Old Age Has Finally Caught Me

Somewhere between our recent move, the updating of both our new and old homes and all the activities of the holidays something has changed inside me. I feel as if I have in some way been diminished, that I am in some way less of myself than I was. The person who is the core of me; is no longer the twenty-something girl I have always seen myself as. Until recently that girl was the person who looked back at me in my mirror. Now suddenly, the face staring back at me is that of an aunt, as I remember her when she was the age I am now.


I’m sure that stress and exhaustion could have been the catalyst. Perhaps it was just the taxing job of downsizing a lifetime of possessions and the memories associated with them. But, something tells me it is more.
I have always been a list maker. Since my teen years I have kept dozens of dime store journals hidden away, to keep my friends and family from giving me the business about my lists. So this time between listing all the reasons I should be thankful and the New Year’s resolutions has always been a tough time of year for me.

Many of the emotional and life changing events in my life have happened during those few weeks between Thanksgiving and the new year. More dates than I care to think about bring up memories of loved ones lost, hopes dashed or dreams left unfulfilled. If I am not careful, I can easily end up in that group of folks that suffer from Holiday depression.

This year it seems I am continually being bombarded by reminders of just how much the world has changed in my lifetime; not all for the better either. Perhaps, it is just the reaction to my body letting me know that I am now part of that group referred to as “Old.”

Regardless of the reasons, it has certainly put me in a melancholy state of mind. The old gray matter hiding under all this white hair is full of “coulda, woulda or shoulda,” and “if only” thoughts. It has also been wreaking havoc with my desire to spend time with both my camera and my computer.

As a result, I have been doing a lot of thinking about what it means to grow old and the changes it makes in your life. The Old Salt likes to offer to trade places with young folks that express an interest in having something of his. One conversation recently with a thirty-ish family member regarding our recent “Last Hurrah” trip went something like this.

Family member: “It must be nice to be retired and have the free time and money to take such a trip.”

Old Salt: “ I will be happy to trade you all three of my pension checks each month with one condition.”

Family Member: “what condition?”

Old Salt: “I get to be your age again and you get to be mine.”

Well, you will never hear me make that offer. There is no way I would ever want to trade places with someone younger in this place and time. Sure, I would like to go back and relive my life if I could do it with my current hindsight left in place. Who wouldn’t want the chance to fix some of the huge mistakes made in their life? But, to start living my life over again (at any younger age) in this time period, No Way.

The only good thing I can see about growing up in today’s world is today’s children are blind to all the good things they will never have that those born before --- say 1960 (just to pick a year at random) had. I find it easy to feel sorry for today’s children. They will never know so many of the freedoms and privileges that children of my era had but especially those of my parents and grandparents time period.

I wish I could give children back their freedom from fear. The fear of strangers, fear of adults, fear of abduction, fear of terrorist, fear of failure and so many other modern day things. I wish that today’s children could know the freedom of being sent out to play in the morning and not having to be home until dinnertime. The freedom of wandering anywhere their legs or bicycle could take them. The freedom to go explore all the adventures that imagination and an afternoon with friends could take you. Be it swimming in the creek or building a fort from castoffs near the junkyard. I wish for today’s children to live in a time when most people weren’t overweight because life naturally required more physical activity and diets contained more healthy foods and less high fat, empty calorie junk. I want to give children back the ability to do their math without the help of a calculator. I want to see families meeting at the dinner table each night having lengthy discussions about what transpired in their day and not spending their time eating on the run as they move from one organized sports program or dance class to another.

Heck, when I start thinking along those lines I can list lots of reasons to be grateful that I have reached my old age. Nope, I would not trade places for anything. But, I do wish that my old achy joints would take a lesson from my wrinkles. At least they don’t hurt.

Footnote: As I went to hit the publish button it suddenly occurred to me that I have written on this subject before and I had to go in search of the post. It can be found here http://cashjocky.blogspot.com/2007/05/i-guess-im-thankful.html if you’re interested.

When We Become the Olden Days

My blog had very little traffic until I discovered meme's sometime last year. Even though my blog now gets more hits and the current posts get more comments because of the memes. I doubt that very many of my readers have ever dug into my older post. So I am going to occasionally resurrect some of my older writings to give them a second chance.

