Sunday, February 22, 2004
Check out today's New York Times Magazine.
Here's the url. The address for the article, Life in the Age of Old, Old Age. It is such a lovely, thought provoking article that I expect several Sunday editions will run it.
I know a fair number of who I call The Ancient Ones. It comes as no surprise to me that old age carries with it as many variations as any other age. Our yard man is my mother's age and continues to be the most trusted, sought after and eccentric yard man in our Mesa mobile home park. One of the women in my Prescott book club is 85 or, perhaps older, with a curious, softly outspoken turn of mind. I know of another, the father of a long time friend, who just entered The Halls of the Ancient at 80 and has appeared to turn a dark mind dwelling on dark thoughts to his advantage.
As I consider those Ancients I know I can't help but remember the varieties of experience and attitude among my intimates at other ages. One of my sisters, at the tender age of 25, announced to me that "it hurts to get old". Physically hurts. I didn't begin experiencing this until I was in my late forties. My mother is only now experiencing how much it can "hurt to get old".
Despite my close involvement with my mother and my astonishment at how reliably an ancient body can work, I am not sold on the idea of getting old. I can't imagine myself at the age of 86, but, then, I am sure my mother never imagined herself at the age of 86. I asked her. My maternal grandfather was so astonished, past 85, that he continued to survive year after year well into his 90's that he couldn't stop reminding people how old he was. My mother, in contrast, no longer cares to remember how old she is although she usually gets the decade right. "Let's see, now, they tell me I'm, ...80? Can that be right?"
At any rate, read the article, either on the internet or in paper. I'm leaving shortly to pick up a hard copy even though I've read the text online. It's a keeper.
Sometimes I think my mother is still alive in cooperation with me, her "outdoor voiced", can't keep a secret, "thinks every detail of her entire life and the lives of people she shares is important" daughter. I am the recorder following the advance scout.
She's coughing. I think I'll take a peak and see if she's hit water shed yet. If not, maybe I can convince her to change underwear and perhaps avoid yet another load of wash, until...
...later.
I know a fair number of who I call The Ancient Ones. It comes as no surprise to me that old age carries with it as many variations as any other age. Our yard man is my mother's age and continues to be the most trusted, sought after and eccentric yard man in our Mesa mobile home park. One of the women in my Prescott book club is 85 or, perhaps older, with a curious, softly outspoken turn of mind. I know of another, the father of a long time friend, who just entered The Halls of the Ancient at 80 and has appeared to turn a dark mind dwelling on dark thoughts to his advantage.
As I consider those Ancients I know I can't help but remember the varieties of experience and attitude among my intimates at other ages. One of my sisters, at the tender age of 25, announced to me that "it hurts to get old". Physically hurts. I didn't begin experiencing this until I was in my late forties. My mother is only now experiencing how much it can "hurt to get old".
Despite my close involvement with my mother and my astonishment at how reliably an ancient body can work, I am not sold on the idea of getting old. I can't imagine myself at the age of 86, but, then, I am sure my mother never imagined herself at the age of 86. I asked her. My maternal grandfather was so astonished, past 85, that he continued to survive year after year well into his 90's that he couldn't stop reminding people how old he was. My mother, in contrast, no longer cares to remember how old she is although she usually gets the decade right. "Let's see, now, they tell me I'm, ...80? Can that be right?"
At any rate, read the article, either on the internet or in paper. I'm leaving shortly to pick up a hard copy even though I've read the text online. It's a keeper.
Sometimes I think my mother is still alive in cooperation with me, her "outdoor voiced", can't keep a secret, "thinks every detail of her entire life and the lives of people she shares is important" daughter. I am the recorder following the advance scout.
She's coughing. I think I'll take a peak and see if she's hit water shed yet. If not, maybe I can convince her to change underwear and perhaps avoid yet another load of wash, until...
...later.
