WHAT’S AGE GOT TO DO WITH IT ?
by, Jo Buchanan, Clinical hypnotherapist

Rows of blue and white agapanthus fringed a pond where ducks and seagulls screeched at two children clutching bags of stale bread. In the centre of the pool, a stone fountain flung streamers of water high into the sky.

To my left, a group of middle-aged men zipped inside windcheaters stood around a giant chessboard. Like statues, they focussed as one, awaiting their players’ next move.

To my right, an ancient pine tree groaned with the weight of a thousand cones, like an old man crippled with arthritis.

I was running late to meet my niece for coffee, but my attention was caught by fluttering yellow pages pinned to a noticeboard. Moving closer, I saw they contained lists of Summer courses available. One in particular, caught my eye. LEARN CIRCUS SKILLS.

During my childhood in the 1940s I lived in a house adjoining the Glen Iris playing field and Gardiner’s Creek. In those days the oval was more like a rambling paddock and once a year, Perry Brothers Circus camped there. I spent every day after school befriending the circus folk and helping to feed the animals. All I ever wanted to be when I grew up was a trapeze artist. I wanted to wear silver leotards, ballet shoes and a golden hairnet over my hair.

Peering now at the words CIRCUS SKILLS, I fumbled for my spectacles to note the telephone number. Scribbling it on the back of a Safeways receipt, I hurried on, noticing the pain in my back had eased.

An hour later, my niece Nicole and I strolled back through the park. Frozen in time, the same group of men huddled motionless, around the chessboard. A couple of teenagers in school uniform sprawled on the grass beside push bikes, kissing passionately. I dragged my niece to the noticeboard.

"Look at these interesting courses. I want to enquire about the one on circus skills."

Nicole looked at me as if I’d said I wanted to swim through toxic waste.

"You’ve got to be joking!"

"No, I’m serious."

"Aunty Jo, aren’t you being a little unrealistic? You’re turning sixty this year."

"What’s age got to do with it?"

"Circus skills! They wouldn’t let a woman of your age through the door!"

I felt the petulant pull at the corner of my mouth.

"Just a simple bit of juggling, maybe. I don’t know…"

"A course like that’s for kids. Look at these other ones…creative writing, ceramics, watercolours… or what about Gentle Aerobics for Senior Citizens if you insist on being physical?"

"No, it’s circus skills I want to learn. You know, smell of the greasepaint, roar of the crowd."

"Aunty Jo, I know you’re a Leo but this is ridiculous. Come on, let’s go over there and smell the roses."

She strode ahead like a bossy hockey teacher. With a sigh, I observed the Big Top in my mind deflate and crumple to the ground. A sturdy, iron walking frame with rubber tips replaced the tightrope.

"Smell this! It’s beautiful. The red roses smell quite different from the yellow ones."

I felt the twinge in my back return and hobbled over.

"Aunty Jo, don’t look so gloomy. You’re babysitting Tane tonight, remember? He loves it when you jump up and down."

A rush of pure love surged through me as I thought of my daughter’s son, Tane. My nineteen month old grandson is the most exciting little person in my life. In an attempt to save face, I spoke to Nicole slowly, as if she was a small child who needed to have things things explained carefully.

"So, can’t you see how circus skills would come in handy for someone my age? I’m teaching Tane little tricks all the time."

"Yeah, I s’pose so. You mean, teach him to juggle and stuff?"

"Yes, That’s all I mean."

Thank God I hadn’t mentioned the trapeze.

Remembering I’d planned to teach my grandson how to skip tonight, I felt re-charged and for the moment, agreed to smell the roses. If I played my cards right, I’d soon be able to teach him how to juggle. And do cartwheels. And twirl a drumstick. Feeling like the cat who’d just swallowed the canary, I peeked inside my bag to check the phone number was still there.

"Smell this one, Aunty Jo. It’s unreal."

We continued along the path, knees bent, heads down, sniffing the blooms until we reached the wrought iron gate.

"Bye Aunty Jo. Have fun."

"I will. Don’t worry."

Striding down Mozart Street, I scrabbled for my mobile. Squinting at the scrap of paper, I hit the buttons. A cheery voice greeted me.

"Good afternoon. Circus Skills and Acrobatics."

"Hello, I wonder if you can help me…."

By the end of the conversation, the pain in my back had completely disappeared. The Big Top in my mind was ablaze with lights and pigs were definitely flying overhead.

Jo Buchanan July 2000
Clinical hypnotherapist, counsellor and meditation teacher in Melbourne, Australia and that my email address is jcairomoon@aol.com