One morning the old guy who lives down the hall walked up and asked loudly whether I had been out drinking in the parking lot the previous night. What? Finally I figured it out. I had gone out to gaze at a conjunction of Jupiter and Saturn, and of course had looked up through my binoculars. From a distance and in a dim light, the binoculars looked to him like a bottle. I tried to explain, but he looked skeptical. This place is a gossip mill, and I’m probably pegged as a drunk now.
And then there is Moose. (Though I avoid using real names
here, I can’t think of a good substitute, and of course Moose is just her
nickname.) I’d heard some people mention her, and had a mental image of a
hulking, awkward creature. Instead, she turned out to be the petite, graceful
woman I’d seen dancing when a local band was performing. Moose is a hundred
years old, and proud of it. She could pass for 80. Not only is she youthful and
graceful, but she’s sharp and funny.
I used to think old people were boring. One of my
grandmothers lived to be 96, and I could have asked her so much about her life
that began in the nineteenth century, but I didn’t. By the time my mother died
at the age of 101 I had wised up a little, and we had many good conversations
about her life. Now that I am old, I can appreciate the elderly people around
me. We have lived through events that seem like ancient history to the young.
Not only do we remember them, we can see and describe them in the changing contexts
of surrounding events, attitudes, and fashions. We are better able than younger people to understand
and forgive those who may seem racist or otherwise intolerant.
Copyright © December 9, 2020 by Carol Leth Stone (a.k.a.
RovinCrone)
