Lonely at the top

My aunt is a barn owl.

Not literally, of course. That’d be weird (and I’d probably have a larger head, flatter face and feathers protruding out of my butt, given the genetic link we share).

I’d also be prone to calling out in a weirdly repetitive way throughout the night*.

No, when I say she is an owl, I refer mainly to the wisdom she has accumulated in her 100-plus years on the planet. But there is also her small, dignified beak and those black eyes with their knowing glances.

Unlike a typical barn owl, whose average age is just four years**, my aunt has been on this planet a very long time. I’d attribute that to a mix of genes and her wisdom.

Despite her fluffy softness, she is also a tough old bird.

Her 100 years give her perspective which is possibly unique. She has been alive since 1921, looking over all of us from the top of her century old tree.

It’s also a lonely spot because there are so few of her peers left to share the perch with.

She turned 100 about 4 months ago. There was no wild partying. She now resides in an Aged Care Home after 99 years of independence in her own home. This new environment, and the current pandemic, limited celebrations, but visitors still trickled in all day.

100 years.

It is difficult to conceptualize how it must feel to be that age when one considers the pace of change since 1921. The Great Depression, World War 2, rationing and shortages, the Cold War and near oblivion in moments such as the Cuban Missile Crisis. Terrorism. The rise of China. Climate change. The rise of the world wide web, social media. Misinformation and our desensitization to it.

The rapidly escalating Epoch of the Idiot which we seem to be currently in - and a pandemic which has now been going for two years.

All this doesn’t include the micro-level changes my aunt must have experienced over a long life. Riding to school on a horse, then a pushbike, in the 1920s and 1930s. Motor vehicles slowly becoming the norm in the decades after that. The widespread uptake of TV in the 1960s and 1970s.

Then personal computers, mobile phones. Flying to the other side of the planet in 24 hours. The eventual deaths of parents, siblings, friends, eventually her husband.

My aunt did not remarry when her husband passed away many years ago. But an owl typically mates for life, after all.

An owl averages 4 chicks, and my aunt was no exception, with one male offspring and three females.

The eldest of her adult children, her only son, passed away recently, catching her completely off guard. It was not expected.

She will cope with it. A healthy perspective has helped her to maintain sanity through changes, even the gut-wrenching ones like the deaths of those close to her. Her sense of humor helps.

But being at the top of that towering tree must feel isolated sometimes.

I admire this woman tremendously. An ancient wisdom shines through when she speaks. I think of it as the wisdom of that noble and compelling creature, the owl.

I have inadvertently learnt so much from my aunt’s attitude to living, not that she has any idea about this. She is grounded in ways that many of us today will never achieve, even with our self-help books, exercise apps and constant goal setting.

She first appears in my great grandparents’ 50th wedding anniversary photo taken in 1925. It is the earliest photo I have of her. She is a tiny girl is being nursed by her father (my grandfather) in the backrow. She looks out at the camera, blissfully innocent of the changes which lie ahead.

In the front row sit my great grandparents, dignified, and well dressed for this special occasion. He is neatly dressed in a suit, she in a fashionable hat and 1920s style dress.

I touch my aunt’s face lightly in the photo then move my finger down to my great grandfather’s face. He has a neat white beard by the time of this photo, but I know from my genealogy research that he was born towards the end of the great famine in County Clare, Ireland, in 1849.

This messes with my head. My aunt, who we spent time with on her 100th birthday recently, is in the same photo as her grandfather (who she remembers clearly) and he was born 173 years ago! How can this be?

But if I squint and concentrate, I can also now see the fine gossamer that attaches me to my ancient relatives. 173 years suddenly does not seem so long ago because of my aunt is the (sole) living connection between myself and the elders of my family tree.

Great historical events - the Irish potato famine of the 1840s, the American Civil War, the assassination of Abraham Lincoln, Australia’s notorious bushranger Ned Kelly – don’t seem as distant as I had previously imagined.

Things don’t last forever. My aunt has recently experienced moments of confusion and she says her shoulder sometimes feels sore. Yet she can still crystallize the essence of an issue and provide a welcome alternative perspective to the usual ones in our information-heavy society.

When she was only 99 and still living in her house, a small group of us sat around her dining table drinking tea and nibbling on biscuits. The pandemic was taking hold, creating fear and we were naturally discussing how it might all play out.

My aunt sat quietly at one end.

Was she even listening? It was hard to tell, but owls are famous for their acute sense of hearing, after all - it helps them to survive.

Seemingly coming back from somewhere a long way away, she then smiled and spoke.

‘Yes. I think this would be about the fourth time in my life where we have been told that life is over or about to end. Yet here we all are!’ she chuckled.

She then gave that distinctive smile, a beam really, and we laughed with her.

That’s perspective.

A year later, the day of her 100th birthday in the Aged Care facility, she turned to us.

She was careful to acknowledge that the facility was a ‘pleasant’ place run by ‘pleasant’ people.

‘There are things that I don’t approve, though. So much wastage of food. They serve you the meal even if you are not hungry. If I was only 80, I’d write to the papers about it’.

She grins.

‘But I think that I’ve left my run for parliament a bit late, though, don’t you?’

She then observed that there was probably not much more she could achieve with her life. I caught a glimpse of something fragile, but just for a fleeting moment.

Like all of us, I’m sure she would like to be younger, given a choice. She’d like to be in her own home still, but it is no longer viable. She was there until she was 99, and even still drove her own car until early last year. This in itself seems remarkable to me, but it doesn’t alter the reality of her life trajectory from here on.

Our visit is a strong reminder to me to fully appreciate that we should be enjoying simple freedoms while we are able.

Like being able to walk out of here at the end of our visit without people becoming alarmed and chasing us for escaping. Or being able to walk in a forest or on a beach. Being able to run and play tennis still. Being able to see, touch and smell the native wildflowers that are in full swing at the moment.

The owl would no doubt love to stretch and fly also. I imagine when the time arrives, she will unfurl her wings and fly out through the window of the aged care facility.

We recently saw 3 baby owls sitting on branch with their mother at daylight in a nearby forest. All were in a deep sleep, perhaps waiting for nightfall to start their day. My thoughts turned to my family tree and the position my aunt holds in that tree.

I’d like to think that sometime in the future when we’re hiking at sunrise, that we will see a familiar old owl perched on a branch in this same forest.

Sitting stock still, dozing, perhaps eyes flicking open and shut in a languid manner. Seemingly asleep but watchful and wise. Hearing the slightest nuanced sounds of the forest.

I don’t want this to happen.

But when it inevitably does, I will know that my aunt is free again. She will be continue, unknowingly, guiding me with her 100-plus years of wisdom.

*The Barn Owl makes a ‘shree’ sound, an eerie drawn-out shriek, rather than the ‘hoot’ many associate with owls. Regardless, neither sound is good sound for a man to be making during the night.

**Average age is 4 years because of high infant mortality; 18 - 34 years have allegedly been recorded.