Not My Grandma’s Sixty
Her portrait at that age looks nothing like mine.
There’s a cultural shift in motion, gaining momentum, poised to make a lasting impact. I’m referring to the shift in how people view aging, a transition away from fear to realizing the freedom a lifetime of experience can bring.
I know the fear of aging was buried deep inside me when I was young, really young. I remember when I was five years old I visited my paternal grandmother, tiptoeing around her lace curtains, careful not to disturb the china figurines. My grandmother wore her grey hair in short tight curls, rimless glasses on the bridge of her nose. She rarely smiled, her lips typically wedged together in a grimace. It was impossible to think I would ever be like her.
I was barely five years old when my grandmother died so my memories are very dim. However her sister, a carbon copy with the same grey curls and rimless glasses, came to live in our upstairs bedroom. During the day she stayed in her room, and other than praying the rosary daily, I don’t have any idea of what she did. Getting around apparently was difficult for her at 80 and she would ring a bell when she needed help and my mother would run to her side.
She must have come downstairs because I can still see her after supper sitting on a chair placed next to the sink where she “supervised” my sister and me as…
