Month: June 2020

Photographs and memories

Beverly Work

There is an old black and white picture of my mom, dad and older sister, taken in the hospital after Cathy was born that I have always loved. I remember looking at it when I was a kid and all I could see was the pride bursting from my dad’s face.

This was not the dad I knew, of course. He was similar but his hair didn’t have the grey that accentuated his curls, the 70s moustache wasn’t yet a thing, he looked smaller, almost innocent. He was a young man in love, he was loved, and he had made a human being to love with his love.

Even with my child’s eye, I remember understanding on some level that he wasn’t that man anymore. I mean, he was still that man, but he was also more. And I thought about all the things he had done since then.

He had adopted a son, my brother, Tom. He had another girl, me, which I figured must have been pretty boring because he had already done that. He had bought a new house, had studied every day after work to earn his high school diploma, and he even left his home and family for a year to learn a trade so he could get a better job that paid more money and didn’t have the hated shift rotations. He had become a volunteer fireman, a Scout troop leader, a player on a softball team. He took us on hikes and camping and to movies; he told us jokes and made up funny stories; he drew huge pictures on walls, and he even built other walls.

The dad I knew then always had a pencil behind his ear, a measuring tape clipped to his front pocket; he’d sit at the kitchen table, head down, tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth. Planning, building, improving.

Whenever he saw my mom, he became a peacock. I couldn’t put it into words at the time but he came to life in her presence. He stood taller, she was like his compass, his north star. He loved to tease her, and he was a happier, calmer version of himself when she was in the room.

Those were the days when wintery Sunday afternoons were for playing Jim Croche on the stereo in the basement, my dad was usually singing along. I would listen to the words as I entertained him with my dancing shows. “Photographs and memories, all the love you gave to me, somehow it just can’t be true, that’s all I’ve left of you.” And somehow, even then, I knew he wouldn’t always be a part of my life, but I knew he would always be a part of me.

The beauty of a life lived

Beverly Changethelens, Friends, Life, Senior health, Work

Throughout our lives, we are taught to fight age, to do whatever we can to rage against the years. I’ve always thought that there is something beautiful about a life lived; it is our story, our own evolution.

Although there was a time when my reflection felt like my enemy, these days I look in the mirror and smile at the passage of time. Yes, I look different, but why does different have to be bad? I’m evolving, growing, ever becoming. My face is changing; my youthful freckles are fading and being replaced by more and more fine lines. My skin continues to loosen; my hair is thinning and has a completely different texture than it used to. My stomach shrinks and expands and shrinks and expands as the years go by (I’ve learned so many lessons about myself through that).

Society tells us that we don’t look as “good” when we’re older, but it seems I didn’t appreciate how I looked when I was younger, either, so I comfort myself with the possibility that it’ll be the same as now (someday I will look at pictures of me now and marvel at how cute I was).

Another harmful thing we learn about aging is that life gets easier. I promise you, that is not true. If anything, it gets harder over time. But that teaches grit and perseverance. I have known hundreds of seniors in my life and work, and they are the strongest, most resilient people I know. That doesn’t happen in a month, or a year, or a decade.

To age is to get stronger – no, not physically, but we become stronger inside, we become ourselves. A well-lived life will see you bottoming out, over and over (and over), only to rise again to see another day. The trick, I think, is to make life worth it.

I believe aging is a gift, and our faces and bodies are just wrapping paper. Inside, in our souls, is a treasure that is steadily increasing in value. (Will I still feel this way in 40 or 50 years? I’ll have to let you know. 😊)