I’VE heard about how the older we get, the more we remember the past.
Or, more certainly, long for it.
And not just because we were younger then, or because we realise how much we miss some of those little things we could, and should, have valued more.
When I get old, I guess I’ll find out.
But in the meantime, the missus and I were heading home with another truckload of grandlings after being trapped in another interminable alphabet-approved Christmas extravaganza. I can’t tell you how woke it was, truth be told, because I was barely awoke.
So where is this all going?
To a little zip-up container the old man kept in the glovebox of the good car, the one he brought out of the shed for family occasions, those rare day trips when he simply had no on-farm excuse to get out of it and the occasional holiday.
In that container were eight little metal cups – can’t recall what metal, but if aluminium had been invented around then, that might have been it – and each one was a different, dazzling colour.
The thing is, when we were handed one of those cups, we knew it was something special, we knew we were on an adventure, something away from home, and it was a real little buzz every time (except the inevitable fights over who got which colour).
After each use they were washed up, dried and resealed in that magic little pouch until the next time.
Yet the other night, we finally stopped to get the sawn-offs (although there was also the 15-year-old galoot who has already gone past six foot, showing no sign of slowing) a little treat to wrap up their outing with their adored grandparents.
They snorted up everything offered, pitched their cups and bags into the bin and piled back into the vehicle.Is it just me?
Now, I know I have pitched the odd thing or two down in the old creek bed, meaning to move them later only to discover someone had bulldozed over them and I couldn’t find the spot.
But nothing seems sacred to these modern kids.
Outings aren’t even seen as a given, they are so regular. There’s no occasion, no thought of a little picnic lunch, no special cups from which to drink. And they don’t seem to realise it.
I mean when they are the Whacker’s age, as opposed to old, they are hardly going to look back on a plastic or waxed paper cup with any great affection or memory, are they?
There will be no little reminders of unexpectedly happy days doing happy things as a family (cup fights excluded). Even now a flash of metallic purple or green always makes me think of those cups.
We did similar things with our kids, when they were kids. And even today some of our favourite memories are not of great moments or occasions, but of those much simpler things.
Driving them to Adelaide to see their maternal grandparents and stopping for a picnic lunch at a different spot every time we did it. The old tartan rug, the hamper, homemade frozen drinks melted and still icy cold and good to go. It’s making the missus sniffle just looking at this over my shoulder.
It was idyllic.
They are memories written nowhere except in our minds, and we are the richer for them.
So in a moment of ageing concern I asked the galoot what were his favourite memories so far.
And after a blank look while the question was digested, he said: “Let me just check my Instagram Whacker”.
