It would appear to the open mind that travel is an imperative for the elderly. I presume the impartial affliction is partly the result of years having been spent chained to domestic or employment necessities instead. For others (of similarly advanced age) whom I know, travel is viewed as an enduring and uplifting occupation. For others it is a mere diversion. Naturally those with the wherewithal to do so enjoy travel of every description; that is, covering both the Arctic and Antarctica, the pyramids and the Himalayas, etc.  For some the more exotic the travel, the better – including extraordinary hiking, remote islands, exclusive lodgings.  There are some who call upon their professional career as a travel agent.

Never have I considered myself a traveler. Lately in the face of COVID, the USA political scene, the reactionary swell of Canadians against anything American, my incremental immobility and – of course – Old Age, my interest in travel is sorely depleted. The admission has nothing whatever to do with the many virtues of travel. Like everything else, travel has become work.  I am not certain that we’re prepared to reactivate the banking and credit card requirements for travel. And then there’s the indignity of health insurance for those of us standing on the precipice looking down. At least our passports are in order – though I dislike the prospect of being fingerprinted at the border, not because I object, but because it invites such a fiendish gloss to the process.

Nonetheless I have no complaint about whatever inadequacy may prevail regarding travel.  My partner and I prefer the independence of private automobile travel.  As much as I adore the ocean, we have exhausted our determination to drive to the east coast – not because it wasn’t stimulating during prior visits but because we’ve responded to the yearnings. I am guessing that years of motoring up and down the North Atlantic coast from Nova Scotia to Florida has fulfilled both our poetic and visceral interests.

Supporting this shift of inclination is the complimentary insight we’ve gained about home territory.  Being home is – first and foremost – convenient. Shamefully perhaps I have become accustomed to tricycling in the subterranean basement.  It is not only convenient in the winter; even in the warmer weather I find the routine comfortable on the flat, dry surface. The moderate inclines out-of-doors are not perilous but they are more work – and, yes, I am succumbing more and more agreeably to indolence.

Which brings me to another small but notable feature of being a homebody; namely, the fortuity of our 2nd floor balcony facing endless agricultural fields and looking upriver to the Village of Appleton. Grant me, if you will, the fact that, while sitting in the brilliant sunlight, one’s eyes are normally closed.  I say this not to diminish the privilege of the balcony, rather to emphasize the lack of an imperative for any particular background view. Recognizing this limitation, it only adds to the advantage to have an incomparable view.

All those horrible things that are jokingly said about old people are proving to be true. I can still hear my poor mother objecting to another spin in the wheelchair! Basically, nobody’s listening; nobody cares. And to a degree I hit the return volley – Neither do i!

Naturally It isn’t just the banter that signifies the alteration to old age. As is often observed, “Nature teaches us how to die.” I am now resolved to abandon any contrariness to the natural imperfection and persuasion of my own mind. It qualifies as the height of curmudgeonly behaviour; however I see it as an unwitting reward for being old. The blinders have been well and truly attached.  My narrow scope forbids the perversion of breadth. But I will say that the view is grand.