My grandmother was fortunate to live in one house for almost all of her adult life. It was a huge three-story house in New England --a house full of memories with an attic that was a treasure trove of "finds" for her curious granddaughter.
I remember the hill in the backyard with the aging grape arbor, where we carried cold cups of lemonade to sit and sip on a hot sunny day. I remember her old white enamel kitchen table with the green stencil design along the edges, drop sides and the drawers where she kept cooking utensils. I spent many an afternoon sitting there talking to her and watching her bake or prepare dinner. I remember the old gas stove and the great toast she made by holding bread on a fork over the flame. I remember a very special afghan that she would drape over me to comfort me when I had a cold and didn't feel well. And I remember her old pedestal style telephone that sat on the little desk at the foot of the stairs . . . did she ever LOVE that telephone! She could talk for what seemed like hours to a little girl waiting for her undivided attention!
I can remember going upstairs to her bedroom -- my favorite spot -- and sitting at her big mahogany vanity. You know the kind I mean, with the big ornate mirror frame and the curvy design vanity top . . . something straight out of a 1930's movie. I would sit there and brush my hair with her beautiful gold hairbrush that always sat on the mirrored golden tray. I would sneak a squeeze of perfume from the perfume atomizers, and was sure she'd never know, although she could probably smell it all the way downstairs, as I wasn't afraid to mix scents! I felt so glamorous sitting there amid my childish thoughts of what I would be like when I grew up.
And then there was my second favorite spot in the house -- the big round claw foot dining room table big enough to seat the whole family for the holidays. How I loved those holiday dinners. I remember watching her at Thanksgiving as she would pluck the remnants of turkey feathers and wash what I was sure had to be the world's largest turkey. I could hardly wait for it to finish cooking! When it was done and placed on a platter on the round table, surrounded by serving dishes piled high with peas, corn, turnips, potatoes, and stuffing, it was like looking at a Norman Rockwell painting. To this day when I see a Rockwell painting I think of my grandmother and our hometown in Massachusetts.
No family is as perfect as a Norman Rockwell painting of course, and ours was no exception. There were the arguments and the pettiness that exist in most families; but I didn't know that then. Kids only see the good in people, and the fun and excitement in situations. And while I am aware that life was not as completely idyllic as my childhood memories play it back to me, I choose not to remember the less-than-perfect things. Why should I? That's the wonder of growing older, I think.
When you finally mature enough to realize what is and isn't important in this earthly life, you find that it rarely has anything to do with what you thought was important in your youth. You fully appreciate the special little things and the kindnesses of people that made you who you are today, and you can forget whatever you choose to forget in your quest for peace and understanding of God's plan for us.
Maybe the "second childhood" we always hear about is actually just a turning point when you stop worrying about the ladder-climbing, keeping up with the Joneses, acquiring "things," becoming "somebody," or being "better" than somebody, and just take a deep breath and enjoy whatever good comes, however it chooses to come to you.
I like to think that's what Norman Rockwell saw when he painted -- all the fleeting little goodnesses in life. Maybe he made a point to watch for them as he made his way through town, and quickly began to paint before he could forget what had grabbed his mind's eye. Maybe he heard a touching story about someone's family and decided to put it down on canvas for everyone to enjoy. Or maybe he savored the happy memories in his own everyday life and painted them so he'd never forget them, or forget to tell his children about them.
I write today with much the same kind of inspiration gleaned from the tiny memorable glimpses of my own early years of living life in a Norman Rockwell painting . . . if only occasionally.
Sadly, I don't know whatever happened to Grandma's vanity that was so special in my young mind, or to the dining room table where my happiest family dinners were spent. I hope someone is truly enjoying them as I would have, if I'd been fortunate enough to have acquired them. The perfume atomizers are long gone, and the afghan, too. But I know those were only material things that couldn't last forever . . . and that's OK because the memory of them and the pleasure they brought lives on in the heart of a little girl now as old as her Grandma was then.
