Who Me?

Well, it’s happened. I’ve been officially labeled “old.”

It all started on Good Friday when I was walking across the parking lot at church. Two teenagers were on one side of me, and a delightful child was being carried in her grandfather’s arms on the other side. She looked at the teens, looked back at her grandfather, and said, “They are teenagers.”

I thought to myself, “Hmmm. What’s next?” She fixed her gaze on me, pointed and said, “Not a teenager.” I had to smile.

The next day I was in a garden center with my husband, and I put some large plants on a cart. I wandered away, and while my husband was standing nearby, the clerk asked who the plants were for. A young worker answered, “They’re for the old lady.”

Well, when my husband repeated her words to me, they certainly gave me pause. I thought, “Oh, my. Here I go.” My voyage into “old.”

I was 26 years old when we moved into our house in Evansville. There was a couple living two doors down, and I thought they were ancient. Really ancient.

When the wife died, I did the math, and discovered that she was 58 years old when we moved in.

Oh, the hubris and ignorance of the young.

I know in my brain that aging is a natural process that God designed for us. Our bodies slow down, and sometimes our minds do too.

I read a quote recently that said, “The most important decision you make is to be in a good mood.” Maybe yes. Maybe no, but it’s not a bad idea to incorporate that thinking into our daily lives.

And how do we do that in our golden years?

I lived with my grandparents the summer that I was 12. It was such an idyllic, perfect summer that I think Norman Rockwell would have loved it.

My grandparents lived in a sleepy little town in northern Wisconsin near Green Bay. The summer nights were brisk, and we slept with the bedroom windows cracked a bit.

Their attic was filled with treasures stored in old steamer trunks, things like sepia photographs and old hats and dresses which were perfect for playing dress up.

Their cellar had shelves and shelves practically sagging with my grandmother’s canning, and there was a wringer washing machine in the corner.

My grandparents had a steady pattern to their lives, and their days were simple. They got up early every morning and walked across the street for Mass.

My grandfather spent his mornings tending his huge garden, and my grandmother picked fruit and made us fresh cobblers for lunch.

She said her rosary and her prayers, and they rested every afternoon.

We had a quiet dinner in the evening, and then the two of them would wash the dishes together and talk.

It seems to me that if you are going to be old, then that’s the way to do it. Time together, time apart, prayer time, rest time. Seeking God through simplicity.

And choosing to be in a good mood.