When I was eight years old, my great grandmother informed told me that she was 80. In my child’s eyes, that was old. Really old. I couldn’t imagine living to be eighty years old, nor did I think that I would want to. White hair in a bun, sturdy shoes, dumpy figure – none of that was for me.
Her age, however, never prevented me from enjoying her company. My fondest memories of my great grandmother are the stories she told me about her own childhood. Her one and only doll was created from a corncob, with hand sewn clothing and corn silk for hair. She also told me that she had crossed the country in a covered wagon and rode a pinto pony.
Were these true tales? I think I will never know for sure, knowing that the era of covered wagons was coming to an end in the late 19th century. But they were good stories and I enjoyed hearing them many times.
Today, 80 doesn’t seem all that old. Yesterday I attended an 80th birthday party for a lovely woman with the bluest eyes imaginable, a lifelong documentary photographer. She and her photographer husband journaled their many expeditions together, documenting the environment, multiple landscapes, and libraries throughout the world.
Their slide show featured a mere handful of what likely are tens of thousands of photographs stored in their archives. It was inspiring to have confirmation that turning 80 can be healthy, active, thoughtful and imaginative while continuing to make new discoveries each day.
Many years ago, a colleague at work asked me to watch her 7-year-old son while she attended her first Library Commission meeting as Deputy City Librarian. I had little current experience with child-tending since my own children were now adults, and embraced this opportunity with enthusiasm. The little guy quickly became bored after eating a sandwich in the café, and watching his mother in the auditorium from the screening booth. We retreated to the Green Room, where we could still listen to the meeting, but also play games and read books uninterrupted.
It was that encounter that made me realize how irrelevant adult age is to a child. “How old are you, Marcia?” he asked. “Why don’t you guess,” was my reply.
“I know! You are one hundred,” he said. I think he was teasing, but I’m not positive.
“No, that’s too high,” I replied.
“Okay, then. Thirty.”
After two more incorrect guesses, he gave up. “Tell me.”
“All right,” I said. “I am ninety.” I was in my early 50s at the time.
No look of disbelief crossed his face. It seemed like a true answer. But eventually, we came to the conclusion that I was the same age as his grandmother. And we moved on to play the next game. Along the way, I became Spider Schneider, a new nickname.
That little boy grew into a handsome young man, but I have not seen him in many years. I hope he is doing well.
Age is relative. One of my friends once remarked that “old” is always 15 years older than your current age. In fact, 80 years is not that far off for me.
Times have changed. Eighty is no longer a horrible thought. There is still much to do and see, exploring, socializing, staying active. Perhaps 80 is the new 60!
