Typing at 99

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 418, 1 September 1928, Page 20

Typing at 99

| “Aged ’’ Obsolete Word “WINTERGREEN” CLUB J The forties and fifties the years of j life’s prime? Ridiculous! The example set by Mrs. M. Goodfellow, aged 77, of being the first woman to join the newly-formed Port Melbourne Flying Club, is only one of the many answers to this fallacy, given to us by our elders. “Aged” is fast becoming a meaningless word in prose, and useful only to poets. An elderly woman, living in Warwickshire, recently “surprised her friends by learning to use the typewriter.” “Why surprised?” She only did it to keep pace with her correspondence. Her ninety-ninth birthday had just been reached—and people will make such a ridiculous fuss of birthdays after 90 that she was really obliged to take to typing. Defies Winter A tiny American plant which heroically defies the touch of winter’s hand has given its appropriate name to Boston’s “Winter&reen Club.” This woman’s club was founded by Harriet Beecher Stowe and Julia Ward Howe, and none are eligible for membership under the age of 75. A Sydney woman, who was once a guest of one of the club dinners, tells of the brilliant conversation of the gathering. At that time the president was the oldest member, aged 95, and one of the vice-presidents had taken her degree as Doctor of Philosophy after her 80th birthday.

The activity of these unusual people is due largely to their good health, but that good health is no doubt due to their keen and varied interests, which have never allowed their brains, and consequently their bodies, to become “aged.” THE LOOM OF LIFE Life is made up of contrasts; alternate gleam and gloom; of dull and shining fabric, close-woven on Fate’s loom. It holds the secret beauty of dawn that follows night; the glamour ’mid the greyness; the shadows merged in light. Yet oft we miss the meaning of that well-planned design; . we fain would make the fabric a smooth unbroken line. There come impatient moments, when all that we have learned of Beauty born of contrasts, in rebel mood is spurned. But still the varied pattern, in every shimmering thread, for ever is proclaiming that light and shade are wed. That where the gleam is brightest, most radiant in the sun. Fate’s loom has subtly mingled the strands by Sorrow spun. H.S.