviro bags, the checkout attendants have it seems embarked on an experiment to see just how much they can stuff into one bag. Or perhaps they are just being thoughtful and saving their customers the expense of buying two bags when one will do. Anyway while the quantity of bags is less, the weight of them is now such that even Arnold Schwarzenegger in his prime would be challenged to lift one. Of course I could tell just from grappling to get them, newly packed, into the trolley, let alone from the trolley into the boot of the car, then from the boot into the house, then up onto the kitchen counter, that they were far too heavy for me to lift. However, rather like the aforementioned Arnold, I saw this as a challenge. Having been getting into the weights at the gym with more enthusiasm than sense, I thought "how hard can it be?" I quickly found out as an ominous click presaged a spasm of pain that I know from experience will drag on for some days.

Sensibly, what I should do from now on is ask politely at the checkout for them to only fill the bags halfway. However rather like having to ask someone to give you a hand crossing the road, that risks having them think of me as weak, or getting on in years and of course that would never do. Far better to strain and heave, with dignity intact, and then spend the rest of the weekend limping around the house bent over like a crone.

Regardless though of whether common sense or ego wins out in my case, the enviro bags are a jolly good idea and I'm all for them. Especially when you realise how destructive the old plastic bags have been. Not only do they clog our drains and waterways, they are serial killers of our marine creatures. And unlike me, they don't break down.

Mother's Day

Happy Mother's Day to all us mothers, grandmothers, stepmothers, mothers-in-law or whatever other title we bear that entitles us to be specially acknowledged today.

Today has evolved in an interesting way. Originally it was "Mid Lent Sunday" or "Refreshment Sunday" (because the rules for Lent were relaxed to commemorate the biblical story, the "Feeding of the Five Thousand"). Pity the poor mother that confronted that task. Another theory is that it evolved from a day about 400 years ago when people ritually visited their closest big (or "Mother") church. The big church, or cathedral was considered to be the mother of all churches in an area. Hence the term "big mother" perhaps? The congregation so gathered at the big mother were said to have gone "a mothering".

In Britain servant boys and girls were allowed only one day a year to visit their families, which was usually Mothering Sunday and were often allowed to take a cake or some other gift from the household home for their mothers. They also usually collected flowers from the fields to take home to Mum. No roadside stalls in those days.

Mother's Day was also termed "Simnel Sunday" after the cake of that name - a fruit cake decorated with marzipan. Hence Robert Herrick's poem of 1648:

"I'll to thee a Simnell bring

'Gainst thou go'st a mothering,

So that, when she blesseth thee,

Half that blessing thou'lt give to me".

Being a mother is indeed a blessing, albeit often a mixed one. Our children hold within their hands the power to bestow on us inexpressible delight, pride and joy, on the one hand and on the other unfathomable hurt, frustration and disappointment, seemingly at whim. As Anne Lamott writes in her book "Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life" in talking about her small son; one day he would look at her quite seriously, take her face in his little hands and tell her he loved her, only to become within a few hours the most unendurable little monster.

No other relationship so enslaves us from the first instant of our mutual existence until the last breath, but no other relationship holds within it the potential to teach us so much. We finally come to understand the agonies to which we subjected our own parents, we discover an amazing capacity within ourselves for self-sacrifice and selflessness and we come to appreciate the meaning of all those painful life lessons we had to learn ourselves in trying to re-interpret them for our children.

Mother's Day doesn't make it all worthwhile, because we already know it is, but it is an opportunity to recognise the role we play in each other's lives and how important we are to each other. So mothers, enjoy!

Lest we Forget

The scale of the homage this country pays to its men and women who served in times of war is deservedly huge and seems to grow with each successive Anzac Day commemoration. It is a very public tribute, but made up of millions of personal stories. There would probably be few Australian families who do not have a link in some way to a relative who served in one or another of our wars, in particular the First and Second World Wars which involved by far the greater proportion of young men and women. It is a collective message of gratitude and respect that the nation offers on this day, but simultaneously an opportunity for individuals to honour and remember grandfathers, fathers, uncles, and other distant or close relatives who fought not just for their country, but for us, their descendants.

In my case I remember first my grandfather who fought in the horrors of the trenches in France in the First World War. I don't remember him well as I was still a child when he died, but I'm told he suffered from shell shock, so he returned with his body intact but his mind and spirit unalterably changed.

My father, a quiet self effacing man in person but a towering presence in my life, served in the Australian Army in the Second World War from July 1940 to January 1947. He was a Staff Sergeant in the 2nd 48th Australian Infantry Battalion, Australia's most highly decorated unit of the Second World War. The battalion trained at Woodside in South Australia and then sailed to the Middle East. They fought memorably at Tobruk, then in El Alamein, returning to help staunch the onslaught of the Japanese in New Guinea where they battled in the mud of the infamous Kokoda Trail. They later served in the jungles of Morotai, Borneo and Tarakan, before being disbanded following the Japanese surrender in 1945.

My father saw action therefore in conditions of searing heat, desert, tropical jungles, mountains and God knows what other hostile and unforgiving terrain. As a result, being a fair skinned man, he bore a permanent legacy from this time, which was skin damage, ultimately manifesting in a melanoma which killed him, but not until the ripe old age of 92, so he was nothing if not tough.

