When I am an Old Woman…

Source of photo: Amazon

Do you remember When I’m an Old Woman, I Shall Wear Purple? The poem, entitled Warning, was written in 1961 when the author, Jenny Joseph, was just 29 years old. Here is a link, with Jenny herself sassily reading the poem aloud just a few short years before her death.

I think I was a young woman aged about age 29 myself, when I first read that poem. I smiled affectionately at the thought of that cheeky old lady finally letting her hair down; finally acting any way she darned well pleased, free from social conformity at last: wearing purple if she wanted to, drinking brandy if she wanted to, learning to spit, sitting on the pavement if she got tired, and ‘hoarding pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes”.

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Something is Happening to the Space-Time Continuum

Source of photo: AZ Quotes

Lately, I have noticed a strange and alarming phenomenon that is happening to the space-time continuum. Time, it seems, has sped up.

Exercise Class

Source of photo: Medical News Today

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“I’m in an exercise class!” my Mom announces excitedly one day, as we chat on the phone. “Do you want to come and see it?”

Mom is 84. She uses a walker to get around; she has mild dementia and lately, she’s been sleeping a lot.

Until my stepfather’s health began to fail, my mother was an active woman. She was one of those energetic people who have little patience for the people who can’t keep up; the people who have showed signs of slowing down. She gardened. She delivered Meals on Wheels. She took line-dancing classes. She was always going to ‘this’ sale or ‘that’ event with friends. Right up until bedtime, she was always puttering about the house: cleaning this, organising that. She never stopped: it could be exhausting, just watching her. My sister and I used to joke that she would end up burying both of us and would still be going strong at our funerals.

It’s Not Easy, Being a Dinosaur

Source of image: Old Cars

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My maternal grandfather was born in 1907: one year before the model-T Ford was made available to the public. It would be almost two decades before cars would become widely popular in North America but my young grandfather – always a clever and resourceful man – quickly espoused this newfangled technology. He built a ramp right in his own yard which he dug out of a nearby embankment and he always did his own car repairs. Money was tight and a car was already a luxury: I’m not sure he ever had to go to a mechanic.

I can only imagine how much his knowledge and resourcefulness would have impressed his parents, who were born in an entirely different era, back in the 1800s. They would have been dinosaurs, in comparison to my grandparents.

Old Man

Author’s Photo: My great-great grandparents, Adam and Annie Moore

Old man, look at my life

Twenty-four and there’s so much more.

Neil Young, Old Man

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I miss people-watching.

Watching others as they go about their daily lives is far more riveting than anything you will ever get to see on Netflix. When I lived in the city, I could (and did) people-watch all the time. No one knows you in a city and no one ever looks back at you. Eye contact in a city is unheard of. People will go out of their way not to look back. It’s almost magical, how invisible you can become.

The Driver’s Licence Photo

Source of photo: Pinterest

I mostly love getting older – I am calmer, far less self-conscious and so much more confident. I’ve embraced my white hair. I accept my glasses. I live with the fact that I never have very much energy. I love that I don’t get hot flashes anymore.

But every once in awhile, getting older can really suck.

Like, how, when I look in the mirror, I still see my twenty-year old self looking back at me. And I swear, she hasn’t changed a bit.

Being Stuck With My Mother’s Stuff: Pandemic Clean-Up Post 1

I’m pretty sure I’ve written about my mother’s stuff before – I could effortlessly write a whole book about my mother’s stuff, truth be told. She is one of those annoying women who keeps everything; who places a priceless value on each item she owns (and which she has dubbed, her ‘treasures’), from little notes my sister and I wrote to her as children, to every single card we ever gave her, to her collection of rocks, her collection of doilies, her collection of linen table cloths, her baskets, my Grammy’s sewing scissors (that no longer work), a whole bunch of carved wooden acorns (?), a unique lamp that is pretty but is no longer safe to plug in (vintage 1949), old cassettes I can no longer play but suspect include the voices of now-diseased loved ones.

Why Isn’t There an Instruction Manual for ‘Adulting’?

“Mom, what is this thing and do I need to include it with my income tax return documents?” asks my clearly exasperated daughter, with no preamble, as she holds up the document in question to the screen so I can take a look.

The Long Process of Acquiring Common Sense

I recall with absolute clarity walking home in the dead of winter with my sister from swim-team practice in my mid teens, hatless, winter parka hanging open,

On Becoming Irrelevant

I have always loved to read. Books – real books; not the digital kind – have been an escape for me from as far back as I can remember.