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» Book Reviews » Features » Short Stories
| FEATURES What will I talk about at the table? Ruth Bradbury-Horton
Today I spent lunch with a sprightly couple of Octogenarians who no doubt could beat the pants off me on both an intellectual and physical level any day of the week. It’s not the first time I’ve enjoyed being with them. Indeed I’ve spent many a lunch or supper doing as we did today, consuming far too much food while we modestly disposed of the obligatory bottle of red and white. But today something was…well…different. Yes we’d chatted and sorted the world’s problems as one does over calamari salad’s Norwegian salmon, Beef something or other and the Lamb Rump. We completed our forecast for our children and Grandchildren’s futures over Brandy snaps. And finally contemplated over coffee the value of our investments today, as opposed to the projected figures provided by an erstwhile broker, who should no doubt be shot at dawn for lying through his teeth. Maybe I was feeling sentimental, or possibly my seratonin levels had hit a giant low, but I started to think that maybe I’ve missed out on something, something they have enjoyed without even realising it. They just seem to have lived a life full of simplicity. Not from a materialistic point of view of never having anything substantial to call their own. But rather the simplicity of living without the pressures of life as we do today. They grew up without the need for TV, video games and fast foods, and instead participated in the technological breakthroughs that we take for granted now. They played cards, listened to the radio, socialised at each other’s houses and dressed up for the Saturday night dance where they enjoyed lemonade and a live band. The closest they got to the opposite sex was when they danced in each other’s arms, swooning around the dance floor, gazing into each other’s eyes. Oh the romance, where has it gone? The cars they drove had no air con, power steering, ABS brakes, radio, or decent suspension. Electric windows were scorned and fuel injection had never been heard of let alone looked forward to. But what stories they have of driving to the seaside with blankets wrapped around their legs to keep warm. They even experienced enjoyment stopping to eat a home made cheese and pickle sandwich washed down with a cup of tea from a thermos. But what really got me going was a wonderful story about an Ash Cane that the husband had carried on his wedding day some 60 years ago. He explained to me that only the Officers of the Tank Regiments carried the Ash Cane, while other Officers of different regiments carried the more traditional swagger stick. And that was it, suddenly it hit me. Not only did missing out on the smplicity of their lives bother me, but I became acutely aware of reminiscing about tradition. I began to wonder if my generation are going to have any traditions to reminisce about. Would I in fact be able to sit with my children and grandchildren around the supper table when I too become an octogenarian and share wonderful stories with them. Will we in fact even sit around the supper table together? Ashamedly I must admit that within my own household meal times happen with adults and children sitting in different rooms. And why I ask myself? I can only conclude that I’ve given into the information society/global village I live in, where everything happens fast and furious, with even food times being just a mere interruption in the day. We don’t need to talk to each other over a meal anymore, we SMS each other all day long, or email at the drop of a hat. The personal touch has gone forever. So how can I even hope of sharing stories around the table when even the tradition of family meal times minus the TV is no longer happening?
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