He never spoke much about the war, despite our curious questions as children, provoked occasionally by coming across faded and tattered old photographs of skinny young men in khaki, usually laughing and looking like they were having a jolly good time. Opportunities for laughs were probably all too few, but the camaraderie that existed in the Australian troops was legendary and the fierce loyalty these old soldiers sustained towards their mates all through their subsequent lives is testament to that. Several of them, although clearly frail and weakened by age and illness, were there at my Dad's funeral and moving as the playing of "The Last Post" was to us, I can only imagine the memories it must have stirred in them.

In looking through some old photographs recently, I came across this one of my Dad as a young soldier in his uniform. I suspect it was one he sent to my mother, as they became engaged and were married while he was still on active service. On the back in his distinctive handwriting, which never varied throughout his life, he has written"This is me (underlined). Not at my best but near enough."

He is a serious looking young man, wide, guileless blue eyes in an open freckled face. Above all, he looks vulnerable - so young, so boyish but obviously so steadfast in his determination to live up to what he sees as his duty - to do his best for his beloved country, his mates, his family, his sweetheart, and his as yet unborn children. We, his children, are middle aged now and he and most of his comrades are gone, but we bear an unpayable debt of gratitude to him and all the others like him.

Let's not ever allow the memory of war to be glorified in any way, because there is no glory in killing. Let us always remember though, those who fought and suffered and died that we might have a chance of living in peace.

Moon fish with candied olive crumbs anyone?

I've just finished reading the new foodie supplement in the Weekend Australian, claimed to be the take on the "essential Australian eating and drinking experience" by those in the know, that is those at the cutting edge of the gastronomic coming of age of the Australian eating out experience.

I know we had a lot to learn, starting as we did with our closest things to multicultural cuisine being tinned spag bolognaise and sweet and sour pork from the local Chinese. That was back when I was a kid, so quite a number of years ago, and we have broken considerable new ground since then (and no doubt broken other things in response to various kitchen experiments). We have certainly prospered and profited enormously from the injection of European and Asian influences into our basic chops, snags and 3 vegs dining table offerings. Not only have we reaped the benefits taste-bud wise, but nutritionally the emphasis on fresh ingredients, lighter cooking styles and smaller quantities has doubtless been very good for our health, in some cases, the obesity epidemic aside.

However there is an unfortunate pretentiousness that has accompanied this foray into new food frontiers, where an element of the foodie fraternity has become totally preoccupied to the point of absurdity with experimentation for the sake of displaying their creative brilliance it seems, rather than for the sake of simply producing wonderful food. What is defined as molecular or avant-garde gastronomy has taken some countries apparently by storm, although digestive storm is more likely to be the result of such dishes as the above for example, or "black pudding with sour sherry-vinegared chocolate ganache and pickled cherries", or "luxe passionfruit custard with beetroot, yoghurt and mint". So maybe I'm a peasant but half the stuff trumpeted about in restaurant reviews these days sounds totally weird to me, that is when I actually know what it is, as at least half the vocabulary on such menus is comprised of terms I've never heard of.

I am all for experimentation, up to a point, but not just for the sake of novelty. And when you take the wonderful quality and variety of produce in which this country is abundant and combine it with inspirational recipes from countries all over the world, the result is often sublime. However let's not get so carried away that eating out becomes an exercise in snobbish one-upmanship and self-aggrandisement, at the expense of what it's supposed to be - relaxed and satisfying enjoyment of food, wine, ambience and if you're lucky pleasant company.

Scenes from the inferno

It is only now, two days after the event, that estimates of damages, lives and properties lost in what has been officially called the worst fires in Australia's history can be made with any precision. Although, as firefighters are still searching for bodies in the burn out remains of homes and vehicles, the death count, already estimated at up to 100, is likely to escalate. The sheer horror of this experience is impossible to truly comprehend. The photographs and news reports are graphic and the interviews with those affected are heart wrenching. Watching one such interview on television last night which showed a woman in tears at the loss of everything in life she owned, except the clothes she was dressed in, I felt overwhelmed by the enormity that dealing with such a loss would represent. Many people (both those personally involved and us fortunate ones who have been spared), in understandably trying to make this loss easier to bear for those who are suffering, comment on the fact that at least they were lucky to come out alive. And indeed this is true - they have been spared the agony of what must be one of the worst possible ways to die. This however in my opinion does not mean we should sympathise with them less because the loss of material things is in some way more trivial. The woman interviewed last night had lived in her home for 35 years. I have only lived in my present home for 7, but that home, as I'm sure was the case for all of those now homeless people in Victoria, represents my life in many ways. It is filled with treasured mementos, photographs, books, music, art and things passed down to me by parents, grandparents and other loved ones, plus the various goods and chattels purchased with income earned in many long and often trying years of work. Some of these things could be replaced by simply going out and buying more stuff. Many of them though are priceless, impossible to replace and the sudden wrenching of them from my existence would leave me truly impoverished. And that doesn't even take into account the house itself, which in my case is certainly no palace but still my own cherished and private domain, lovingly bought and decorated and maintained over just these few short years. These are of course just things, and not to be compared to the priceless nature of human life, but they are precious nonetheless.

