Saturday, January 30, 2010

A foreigner in a sea of white hair

Last night my parents and I went to see a great musical revue called "In the Mood." It was a celebration of all things big band, and a buffet of nostalgia for the 40s.

Still somewhat pining for my days in high school jazz band, I enjoyed the evening immensely - even if it was sponsored by Brookdale Living Communities, known for their spectacular Alzheimer's care units. Music is an undeniable connection to our past lives. Its ability to transport us back in time is quite amazing. That being said, could the Brookdale Alzheimer's community sponsor a more dangerous event? Perhaps a monster truck rally, letting Aunt Bessie have one last go-round with the car keys?

At intermission, the lights came up, revealing a sea of white. White hair, interspersed with no hair. I felt like an interloper, a guest at a fraternity party where I was never extended an invitation to join. My dad reached into his pocket and pulled out a stick of gum, only to be promptly chastised by an usher for bringing food into the auditorium. Gum isn't food. And for pete's sake, my dad doesn't exactly look like the type to stick his gum underneath the seat when he finished with it.

The show resumed, and segued into a sing-along, some song about rolling a barrel over your girlfriend. The entire audience sang along. I couldn't even pretend to know the words - who in my generation has ever rolled a barrel over anything?

I was brought back to my first day in Catholic high school. The entire class stood at the beginning of the class time. I stood too, and faced the flag. While I began reciting "I pledge allegiance, to the flag..." I realized that that was not what the rest of the class was saying.

"...hallowed be thy name...thy kingdom come, thy will be done..."

I mumbled along until they got to the one part I knew.

"...OUR DAILY BREAD..." (I've always been a fan of carbohydrates.)

I mumbled my way through the rest of it, and made a mental note to ask Mom what they were reciting.

The classtime came to an end, as did the group sing-along.

As we left the theater, Mom asked, "So, did you enjoy it? What did you think?"

"That brought back so many memories I never had."

Usually the parking lot is a mess to get out of. Cars lined up from every side street, trying to converge onto the main highway into town. As we left the lot relatively unobstructed, we watched the older crowd amble toward their vehicles.

'Being young and fast on your feet is worth something,' I thought to myself. 'We got out of here a lot quicker than everyone else.'

We hit the highway in record time, which was good. I was probably the only person in the entire audience who had to go to work in the morning.

Maybe there is something to be said for being old after all.

Saturday, January 9, 2010

Symmetries of Life

I'm not a huge fan of my grandmother. In my defense, I do feel compassion for her: I feel the same compassion I feel for all human beings, like the homeless people panhandling. I make a point to make eye contact and smile, showing that I recognize their humanness. I never give away my money, but that's because frugality trumps humanity every time. It's a scientifically proven fact. Look it up.

Grandma is a little dingy in the head. This is not something that can be attributed to old age. She has always been a little dingy. We had drop pendant lighting installed in our living room when I was younger (and thus, she was younger, negating the rationalization that she's in the "it must be dementia" demographic). The lights dropped down from a runner that was installed into the electricity wired through the ceiling.

"Those are so pretty!" Grandma said, complimenting my dad on his handwork. "How interesting! How do you get them to light?"

Instead of explaining the complexity of indoor electricity to my Grandma, Dad responded:
"Batteries."

Grandma nodded knowingly. "Oh, I see. Very pretty!"

Grandma is now 91. The other day, she demanded to know where my Mom had put her box of Thin Mint Girl Scout Cookies.

"I left them underneath my bed! By my shoes! Now I can't find them."

Mom was left wondering why someone would store their cookies by their shoes. I was left wondering why she has a box of Girl Scout cookies, an annual treat normally sold in April, underneath her bed in January.

Mom told me this story at dinner last night. After dinner, I had Trumie in one arm, my water bottle in another, and my car keys in my hand. I wanted to take home a handful of dark chocolates from the candy dish on the counter. No pockets. Dog, water bottle, no free hands...I set the dog on the counter and got my handful of candy. I bent down and stuffed them around my ankle inside of my sock.

Mom looked at me questioningly.

"It's not a long drive home," I said. "They won't melt."

"No, it's not that," she said. "I was just wondering why it is you think you're so different from your grandmother."