Thanks, Grandma . . . for the memories.
In loving memory of Anna Brazil
© Carol Auclair Daly.2009-2010 All Rights Reserved
I must admit I had more than a little trouble grasping the idea of little people calling me "Grandma" -- I mean, REALLY! How could I possibly be a Grandma? Oh, I know I'm chronologically old enough (I do have that mirror) . . . but psychologically, I just wasn't ready. I still feel like the same person I was when I was 30.
My early memories of my own grandmothers are that they always looked "old." Gray hair, "house dresses" and sensible orthopedic shoes . . . they enjoyed rocking on the porch while snapping beans . . . they had plenty of time to sit and cuddle grandchildren and tell them of days gone by. That was defnitely not me!
As my son and his wife awaited the birth of their first child, I felt another turning point in my life coming at me like a freight train! After "HE" arrived, I gradually got used to hearing myself described using the "G" word. But I still wanted to think of something else the little sweetheart could call me that didn't make me sound so old. A friend told me that I shouldn't knock myself out trying to decide what I wanted to be called, because in the end, grandkids call you whatever they decide to call you, or whatever they can pronounce. So I put the concern to rest . . . apparently, it was out of my hands.
Now 3 1/2 years (and 1 more grandchild later), this little imp can call me whatever he wants! And so can his brother as soon as he can talk. What a joy! Now I know why my grandmothers stopped everything to take time to sit and play or talk with us. When your own children are small, you have so much responsibility and so much to do just to insure their good health, safety, and education, that finding time to spend with them just having fun one-on-one is really a challenge. But grandparents, free of all the responsibility, can finally just relax and enjoy!
Some things have changed since my own days as a young grandchild, though. We don't sit on the porch and snap beans together; nor do we blow bubbles at the kitchen table with bubble pipes made of rolled up newspapers, like my grandmother used to make. At one time or another, I'm sure we'll do some of the things I remember doing with my grandmother, but they aren't the every day occurence around here.
My little 3 1/2 year old genius is turning out to be a computer whiz! We do go to the playground and the pool at my apartment complex sometimes; but during our down times, we play computer games together, and he's VERY good at them! His favorite kid games are at Noggin.com and Disney, of course. But he's just as comfortable playing grown up action games with his Dad and uncles . . . and he can move easily from a PC with a standard mouse, to an X-Box with a game controller, and over to my laptop with its (maddening) circular mouse function. He just seems to "get it." I'm totally amazed, and a little envious that I didn't have access to a computer when I was a kid. I'd have loved it, too!
I heard that his Mom & Dad took him to visit friends a couple weeks ago, who have one of those newer games where you actually move on a mat while using the controller . . . the friends didn't think he'd know what to do with it, but after just a couple minutes of seeing what was what, he was "bowling" and doing a great job of it. He's actually been playing games with his Daddy and uncles ever since he could understand "hit this button."
You do have to watch these little genius types though -- they pick up on everything. He listens to the competitive, game- crazy adults, and is very quick to pick up the lingo.
A case in point . . . yesterday, he came over and said, "Come on, Grandma. Let's play a game on the computer . . . I'm gonna kick your butt!"
To which I responded, "Uhhh . . . excuse me, is that the way you talk to Grandma?"
With head lowered and big sorrowful eyes looking straight at me, he said, "Sorry Grandma . . . . . (pause) . . . . but I AM!"
And . . . he did!
His brother's only 6 months old, but I notice that the whole time we're playing a game together, he's watching from the sidelines at all the flashing colors and falling tiles, etc. He's learning. Give him another year, and I'm pretty sure he'll be ready to kick Grandma's butt, too!
© Carol Auclair Daly.2009-2010 All Rights Reserved
What could be a more significant turning point in life than to wake up one day and find yourself dubbed a “senior citizen?”