Last week one of my southern cousins and his wife came for a visit. Over dinner one evening my cousin mentioned that he felt as if he had become "the olden days." I certainly understood his meaning, for his words rang a bell with me. One of the first posts I made when I started blogging four years ago was on that very subject. I have updated it here.

When We Become the Olden Days--- first posted on November 16, 2005

It seems like only yesterday when family gatherings on my Dad's side of the family were filled with Great Aunts and Uncles and even a few Great Greats at whose feet all of us would gather, to hear the stories they told about their "good old days". Suddenly, I realized they were all gone and it was our parents who had become the "old ones" enthralling the children with their tales of the "good old days".

Then one day, I was struck by the fact that we cousins are rapidly becoming the oldest members of our clan. My Mother and my Dad's youngest brother (now 80) are the only oldsters left to tell the "good old days" stories.

Soon, way too soon, it will be our children replacing us as the matriarchs and patriarchs of our family.

I guess I have to question: first, if we are up to the responsibility of guiding our clan into the next generation, and second, what will all the young ones have to say about the world we left in their hands, to care for into the future.

It is very daunting. Just yesterday I was a kid at my grandfather’s knee and now I am a Matriarch of a family that goes well into the triple digits. It’s scary. When we become "the olden days" will our descendents remember us in a positive way? What kind of stories will we use to keep the kiddies at our feet enthralled? Better yet, what kind of stories will they have to tell about us when we are gone?

Frank's Rant

Today I came across a copy of a letter that my Frank wrote to his younger brother. It was in response to a question his brother had asked regarding increasing pain as we aged. I would like to share an excerpt from that letter, but, first let me set the stage so you understand the situation that prompted his little rant.

Frank retired from 30 years in the navy and at age 52 started a second career as a deputy sheriff in San Diego county California. He worked in the county jails for the next ten years. Frank had been a runner since high school so he was able to keep up with classmates half his age during a very physical Sheriffs academy.

Now for Frank’s little rant on aging which was written some 8 years after he became a deputy sheriff.

Pain? Every day in ways large and small. Pain is just the punctuation. The narrative is dropping things, or missing altogether. It's not whipping around the guy driving at exactly the speed limit in the middle lane, head up, hands at 10 and 2, wearing a sanctimonious expression worthy of the Church Lady, because you no longer trust your once quick reflexes to always be there. It's using a small hand-held light to read the newspaper in ambient light the younger deputies could use to thread a needle. It's applying Bag Balm to both heels under a large band-aid and expensive paper tape so your dried out heels will last through 12 hours of walking, with some running thrown in just to keep you sweaty. It's running to a cover call knowing that every bruise you get will take three times longer to heal than any the younger deputies acquire. It's responding to a radio call of, "11-45" and hoping you don't look like a fool for showing up with a shroud cutter because you keep getting "11-45" (attempt suicide) mixed up with "11-47" (Injured person). It's carrying a laminated list of phone numbers because, after five years in the same jail, you still haven't memorized a lot of them. It's writing a crime report that gets read by the Sergeant during his brief as an example of a good one, then getting your next one back with twenty corrections. It's reaching for a letter and not finding it when you know exactly where you last put it down. You find it two days later on the back of the kitchen counter and realize that you are the only person on the planet who could have put it there. It's reading the obits and noting that a fair number of that day's harvest were younger than you.

A lifetime ago, I worked for J&J Construction on a pipeline crew in Oklahoma. The lead peon always made sure we had a working radio in the company truck so we could listen to Paul Harvey during our lunch break. One day Paul was talking about his summer home near a large lake. By eight AM, the lake was overrun with water craft equipped with loud smelly engines. His group always went to the water very early so they would be gone when the noise and exhaust fumes arrived. Because, he said, “One should enjoy the pain free years." I recall wondering what he was talking about. Now, sadly, I know

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As someone who has suffered with fibromyalgia since my thirties, this really hit home with me. I am just amazed that someone as fit as Frank would be able to express my feelings so clearly. We do truly think alike.