Lately, I seem to spend too much time pondering the concept of being elderly, and if I qualify. We like to label each other, that’s for sure, and no less when it comes to age – toddler, teen, millennials (who seem to me to get a bad rap), middle-aged, and the ever-popular elderly. I am often stunned when I run across a character in a book who is deemed ancient only to find out they have just crossed the threshold of seventy. I considered contacting the author with outrage, but what would be the point? There was, I admit, a time when someone surpassing the age of seventy was considered “old,” not to mention lucky. Judging by my bodily complaints and announcements of non-compliance, the truth could very well be that I do in fact qualify as an elderly sort.
A friend shared an essay with me about what it means to be a member of “the elderly” these days. I found it most interesting. I can’t give credit to the author of this missive, sadly, but the points the essay make are worthy of passing along. First and foremost, we are “the last living witnesses of a world that no longer exists.” That could certainly be said of my parents and grandparents, considering the wars they were obligated to be embroiled in and all too often gave their lives to. My grandparents saw the first car on the road and mankind going to space within their lifetime, which seems far more dramatic than what I have been witness to. We all gathered around the television set to eagerly watch the implausible first man walking on the moon in 1969, to hardly bothering to notice the recent space flight around the moon. I’m not exactly sure why the time seems right to be making a return trip to wave hello at the moon; I may have missed that memo. I can’t help thinking of prioritizing poverty and homelessness and education and health care, but…
In terms of ordinary everyday activities, my generation was fortunate to grow up in a time when play involved marbles and hopscotch, without all the digital distractions. Everything was analog “back in the day.” Patience was a must as we waited for letters in the mail, had two weeks to read the books we claimed from the library, waiting for the phone line to be “free” and for our favourite song to come on the radio. We wrote letters to pen pals, to someone we had never met and would never meet. The black cradle phone that sat atop the radio in the kitchen was our link to the outside world. When my mother talked on the telephone, I lied across her lap as she stroked my back with abandon. Getting the mail from the post office was a big deal, Box 76, where we turned the key with wonder for what might be inside. I regularly hummed “seventy-six trombones led the big parade” from The Music Man as I climbed the post office steps. It seems an idyllic time in the rearview mirror, but each generation has its own urgencies and frustrations.
The essay described our generation as “living bridges” rather than “relics.” I like that. No one wants to be referred to as a relic, something that has lost its value and is merely a glimpse into the past. My children had the wonderful opportunity of creating their own play, building forts in the hay, searching for newborn kittens. I am not so sure my grandchildren get the opportunity to be “feral,” to problem-solve as to how to get down from the tree they just climbed, to settle arguments on their own. I think we were a generation taught as children that kindness was important. We’ve now created a generation that don’t look up when they meet someone on the sidewalk, they don’t notice someone coming in the door behind them, they seldom smile at strangers, all of which are generalizations. That’s our fault; we’ve convinced children that strangers are enemies, capable of horrendous acts. Having said that, not long ago I was at my grandsons’ hockey games and as we were heading home, I held the door for the weary athletes and every single one of them thanked me and smiled. “Please” and “thank you” were the rules of my generation and I’m grateful for that. We can change someone’s day simply with a friendly smile and a polite hello.
I like to think we are getting better, every generation stretching and straining toward perfection, remembering that those who broke trail for us did so that we might be the benefactor while accepting the responsibility of reciprocity.
wendistewart@live.ca
