Growing Old

"We're not old!" exclaims Phyllis, also 84. "We're here, we're alive, we can do things, we can travel, we're not old," she asserts. "Hmmm," is my response. I don't want to think of myself as old, but the evidence is there. Why does it take me so long to do just about anything? Why am I always losing my phone? Wy do my fingers ache? Why do I have temporary (for now, at least) memory lapses? And, speaking of my phone, why does it tell me I am at increased risk of falling? Worse, why are our relatives and friends suffering from various ailments and dying? That's the hard part, especially the ones we are losing bit by bit to dementia and its many forms. And yet, and yet . . . I'll speak for myself here. I am surrounded by loving family (families, actually, as our little clan has been expanded by the addition of Bruce's family, and Mary's). I am supported by a cadre of close friends from my childhood (Erie), from Penn State, and from my Bethesda Circle. I lead a full life with piano lessons, singing in a chorale, and Zoomed Spanish conversation. I am mobile enough to support other friends. And now I have a male friend who brings a special joy to me. Maybe Phylls is right: we're not (that) old!

Aunt Jennie's Desk

I love Aunt Jennie's desk. It's made of mahogany with a pull-out writing surface, six pigeon holes, two little drawers, one big drawer underneath, and a folding top. Its legshave been shaped by a lathe and regularly fall out if the table is moved or lifted from the floor. I can remember the desk, then stained to a dark finish, as it sat just inside the door of Aunt Jennie's modest home in Jamestown, New York. I was probably ten or so when we visited that home at 7 Garfield Street. Both the house and the street are long gone now, the victim of hospital expansion. Only the sign "Garfield Street" remains. After Aunt Jennie died, the desk lived with me in Peterborough, Ontario, in the main hallway of our upstairs apartment. Later it travelled with me to Toronto and eventually to Bethesda. At some point my pareents reclaimed it and my mother refinished it to a glorious golden brown. It stayed with them when they moved to Virginia from Erie, and ultimately to a retirement community. In later years, after my mother died, I would visit my dad, take him out to lunch, and then put him to bed for his afternoon nap, drawing the wheelchair to just the right angle, helping him to lift his legs, and covering him with his beloved University of Minnesota afghan. Before rolling to his side, he would take out his hearing aids and hand them to me. "Put them on Aunt Jennie's desk. Then I'll know where to find them." Now the desk sits in my dining room, still holding the precious railroad pocket watch that belonged to my grandfather, still redolent of family memories. [ Aunt Jennie,by the way, was a very refined person with soft wavy gray (once red) hair and powdered cheeks. She once advised me not to use the word "stink" but rather, "It has an unpleasant odor." She always won when we played the card game "I Doubt It." No one believed that the sweet old lady could lie like a rug.]

Emmanuel

Last week I was at CVS picking up a prescription when a pharmacy employee called out to me, "Mrs. Wood, how are you doing?" I recognized him right away, a tall, dark-skinned African. "I'm sorry, remind me of your name," I asked. "Emmanuel. Yes, now I remembered. Emmanuel, who was always looking out for my husband. How's Mr. Beckert?" he asked, and I had to tell him that he had passed last year in April. Emmanuel bowed his head and covered his face with his hands, mumbling words of sympathy. When I left, I waved to him. "May he rest in peace," said Emmanuel. Nothing cures the pain of grief, but little things like Emmanuel's compassion help. A lot.

Bones

I was taking my (almost) daily walk when I came across a woman tending her garden, or so I thought. In fact, she was picking yarrow from an empty lot. "It's good for colds and flu in the winter," she explained. "You dry it and make it into tea." "Hmmm," I replied, taking in the natural beauty of the corner lot. Untended, it was covered with native plants, inclding yarrow, Queen Anne's Lace, chicory, and the like. It reminded me of the field in the empty acre behind our house when I was growing up. "Want to know the story of this lot?" she offered. With a nod, she continued. "A gentleman bought this lot with the intention of building a beautiful home for his family on it, but they discovered bones." Of course, she meant bones of First Nation ancestors, clearly a sacred space. "BONES!" she exclaimed. "BONES! Who cares about old bones? Life is for the living! And thus lies tension between the First Nation people and the potential home owner. Each has a point. Who is right?

Oh Canada

So here I am in Canada again. I say again because I can't count the number of times I've traveled back and forth between Canada and the US. First, it was family trips to Niagara Falls from Erie, Pennsylvania, where I grew up. I also visited Smiths Falls with a friend whose aunt and uncle lived there. Finally, when I married John, we moved to Canada where we lived for 12 years, first in Peterborough and then in Toronto. A constant in those years (1966-1978) were regular trips to Southampton where some close friends vacationed with their families. One of my stipulations about moving back to the States in 1978 was my insistence on returning to Southampton every year. And we did. And we still do. Why, you might ask, and that is something I'm still trying to understand. First, it's a lovely little town on the shores of Lake Huron populated by nice people. (It's largely true what they say about Canadians!) Also, our close friends retired here which made it even more appealing. Sadly, both Dunc and my second husband Bruce passed away in April 2024, but Mary and I keep chugging along, visiting, shopping, wining, eating, and going to the beach. but I think the real reason for wanting to be in Canada is that it keeps me close to John, the early years of our marriage, and the friends that we made. Our two sons were born here. Our older adopted son feels his ties very strongly. In fact he has found his birth mother, still in the Toronto area, and visits her annually on his way up to "South," as the locals call it. I'm grateful for this connection, for this country, for this welcome I receive. [and sick about the way Canada is being treated by our president]