You think, “I can’t be a senior citizen! I’m in the prime of life!” Strong as ever . . . sexy as Angelina Jolie on my best days (or maybe in my best dreams) . . . competent and respected in the workplace and my community . . . experienced in many things . . . and finally approaching a level of self-actualization that allows me to feel somewhat comfortable in who I’ve become and where I’m headed on this earthly journey. Life is pretty good!
And then it happens . . . the reality check! That girl . . . that silly, smug little youngster behind the counter at the fast food joint rings up your morning coffee at 25 cents. And you (honest as the day is long) say, “I think you short-changed yourself. You only charged me 25 cents.”
Her answer . . . “ No, that’s right. We only charge 25 cents for coffee for senior citizens.”
(GASP!!!!) Not ONLY did she in essence just call you “OLD,” but, the grin on her face tells you that she’s proud of herself for not having to ask, and probably even expects you to thank her for noticing! Has the world gone completely mad?!
My husband was standing next to me when that unforgettable and painful moment hit me between the eyes. The look on my face must have registered pretty high on my internal Richter scale, but he was ultimately the one who erupted . . . into gales of laughter as he thanked the now somewhat confused little twit!
Reality check #2: My spouse finds it amusing that I’m horrified by someone recognizing that I was quite literally not born yesterday. So what does that mean? Et tu Brute'?
While hubby composes himself and realizes that it could be a very quiet drive home, I take deep breaths . . . in and out . . . trying to relax and go with the flow. Thinking positive thoughts. And then the calm after the storm comes in on a wave . . . Everything is going to be fine. Age is only a number, and the “Senior Citizens Discount” is just based on a number. It’s not personal. Besides, that’s quite a bargain on a cup of coffee; and what tastes better than a bargain?
“Excuse me, Sweetie . . . could I get an apple turnover to go with my coffee? And don’t forget to give me my Senior Citizens discount.”
Copyright 2009-2010 Carol Auclair Daly
Now I've truly heard it all! The bruises to your ego just keep on comin' after 50 . . . it's one big long youthful horror fest at the thought that you've not only lived so long, but that you dare to walk around out there in public and tell people what you've learned. Heavens! Why don't we have the good sense to go hide out on the back porch and rock 'til we drop?! What are we thinking?
I don't usually offer my age -- but I don't lie about it when asked, either. I haven't started coloring my hair because it seems like I wouldn't be fooling anyone but myself -- and I earned all those rapidly appearing gray hairs. I don't dress like I'm 25 because I've seen too many "mature" women who do, and frankly . . . they aren't kidding anyone either.
So while sipping my coffee and watching the Today Show this morning, I swear I almost lost it when they introduced a guest who was there specifically to help us "old folks" who may be job-hunting. They referred to her advice as giving your resume' a Botox treatment. Are you kidding me?
It's not bad enough that half the female senior population in this country has been conned into believing that walking around with artificial smiles stretching back to their ear lobes, and wrinkles injected with poison to fluff them up are perfectly natural. Now they want us to do a little chop job on our life's work, too!
Apparently we older folks have some nerve to let anyone know how much work experience we actually have, not to mention letting anyone see us in our natural state.
This woman had called upon a variety of people to help her create the illusion that she was younger than she really is. A hair stylist gave her a hip, young look . . . a 20-something year old took her shopping for some new clothes (couldn't be sure, but it looked like black leather pants and jacket to me -- certainly MY favorite look for a job interview) . . . a professional resume' writer covered up some of the many years of hard won experience to make her sound younger on paper . . . and finally, a glamour photographer was hired to take photos to go with her new modern resume.
Now correct me if I'm wrong here, but it sounds to me like the best way for anyone over 50 to find a new job is to lie like a rug!
So here are the new guidelines as I understand them on how to better present yourself if you've had the good fortune to live, learn and work for a REALLY long time:
- Buy a good supply of hair color products so you won't be the only gray-tinged head in the office (maybe you could even try some of those new bright red, purple or green colors that are favored by the "punk" population. Then they'd certainly be fooled into thinking you were REALLY young!)
