So, it was my birthday 11 days ago and I became eligible for a “Senior Citizens Pension” - provided I met set poverty criteria expressed as monthly incomes of between $2,500 and $5,500.
I however know that
even if I didn’t receive a pension, there are colleagues on these pages who
would describe me as a “pensioner” anyway. “Such and such ‘pensioner’ was found
wandering aimlessly on Frederick Street …”
It nevertheless helps
that in a socialist society there is no real shortage of options to provide
most of the basics. Mt Hope is not far away, CDAP can take you pretty far in
some, not all, instances, and there are numerous social support grants and
other services.
The “elderly” now
account for around 13 -15 percent of the national population, shrinking perhaps
on account of migration and other factors. There were commentators at the
height of the pandemic who were suggesting we were entirely dispensable.
Anyway, it was my
birthday, and everybody was suddenly offering advice on diet, exercise, and
stress minimisation. Even the UK Guardian chimed in last Saturday with
recommendations on staying active and cutting down on protein intake via a “mostly
vegan” diet!!! Hmm.
That I was unable to
pass the “back scratch” test, proposed by the article, was also devastating. “One
arm is placed as if giving yourself a pat on the back, while the other elbow is
bent low behind you, the aim being to clasp at least the middle fingers of the
opposite hands.”
Who the hell can do
that??!!! I almost got my son, Mikhail, to try it, but he already thinks there
is a measure of mental diminution, and I might have been given “the look”.
Of course, he has now
forgotten my knock between innings two weeks ago. I hit them everywhere and
they couldn’t get me out. “Uncle can bat!” I heard from the bleachers. “CPL!!!”
I shouted back.
Then I had to explain
that I could not play in the match because running on what was a hard tennis court
would hurt troublesome ankles and knees. The cardio isn’t bad though. I do the
treadmill from time to time.
Outside my house is a
hill that takes you up Mt Everest. These days the temperature averages 40
degrees in the shade. Night walk? No. I might be forced to run from dogs or
muggers on the hard asphalt road that will hurt those joints.
Speaking of which,
ganja tea is now acceptable as evening fare to level off feelings from a day
spent scanning news from everywhere it is being told or having to deal with bungling
service providers of all varieties.
Yet, there have been
several comforts. I no longer get calls from agents offering life and medical
insurance. “Caring”, in such an industry, ends at fixed markers.
Nobody from the company
checks up on you, and phone calls are rarely returned. The lady at the pharmacy
can testify to frantic calls about contractual deductions from the bill.
On the other hand,
while insurance agents have lost all interest, religious zealots now turn the
manuals to the part on the inevitability of death. “I have a tattoo” is my
stock response to any such strategy. That makes absolutely no sense, you say.
But so is much of what they have to offer anyway.
The other day, while
feeding the chickens (there are now two chickens in our yard, and, yes, yes, I
called around to find out whether their owners were missing them), I thought
about lifespans.
These cute, but
increasingly meaty creatures are more likely than not to expire before I go –
maybe even at my hands. Ditto the squirrels that gnaw at my coconuts, the cats
that come to steal Oreo’s food, and the magnificent macaws that liven up our
evenings on their way home.
Perhaps, I have been
told, these stories are ideally suited for my “memoir(s).” Some of my favourite
writers never quite put it that way, because the stories they tell and the
poems they compose provide adequate testimonies and evidence of the time slots
they have occupied.
More than 24 years ago,
I wrote about growing “dependency ratios” in the Caribbean as a function of
rising life expectancy – people living longer, but increasingly adding to
costly support systems to keep them alive and healthy.
In an interview with me
many years ago, the late diplomat/man of wisdom James O’Neil “Scottie” Lewis
described the elderly as the socially “forgotten.” Now, let’s see. Was he right
or was he wrong?
