By and large customs stand very high in everyone’s life experience. For instance, ‘This is where we always place the Christmas tree; or we never fail to have ham at Easter; or we buy nothing but Ford cars; or our children all play softball.’ There is nothing wrong with these things, but I think as we grow older, we need to examine our customs and differentiate between those that are at the core of our being, and those whose sell-by date has long passed.
Take for example the firmly held rule in my young years that one should not wear white shoes after Labor Day. Where did that come from and why did we all follow it so religiously? I have no idea, but it is certainly a practice that has long been overturned. But more difficult than a mere dress code, are the subtle things that cling on in our consciousness. I recently received a handwritten thank you note from a friend and enjoyed the graciousness and thoughtfulness of the writing. It is probably obvious that the note came from someone in my age group as the young communicate, if they do at all, by email or text. In my youth I was schooled thoroughly by the adults in my life on those handwritten notes. It is a norm that I miss, but one that I need to let go of. If gratitude is expressed in a modern way, who am I to quibble at the means that thanks takes.
But then there are the things that are at the core of our being and go well beyond mere custom. We do not murder, steal or cheat, or at least we can all agree that these are not activities that we can choose to take or leave. These are the things we can hold on to as inviolate as we merrily put on white shoes in September.
But there is one last comment on this subject that shows the nebulous nature of this complex discussion. My grandmother was in a wheelchair when she took up residence in a retirement home. We would often visit her for Sunday dinner in her facility dining room where she went through the line first as she was wheelchair bound. We would follow and often reach her table long after she had been sitting in front of her meal. No matter how much we urged, she would not start her rapidly cooling meal until we were all seated at the table and ready to dine as well. She was the hostess, we were her guests, and she was following the customs of a lifetime in waiting for us to join her. Nothing could make her lift that fork until we were all assembled. An old-fashioned notion long outgrown? Perhaps, but I intensely admired that figure in a wheelchair more than I can say. She was undimmed by the passing years, sticking to a gracious custom of her youth in the face of changing times.