Old Diggers

My next door neighbour is an old fella who lives alone, with a dog. Once his old mother lived there too but she's been dead ten years now. The old bugger's a kindly old soul with a ready smile, and always up for a laugh. In his day I reckon he was a bit of a rascal, but he won't talk about it.

He's an old digger, has emphysema and is prone to collapsing. With luck it'll happen at the local club which he visits for a few hours each afternoon. Otherwise if he falls at home he'll lay there until he can reach the phone. One day I fear he won't make it.

A community nurse visits once a week and that's about it. Sometimes a long lost relative will show up just to see if he's still alive, ‘in the hope she’ll get the house when I'm gone'. I drop in from time to time and chew the fat but it’s never long enough.

Whilst he doesn't live in squalor, the house is dark, shabby and in need of repair. An old man's poverty. We put his bins out and the other neighbours repair the fence. Otherwise he goes for days without being seen.

A few nights ago I came home at 3 am and unusually saw his light on. Last time this happened he had fallen and was laying on the floor, waiting till dawn to ring a mate. I went to the door and called out but received no answer. Next day he said, 'No worries old mate, I'd probably fallen asleep on the dunny'.

I've just received an email which included a poem, 'T'was the Night Before Christmas'. It describes the old bugger to a 't'....

T'was the night before Christmas, he lived all alone,
In a one bedroom house, made of plaster and stone.
I had come down the chimney, with presents to give,
And to see just who, in this home, did live.
I looked all about, a strange sight I did see,
No tinsel, no presents, not even a tree.

No stocking by mantle, just boots filled with sand,
On the wall hung pictures, of far distant lands.
With medals and badges, awards of all kinds,
A sober thought, came through my mind.

For this house was different, it was dark and dreary.
I found the home of a soldier, once I could see clearly.
The soldier lay sleeping, silent, alone,
Curled up on the floor in this one bedroom home.

The face was so gentle, the room in such disorder,
Not how I pictured an Australian soldier.
Was this the hero, of whom I'd just read?
Curled up on a poncho, the floor for a bed?

I realised the families that I saw this night,
Owed their lives to these soldiers, who were willing to fight.
Soon round the world, the children would play,
And grown-ups would celebrate a bright Christmas Day.

They all enjoyed freedom, each month of the year,
Because of the soldiers like the one lying here.
I couldn't help wonder, how many lay alone,
On a cold Christmas Eve, in a land far from home.

The very thought brought a tear to my eye,
I dropped to my knees and started to cry.
The soldier awakened, and I heard a rough voice
"Santa don't cry, this life is my choice.

I fight for freedom, I don't ask for more,
My life is my God, my country, my Corps."
The soldier rolled over, and drifted to sleep,
I couldn't control it, I continued to weep.

I kept watch for hours, so silent and still,
And we both shivered from the cold night's chill.
I didn't want to leave, on that cold, dark night,
This guardian of honour so willing to fight.

Then the soldier rolled over, with a voice soft and pure,
Whispered "Carry on, Santa, it's Christmas day, all is secure."
One look at my watch, and I knew he was right,
"Merry Christmas, my friend, and to all a good night."

Author Unknown

Comments

[Darlene]

Thanks for that, Adrian.

That post is sad, but still manages to make a reader smile. I think we sometimes forget that for many people Christmas is just another day and not a happy one at that.

I bet he spends Christmas alone and I bet when he's gone his relatives will be there in a shot. Thanks for writing about such things. Cannot stomach reading about boofheads on beaches and stuff like that at the moment. The ability to write about people with feeling is a great skill to have.

[PQ]

Likewise, thanks for that little yarn, Adrian.

I keep coming back to this blog for the the great human stories that pop up from time to time, holding the magnifying glass up to the myriad characters, sights and sounds of Sydney.

Like Darlene, I am tired of all the negative stuff, the fear and intolerance, it just seems to go on and on.

Best wishes for Christmas, Adrian.

[David Crawford]

Adrian, that sounds like a great-uncle I had named Earl. He was a veteran of WWII, a tanker who had six tanks shot out from underneath him. He spent the last 15 years or so of his life living by himself in an old house he didn’t much take care of.

After he retired he would do pretty much the same thing every day. Take care of what little business that was required, and then, about 4:00 or so, walk the three blocks over to the bar and have 3 or 4 glasses of wine. (And not any wine that came with cork in it, it was the cheap stuff with a twist top. He didn’t like beer.) My Dad said he would stay home drinking wine if the Vikings or the Twins were on TV.

He lived in fairly large house – him and his wife had six children. His wife was a Ponca from Oklahoma. She went down there one summer, met a man, and never came back. He raised his last two kids on his own.

He lived by himself about 15 years. They only found his dead body because the bar owner asked the local cops to check on him. Nothing gruesome, he just died.

I doubt that anyone can know if that’s the way he really wanted to spend the last years of his of his life.

[adrian]

Thanks folks for the positive feedback. It's sometimes hard to identify what's important, amongst all the daily dross one encounters. In this case the poems evocative verse of an old soldier sleeping alone on the floor brought it all home for me. Right next door in fact.

In the same vein I've a story coming out next month in Investigate of an old digger living alone in a harbour side mansion. Whilst materially different circumstances both old diggers radiate a certain essence, something pure and inspirational. They've experienced horror in their country's service, yet in the twilight years fade alone and unruffled, exiting life with patient endurance. As demonstrated by David's great-uncle, another of those to whom we owe so much.

[themerryrose]

Adrian, thanks for this post. I think also it isn't just the old diggers that get forgotten, it is any of our older relatives.
For me there is my Grams who is a classic example for me - she worked hard to bring up 5 kids on her own when my Grandfather died and yet there are some that remember her but others who don't, and they will be the first to come for the money afterwards.
Until recently one of her highlights of the week was to go to the hairdressers and talk to everyone there. Now she is in a home and the staff there keeping telling us that she the most visitors of any of the residents - and these aren't her family.
Which is sad cause now she doesn't really know what is happening around her on a day to day basis.
To have given so much and yet to not know the full impact that they have made on this world. I think that is the saddest thing to have done to that generation.
Also, thanks for the interesting posts in the last year.