- Men were told not to show up at an interview in a suit coat and tie if a company has gone to "casual" style for its employees -- it will make you look like the old fogey. (Forget good taste.)
- Get that glamour photographer on retainer ASAP! It might take a while to get just the right photo. One I noted had this lady standing in a wide-legged stance with hands on her hips bent slightly at the waist and laughing. (Reminded me of the old Jolly Green Giant commercials.)
- Shop like you've never shopped before - literally! Don't stop with those leather pants that you can't sit down in. Young-it up all the way down to your shoes. Buy some of those spikey new heels that make our old 60's style high-heeled shoes look comfy. (Just watch where you're walking though. You know how it is with bifocals -- if you don't look down, you're liable to mis-step and land on your new younger-looking derriere.)
- And cover up that experience! Let's face it. Someone as young and hip as we are couldn't possibly have 20 years+ experience in their field. So just don't tell anyone how long you've done your job. Save the hard core stuff for the actual application you'll be required to fill out in minute detail, where you have to swear in blood that everything you've said is accurate to your knowledge.
Maybe if interviewers are sufficiently impressed with your green, spikey-haired self in the new leather outfit stretching over your middle-aged gravity-challenged body, they'll never think to compare your resume' to your application, and you won't get fired for misrepresenting yourself.
I was aware that "dumb" was in . . . after all, what else could possibly explain the bizarre interest in the empty-headed Paris Hilton types of the world? But isn't it just a little scary to think that the people making corporate hiring decisions in this country are actually less impressed with experience than they are with our ability to look eternally young? That may give us a clue as to what's wrong with our economy, ya' think?
Talk about a turning point . . . welcome to the dumbing down of America!
© Carol Auclair Daly.2008-2010 All Rights Reserved
A while back I saw the movie, “Mama Mia,” or maybe I should say “experienced” the movie with my daughter. What a wonderful treat it was!
My foot kept the beat as the music of Abba took me right back to my own days of wanting to be a “Dancing Queen” . . . it was a fun, flirty, and free-ing depiction of the music I so loved in the 70s. And as Donna (Meryl Streep) and her friends danced and cavorted and jumped playfully into the sea, I saw the girl I always wanted to be . . . spontaneous, careless, and sacrificing in the way that a girl of the 60s would have to have been to be out there on her own at that time.
But that wasn’t me. I didn’t have that kind of spontaneous courage or abandon. I was one of the “sensible” teen-agers as teen-agers go, pretty much towing the line to stay out of range of my parents’ radar. Despite what TV today would have young people think, most of us were like that – normal kids who obeyed the rules at least most of the time, and seldom flirted with disaster.
But that was the girl on the outside. On the inside, I was a part of the hippie generation, and oh so envious of those who had the courage to be rebels and follow their dreams. I longed to roam, to experience places like Greenwich Village or Haight-Asbury, to explore until I found my own path in life, and yes, even to “demonstrate” and let my voice be heard even if it meant openly disagreeing with the beliefs we’d been taught at home.
When Abba came along, their sound was different (and still is) . . . it was music that celebrated loving thoughts with reckless abandon! It was sound that represented (to me) that free-spirted girl inside me that wanted to go out and play. It was pure joy just to listen to it; and pure joy is what I felt again tonight.
And by the way . . . to the two women next to me who found Pierce Brosnan’s singing to be laughable . . . what’s wrong with you? You missed the point. Abba’s music wasn’t (isn’t) popular because of outstanding voices (although they certainly have beautiful voices). It was and is popular because it speaks to everyday people in their everyday pursuit of love and laughter and all that makes life happy and worth living. Having an "everyday" voice singing it is perfectly appropriate.
I sat in the theater with my daughter wishing that she could remember the music . . . she was just a toddler when her Dad and I first listened to Abba . . . but surprise! She did remember it, has often listened to it herself, and even knew many of the songs. Being able to share the memory made the evening that much more special.
Joy of the heart touches every generation.
Copyright 2010 Carol Auclair Daly
