When I started writing this blog I was interested in sharing my thoughts on the changes happening to me as I got older. I did not intend to be extremely erudite or profound, that is not how I write. Rather, I hoped I might express thoughts and feelings that others might identify with. Perhaps I was seeking validation of my experiences, aches, pains, and new limitations. I have been reminded often that getting older is not for the faint of heart, particularly if one wishes to preserve any sort of dignity in what is increasingly an undignifying situation.

 

Not wanting to burden folks with my complaints and diagnoses, a trait I cannot tolerate in others, I often resort to disguising my malaise in humor. Generally speaking, I am a quiet person with a very dry sense of humor. (I cannot count the number times that I have stared into the uncomprehending eyes of students after making a humorous comment.  Count to ten I think to myself then explain and hope for some recognition of my cleverness.) Rather than list our complaints we just call physically difficult days “old dog days” and leave it at that. It’s not terribly funny, but it saves us from daily, mutual commiseration. We know what’s happening and try to only share the serious stuff.

 

It is difficult to avoid aging becoming the centerpiece of our lives, hence, my title What to hold onto, what to leave behind.

 

Second question first. I’m thinking of legacy, not in terms of money, unless wills accept credit cards, but in how to be remembered. I think most of us lead very ordinary lives, with little that is particularly memorable about our existence. It is however, out of that ordinariness that we leave our inheritance. Lyd’s grandfather Scofield was a tall thin man who seemed to smile all the time. A timber cruiser, he brought his family from Minnesota to Klickitat in the 1920’s. He always had to have canned fruit on the table at meal time. He died while helping a neighbor. An unremarkable legacy maybe, but one to emulate. Her grandma Robinson was a tall woman, with great legs. She seemed poised and elegant though never rich. Long Grandma, as her grandkids called her, as against Short Grandma Scofield, would always step into the bathroom when company arrived, to have a quick smoke.  I have no idea why she was reluctant to be seen smoking when I knew her, because I know that in the 1930’s she had scandalized the population of Klickitat, Washington by not only driving through town (imagine a woman driving), but she would smoke while doing so. She wasn’t my grandmother, but I loved her for that.

 

I do not believe that these were intentional legacies, but that they are just the result of trying to live life as best we can, avoiding pretension and egotism. I think that what we leave behind is an accumulation of (hopefully) our best and unique attributes. (Among other things, a small part of Lydia’s legacy will be the wonderful needlework she has shared with friends and relatives over the years.) We leave behind who we were, no monuments for most of us, often not even a grave stone.  

 

Which leads me to the idea of what to hold onto. The aches, pains, and developing physical and mental limitations (e.g. standing in the doorway wondering what the heck I was about to do) have a way of coloring our outlook. It becomes increasingly easy to dismiss the joy and wonder of the world we live in.

In contrast, I am reminded of our friend, a painter and musician, who had a long battle with cancer. We don’t have any pictures in which she is not smiling. She painted and sang until the very end. Part of her legacy and a model we cherish.

 

Also, we hold on to the wonders of our grandchildren’s growth. I am reminded of a family picture in which Lydia’s father, confined to a wheelchair, stares fascinated at baby Isabelle, our new granddaughter.

 

I suppose I could go on, but the point is that we try to hold on to the positive, the fresh new stuff (yes a very indefinite and fuzzy reference that I used to mark with red pen in students’ essays) that the world creates, the braveness of others, and the pleasure of just being alive (in whatever condition).

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My thoughts are reflected in one of my favorite authors, William Saroyan, who wrote in the prologue to his play “The Time of Your Life”

                        In the time of your life, live—so that in that good time there shall be no ugliness or death for yourself or for any life your life touches. Seek goodness everywhere, and when it is found, bring it out of its hiding place and let it be free and unashamed.

Place in matter and in flesh the least of the values, for these are the things that hold death and must pass away. Discover in all things that which shines and is beyond corruption. Encourage virtue in whatever heart it may have been driven into secrecy and sorrow by the shame and terror of the world. Ignore the obvious, for it is unworthy of the clear eye and the kindly heart.

Be the inferior of no man, or of any men be superior. Remember that every man is a variation of yourself. No man’s guilt is not yours, nor is any man’s innocence a thing apart. Despise evil and ungodliness, but not men of ungodliness or evil. These, understand. Have no shame in being kindly and gentle but if the time comes in the time of your life to kill, kill and have no regret.

In the time of your life, live—so that in that wondrous time you shall not add to the misery and sorrow of the world, but shall smile to the infinite delight and mystery of it.”

― William Saroyan, The Time Of Your Life