Sadly, the inferno has destroyed not just human life but the lives of animals, birds, reptiles, fish - both wild and domestic - any living thing in fact which happened to be in the path of the fire's ferocious assault. Those creatures that have survived in the burnt out areas are largely homeless now too and as their food source has gone, many more of them will die in coming days and weeks. My heart breaks for those people too who had to flee their homes and weren't able to save their loved pets. One can only guess at the terror that must have gripped those helpless little creatures before death took them.

While we try and come to terms with the devastation wrought by this latest very Australian natural disaster and many of us are actively involved in doing what we can to help the survivors, perhaps the worst aspect of it is knowing that in some cases, this was not a natural disaster. Although definitive proof has yet to be confirmed, it is believed some of the fires were the work of arsonists. If the people who deliberately wreak such havoc on the world around them, for no reason other than their own entertainment or twisted sense of gratification, had to experience the level of pain they have inflicted on others, besides representing at least a little justice, it might just possibly make them think twice next time they are thinking about unleashing an inferno. I'm not usually an advocate of a primitive "eye for an eye" solution to crime, as often it's just not that simple, but in this case I'm afraid I could be converted.

9/11 - Lest we forget

I was recently reminded of the horrific events of 9/11 by reading an account of Caroline Overington’s interview with the widow of one of the victims. Caroline Overington is a Walkley Award winning journalist and I have just finished reading her book “Only in New York: How I Took Manhattan (with the kids)”, a fascinating and humorous account of her experiences as a foreign correspondent who relocated to New York from Sydney together with husband and two year old twins.

We are of course approaching the 7^th anniversary of 9/11 and it was with rather a sense of chagrin that I realised that, for me at least, time has significantly diminished my awareness of the enormity of that act of atrocity. Not least because I was not there, I am not American, nor did I know anyone directly affected by the event, but also because time has a way of stealing away and trivialising our righteous anger and outrage about all such tragic episodes in history. Of course the enormous scale of the horrors perpetrated through such episodes as the Holocaust, acts of genocide, mass destruction or any manifestation of man’s hatred against man impairs our ability to identify with and really register it on a personal level. It’s easier just to turn our minds away and think of something less confronting.

It is however when we can condense the epic scale of such tragedies down to a smaller frame and see the effects on the lives of ordinary individuals like ourselves, that we can truly comprehend the devastation and destruction of humanity that such events represent.

Caroline Overington was privileged to have the opportunity of interviewing Sally Alameno, the widow of Andy Alameno, who was an employee of Cantor Fitzerald, a company located across 5 floors just above the floor where American Airlines Flight 11 smashed into Tower One of the World Trade Centre. He was one of 658 employees of that company killed in the attacks. She and Andy and their children are pictured above right.

Caroline Overington's account of that interview is moving in its simplicity and directness. As she says, this was just a normal Mum who got up one morning, coped with the everyday hectic morning family routine, saw her husband off to work, took her kids to kindergarten and returned to find that her world had been ripped asunder. This young woman and her little children in an instant had lost their beloved husband and father, with no chance to say farewell. I think we can all relate to the pain of that. If we magnify this individual family tragedy across all the victims of that act and all such acts of infamy whenever and wherever they have and are occurring, we get just a small glimpse of the insanity, futility and assault on humanity such evil represents. Let us never forget to be angry and never lose our sense of outrage at acts of vengeance perpetrated against the innocent.

Love it!!!

"The trouble with the world is that the stupid are cocksure and the intelligent are full of doubt". Bertrand Russell .......... mmmm some examples just spring fully formed to mind don't they ???

Women in Politics

Have just finished reading “Getting Even:– Women MPs on Life, Power and Politics” by Anne Henderson. For a political afficionado like me, makes fascinating reading. My interest in politics was initially sparked by several years as a political staffer, which led to a period of party membership, and has been reinforced by the completion of a degree in Politics last year. For any woman with aspirations to a political career this book should be required reading. It is a very frank account of the difficulties women face in entering what is still a very blokey world. She claims that things have changed for the better, citing as examples the 1996 and 1998 elections in Australia which saw a significant influx of new women MPs into Parliament, a trend also seen in State Parliaments, however it is debatable just how much has really changed. What does appear to be a persistent trend, and I have read a previous book on this called “Media tarts: how the Australian press frames female politicians” by Julia Baird (great cover by the way) .. is the savagery with which women MP's are treated by the media, in comparison to men. Everything about them is dissected in brutal frankness from hairstyles, clothes, demeanour, speaking voice, partners or lack thereof, even empty fruitbowls! This just doesn’t happen to the blokes, many of whom quite frankly could equally do with a makeover in the hairstyle and dress departments. Why? Henderson suggests it’s because women by virtue of their gender are always going to be judged on the basis of their physical attributes and conformity or otherwise to prevailing standards of acceptable (read non-threatening to men) behaviour. Of course in any sphere women with ambition, power and influence often become targets of misogyny from not only men, but other less successful women in many cases.