We have been consumed with age lately from the presidential election to the Olympics. We replaced a presidential candidate we thought too old in his eighties and rejoiced over a first time Olympic medalist swimming at 31, the oldest in 120 years. And we still look forward to a gymnast who is competitive at the ripe old age of 27.
I recently watched a documentary that interviewed the few elderly remnants of Hitler’s domination over Germany before and during the Second World War. Their memories were as different as they were and ranged from a full declaration of support for the regime and the man, to a denial that they knew anything of the racial hatred that spawned gas chambers, to a deep sadness over what their silence had meant.
We just recently moved, and although we are not in an official retirement community, everyone around us has gray hair as do we. We moved in during the pandemic so met very few neighbors but are now meeting them as we garden or walk around the neighborhood. I have noticed that the primary object of any initial conversation or meeting is to find out who we used to be.
It is spring, and last night we opened the door from our bedroom to the outside porch. From the pond behind our house came a Morman Tabernacle Choir of lovesick frogs and geese all calling to one another. The uproar was quite amazing but, rather than being distracting, it brought back memories of the sleeping porch.
My grandparents were very interested in passing on the etiquette of writing thank you notes. While there were many wonderful things to open under the Christmas tree, there was always that square box which I opened last and with a forced smile of appreciation. In it lay the dreaded, virgin-white thank you stationary. When I was young the notes were lined with circus animals that decorated the margins, but as I grew older, I advanced to cream colored cards, often with my initials on them.
My dutiful attempts were read over, just to make sure I had the right gift with the right person, but the readers did not edit my sentiments at all. Upon her death, the children of one of my great aunts found my six-year-old attempt at graciousness. This aunt had always given me a silver spoon, for when I got married, she was quick to tell me. My note indicated that while I would never get married, I would use the spoon to eat my morning cereal. This had apparently amused this dry, and strait-laced lady enough that she kept the note.
I have now written the ultimate thank you note which takes the form of a book. It is about growing up with these wonderful people who I was lucky enough to have as grandparents. While it invokes an era gone by, it is eternal in that it shows the power of love. The book is called The Smallest Tree in the Forest and can be found on Amazon. I hope I can share these wonderful people with you.
My maternal grandfather, who died at eighty, gently resisted all attempts to move him out of his home as he aged. He always said he wanted children coming to his door on Halloween, that he enjoyed talking to his younger neighbors about their jobs, and that the sound of the school bus reminded him daily of the importance of education.
I recently returned from a trip to a retirement village in Florida. In case you think that was for my 80-year-old self, it was not. It was a visit to my oldest daughter who is considering moving there. I am now old enough not only to have retired, but to have a daughter who is old enough to begin thinking about that stage of life.
