a new age of life

Amanda Morgan asked me to write a feature article for Older Americans Month. But she asked me in the kindest of ways, at least this is how I’m choosing to remember it.

Mandy: You know how Lacy did that amazing piece for Autism Awareness this month? Well, I was wondering if you’d be willing to write something for Older Americans Month.

Me: Silence. Corners of my mouth turn down. Eyes sink into my skull.

Mandy: Uh... not that you’re old. I mean... you’re not. Old. You’re young. And you’re very tall. And handsome. Oh wait. I can’t say that because you’re my boss. But definitely very tall. And not old at all.

So, I guess that makes me an older American. But, if I may borrow a retort from the Dread Pirate Roberts... “only compared to some.”

I agreed to write this because, well I like Mandy. Plus, it’s rare I get to write something for work that I can also republish on my personal site. And, well, I’ve encountered some very cool seniors in my life, and it feels good to tell a story or two about a few of them.

I can’t help but recount one older American I met while working for a large senior living company. Our team was visiting an assisted-living community and, when we entered the memory care unit, a lovely older resident joined our tour. She was striking in a 1950s movie kind of way. Her silver hair was pulled back in a bun and each step she took was confident and graceful, albeit slightly shaky. She never said a word. And she never stopped smiling. When we finally reached the door that meant we had to part ways, I smiled and wished her well. She leaned in and wrapped her arms around me in a gentle embrace, followed by an equally gentle kiss on the cheek. Then she simply turned and walked away.

I don’t know if I sparked a crumb of a distant memory for her, if she was simply happy to feel included in our group, or if it was something else entirely. What I do know is that singular experience connected me to seniors in a way I hadn’t connected before, except with family who had long since departed.

I didn’t work at that company long, but I had the good fortune to encounter many wonderful seniors. They wanted to hear my stories, especially about my tattoos. But they also wanted to share their stories. And I was eager to listen. I remember one brave woman who told me how she managed to get married during World War II. Her fiancé was in Europe and couldn’t get back, so some of his fellow soldiers hatched a plan. Women weren’t allowed on military planes back then—at least that’s what she told me—so she disguised herself as a “military man” and smuggled herself onto a plane, heading for France. And yes, her story had a happy ending—she showed me the wedding pictures.

The truth is, I’ve felt older since I turned 41. Not 40. Or 50 for that matter. For some reason, the zeroes never bothered me much. But 41 hit me a little harder. I was just careful about saying old out loud because my dear friend Karlin always admonished me for it. Probably because we were born in the same year. 44 was a rough one, too. That was the year I hung up my ice skates after my knee stopped taking commands from my brain and the doc told me to find a new hobby. It was an easy decision, but it made me feel old. Which is odd because I was a full 34 years younger than one of my hockey teammates, Flo. I still am.

A few weeks ago, my person of interest, Kim, and I visited my old friend Flo at his home in Lebanon, TN. Full disclosure. Flo’s an older Canadian, but don’t judge. He’s amazing.

Flo escorted us down and up his winding driveway on his stand-up lawn mower with a gleaming Fort Erie, Ontario smile and a twinkle in his eye. At 86, he bounced around his home built for one, sharing stories from his past while showing us present-day photos of his grandchildren. He insisted on buying us lunch at Cracker Barrell. I’m not sure if that’s an older American thing or a Lebanon, TN thing. Maybe both. But he also insisted on doing the driving and opening every door for Kim.

We had only one near-death experience in his truck, when he looked back to say something to Kim and almost rolled us into his pond. But eventually we made it to Cracker Barrell, where we enjoyed delightfully mediocre food with one of my favorite people still walking this earth. We stayed much longer than we expected to, and when we did finally leave, the twinkle was still in his eye. But the excitement behind it had been replaced by a hint of sadness. A sobering reminder to me that it’s one thing to have special seniors in your thoughts, and quite another to give them the gift of your time. I’m certain I’ll be visiting him again soon. I love that man.

Allow me to finish my Benjamin Button journey backward in my (aging) memory with one last story about another special senior. I’ll call him Bob. Because that was his name.

Bob was the cofounder of a health care company I worked for several years back. He was, to me, a benevolent curmudgeon with old-fashioned charm, wisdom, and very strong opinions. I remember early on, I was pleased when he asked me to look at something he wrote. I sent it back to him with my thoughts and he replied, “I didn’t ask you to edit it. I asked you to read it.” Curmudgeon. But we grew on each other.

He became somewhat of a mentor to me, not so subtly suggesting I be more of a contrarian. That was his phrase. Mine might be “devil’s advocate.” Others most certainly have different labels for it. Nonetheless, he coached me to look at situations from multiple angles, and I think it helped me be a better writer. A better communicator.

Bob was adamant no good music was recorded after 1967. So, when we created his video editorial column, we thought we had a winning name with Bob Dylan’s 1966 hit, “Everybody must get stoned.” It fit the criteria. It played off his last name (Stone). And it was a call to action for people to watch the video. But Bob said no, and ultimately we landed on According to Bob.

A few years later, Bob actually let me ghost write a piece for him for the company’s 30th anniversary. I worked in references to MTV (which had launched the same year the company did) and Brittney Spears. And I thought for sure he’d shoot it down. But he didn’t change a word. He told me I had captured his voice, and maybe there was hope for me yet.

The last time I saw Bob, we just happened to both be in Houston. I was there for work and, unfortunately, he was there for another reason. I saw him post about it on Facebook—when I was still on Facebook—so I reached out and suggested we meet for a drink. Bob wasn’t drinking then. He was deep into his cancer treatment. But we had a very nice visit, and he seemed genuinely happy to see me. I left him with new energy and a few more pebbles of Bob’s truth. The truth I call wisdom, even when I don’t agree with it.

Fast forward to 2022 and I guess now I’m the curmudgeon complaining about today’s music and lamenting all the kids who don’t get my 80s pop culture references. I’m the one resisting the urge to yell “get off my lawn” to the unbearably loud punks who aren’t even on a lawn. They’re in the locker room at the Rec Center, splashing water everywhere, puffing their chests, and piercing my eardrums with their adolescent one-uppsmanship. They make me want to call my mom and apologize, because I’m certain I was one of them in many 1980s hockey locker rooms across Western NY and Southern Ontario.

If you’ve come this far, let me just say thank you for indulging a few stories about seniors who made a mark on my life. I hope reading this piece conjured fond memories of your special seniors and their stories.   

It turns out getting older isn’t so bad after all. I know because according to Mandy, I’m an older American. At least I think it was Mandy. They say the memory is the first thing to go.

Cheers.