This Is What I Know

Dear Hearts,

This what I know:

Old People—no, that’s no more offensive than Young People—are not cute. Puppies are cute. Kittens are cute. Hedgehogs are cute. Apparently, Shawn Mendes is cute. Those pictures of babies in flowers—like they are coming out of a tulip or a sunflower—are freaky, not cute. Old People are not cute. Once you hit 80, you are old. Sorry, them’s the facts.

We don’t treat Old People like they are children. We don’t “let” them do things. They are not ignorant or “funny.” They have lived whole lives that we cannot even begin to comprehend. G-Pa is 95. Ninety-fucking-five years old. He was born in 1921. There was no TV, internet, even radio hadn’t peaked. Polio was a real threat along and so were infections because there was not yet penicillin. They have grown up; gotten married; been widowed; been divorced; worked; got fired; had children; buried children; buried parents, friends, family; had dreams; fought in wars; and gained a helluva lot of experience along the way.

There was a four- or five-year-old in Starbucks and he was playing a game on his mom’s phone—maybe his phone. His mom was younger than I.

“When I grew up there were no cell phones. There were no games like that—we didn’t even have the internet. AND we only had 12 TV stations.”

“Whoa! We you born in the 1900s?”

Mom chuckles.

“I was. I was born a long, long time ago. 40 years ago!”

“Wow! That’s old!”

“When I was young dinosaurs roamed the Earth?”

“Really?”

“No. I’m kidding! There were no dinosaurs!”

Fucking Common Core.

I am 39—not old so I am told. To that boy, I was like ancient.

(On the positive side I haven’t had an episode in like three days—but I’m having one now.)

That boy will never get Chicken Pox or worry about catching AIDS from a water fountain. That boy will never know what life was like without a cell phone and the internet. That boy will never know what a cassette tape, CD, or VHS tape is. He certainly won’t know about Joe Camel or the Marlboro Man. He won’t know his country Pre-9/11. That boy will never learn to type on an electric typewriter or have a flip phone.

To that boy, I an Old Person. He knows innately so much more than I do and will probably be healthier. But I have a lot of experience on that kid. Cinderella is 15. She doesn’t know most of the stuff above either. But, I can be her friend.

I thought taking 150 pills chased by a beer was a good idea. I thought learning to smoke was a good idea. I thought marrying a controlling man, twenty years my senior was a good idea. G-Pa thinks working in the heat is a good idea. G-Pa thinks he should still mow the lawn with his push mower. G-Pa thinks pantyhose are good idea! G-Pa thinks driving 10 miles below the speed limit on the highway is a good idea. So we both have had ill-conceived thoughts.

When he looks in the mirror, he wonders who that Old Man is looking back? He still believes in the things he did in his 40s—don’t wear hats inside, dress up for church, eat canned fruit. He is not a cute Old Man in his mind.

Evelyn, whom I visited today, for three hours, can’t walk like she used to. She’s had a stroke and misses words sometimes—although I don’t notice it. She is ready to die, because she buried her son when he was 25 and her husband 11 years ago. (I get being ready to die—but I digress).  She is ready to die because she has lived a “good life.” Yet, she will enjoy what she can while she’s here. I suspect G-Pa feels the same way. In Evelyn’s mind, she isn’t Old—she’s the young woman who helped my grandmother when she was on bed rest during her second pregnancy.

Visiting Old People who are alone isn’t charity. Nobody should be alone. But, she’s lonely. I get that too. I am glad that my buying her a 64 Crayola-crayon box, a coloring book, a coffee, and coffee cake made her light up and almost tear up. That means my day wasn’t a waste. I wouldn’t have spent that money on myself on such a whim—but I don’t worry about spending money on others. It’ll come back to me. It’s a helluva lot more useful than in the collection plate.

We talked and I was open with her. She didn’t freak when I talked about ECT or my OD. Her sister had ECT---when ECT was much worse I’m sure. We talked about non-PC stuff. She was my grandma this afternoon. She assured me that my grandmother would not mind if I took down her decorative plates in the bedroom and put up my things. Things…the house…they are not a shrine to her. She is in our hearts. And, Evelyn firmly believes—more so as she’s turned into an Old Person—that God will give us the strength to get through what we need to and his ways are mysterious.

Who helped whom today? Evelyn made my day and I made hers. Visiting Old People is giving a gift to ourselves. Befriending the lonely, no matter the age, is Christ’s work.

Irony? We colored together!  

Smoke ‘em if ya’ got ‘em. God Bless

In the name of The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit; Mother Mary, Saint Brigid; Saint Jude; Saint Therese Lisieux; Saint Peter; Archangel Michael, and my Guardian Angel.

PS: Martha is very proud of me for telling T. exactly what was what. Thanks, Martha—your being proud of me was not lost on me. Martha also says I need to take back my “NO.” The bullies and abuse stole my NO. I can take it back. Oh, and also I am not responsible for others' emotions. And, I can still be a good granddaughter and not take G-Pa to his noisy, touchy, long, protestant church on Sunday. (9 a.m.--really?)

“No. I will not put up with that bullshit.”

PPS: Epilating? The best thing ever! It takes time, but it pulls those suckers right out by the roots. Legs, bikini area—all of it. Except under my arms—I can figure how to hold my skin taut and use the epilator at the same time. So much better than shaving! Yeah, it is a little prickly—but so worth it!