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My Favorite Role Model
Jul. 15th, 2011 11:27 amI'm lucky in many ways. Eerily sometimes, creepily others. But one way I've been really lucky has been in my batch of role models growing up.
But wait, you may say, putting up a hand to stop me, your eyebrows all screwed up in confusion. I've heard about your family. You can't possibly call them role models.
Well, they're not all bad. And one of these days I really need to write a big old thank you note to my mother for never being a judgmental person. And being generally awesome. But there were several friends of the family and families of my friends who were all levels of awesome. One of whom came to mind most vividly when I read this article on planning to be an old lady.
I've seemingly always had the notion that growing old was something to both look forward to and not let get in your way. Age brings experience and wisdom that youth can only posture at knowing. Certainly I know more now about life, the universe, and everything than I did but a year ago. I simply cannot comprehend what I will know 10, 20, 30 years down the line.
Our society does not honor the elderly like other societies do, and we'd prefer the illusion of beauty and youth over accepting our age. There's a prevalent stereotype that all old people are grumpy and cynical and slow and a pain to be around. And that is certainly true of some, just as it's true of some young'uns that they're insufferable, arrogant, blindingly idealistic pricks (like me!).
And then there's Heather. My most prominent memory of her is skipping down the sidewalk of our old Florida home late in the sweltering afternoon of summer. Her hair is greyish blue and as airy as froth, her teeth are yellowed and crooked but mostly all there, her smile is wide and impish, she's either wearing a skirt or baggy pants. She is a tea-drinking whirlwind. She is seventy-eight year old.
I couldn't have been more than twelve, but she had all the patience in the world for me. At the same time, she treated me like an adult, or as much of an adult as she was. She was old, but she could be naughty. Her face was lined and re-lined with wrinkles, but then she'd smile or laugh and you'd know exactly where they all came from. She was thin and old, but she gave off the presence of a twenty-year-old and no one would ever think she could be fragile. She also had a mad sense of quirky humor that made any letters we received from her a real treat, even if her handwriting was nigh indecipherable.
I saw her again a few years later in her own home. She was significantly thinner and betrayed her frailty moving around. But her gestures and her expression were still full of delight and animation. She still laughed and smiled and took us for a tour around her home and her overflowing garden, even though she was soon worn out. But it wasn't sad; she was still as snarky and humorous as ever. She skipped a little, when she could.
I'm a bit ashamed that I don't know where she is / what she's doing now. I'm pretty sure she's still alive and kicking and well into her late eighties. I can't imagine her anything other than delightful and happy. I'm trying to figure out what's stopping me from contacting my grandmother and getting her contact info, aside from the fear that she died and no one told me. Which is a pretty big fear.
But even if she is gone, she's still here. It's from her I learned that being old doesn't mean being stuffy and boring. It's from her I learned that you can damn well skip whenever you feel like it. It's from her I learned how amazing barely controlled gardens are. It's from her I learned that wrinkles are a symbol of a life lived, and the more "smile lines" you have, the better. She was my best role model because she made me realize being old doesn't mean being angry and stodgy. You can be old and well-worn and impish and full of laughter and it's not a contradiction. Because of her, I look forward to growing old.
But wait, you may say, putting up a hand to stop me, your eyebrows all screwed up in confusion. I've heard about your family. You can't possibly call them role models.
Well, they're not all bad. And one of these days I really need to write a big old thank you note to my mother for never being a judgmental person. And being generally awesome. But there were several friends of the family and families of my friends who were all levels of awesome. One of whom came to mind most vividly when I read this article on planning to be an old lady.
I've seemingly always had the notion that growing old was something to both look forward to and not let get in your way. Age brings experience and wisdom that youth can only posture at knowing. Certainly I know more now about life, the universe, and everything than I did but a year ago. I simply cannot comprehend what I will know 10, 20, 30 years down the line.
Our society does not honor the elderly like other societies do, and we'd prefer the illusion of beauty and youth over accepting our age. There's a prevalent stereotype that all old people are grumpy and cynical and slow and a pain to be around. And that is certainly true of some, just as it's true of some young'uns that they're insufferable, arrogant, blindingly idealistic pricks (like me!).
And then there's Heather. My most prominent memory of her is skipping down the sidewalk of our old Florida home late in the sweltering afternoon of summer. Her hair is greyish blue and as airy as froth, her teeth are yellowed and crooked but mostly all there, her smile is wide and impish, she's either wearing a skirt or baggy pants. She is a tea-drinking whirlwind. She is seventy-eight year old.
I couldn't have been more than twelve, but she had all the patience in the world for me. At the same time, she treated me like an adult, or as much of an adult as she was. She was old, but she could be naughty. Her face was lined and re-lined with wrinkles, but then she'd smile or laugh and you'd know exactly where they all came from. She was thin and old, but she gave off the presence of a twenty-year-old and no one would ever think she could be fragile. She also had a mad sense of quirky humor that made any letters we received from her a real treat, even if her handwriting was nigh indecipherable.
I saw her again a few years later in her own home. She was significantly thinner and betrayed her frailty moving around. But her gestures and her expression were still full of delight and animation. She still laughed and smiled and took us for a tour around her home and her overflowing garden, even though she was soon worn out. But it wasn't sad; she was still as snarky and humorous as ever. She skipped a little, when she could.
I'm a bit ashamed that I don't know where she is / what she's doing now. I'm pretty sure she's still alive and kicking and well into her late eighties. I can't imagine her anything other than delightful and happy. I'm trying to figure out what's stopping me from contacting my grandmother and getting her contact info, aside from the fear that she died and no one told me. Which is a pretty big fear.
But even if she is gone, she's still here. It's from her I learned that being old doesn't mean being stuffy and boring. It's from her I learned that you can damn well skip whenever you feel like it. It's from her I learned how amazing barely controlled gardens are. It's from her I learned that wrinkles are a symbol of a life lived, and the more "smile lines" you have, the better. She was my best role model because she made me realize being old doesn't mean being angry and stodgy. You can be old and well-worn and impish and full of laughter and it's not a contradiction. Because of her, I look forward to growing old.
