home away
the tragedy of old age is not that one is old, but that one is young. Oscar Wildei spent the past weekend in minnesota. it is a place that can so easily fill my heart. there is something vast in the space between earth and sky there, the lack of topography, that brings me comfort. it had been years since i had last visited during the winter. the snow and sky introduced me to so many shades of grey. the pines stood out with their jackets of green needles. the sun threw shadows around and doused the snow in oranges, yellows, pinks, and shades of blue. i can be there silently and feel at peace, the familiar thumping of the expansion cracks in the highway lulling me and my thoughts away. i am not sure if it is because i was born there and therein lies some innate sense of place, but i do feel at home amongst the lakes and familiar street names and big sky.
i visisted my grandpa while i was there. he is well into his 90th year, and as dad told me the other day, he had a wonderful first 88 years. it is the past couple of years that have been so unfair. mini strokes have slowed his speech to a near-halt, and on the day i visited, at least, i was struck by the contrast between what his eyes conveyed and his words told me. so little could come out verbally, but so much was told with his eyes, the same ones i have looked into for so much of my life. i think back to days spent with him, playing in the backyard of grandma and grandpa's house, hiking along the minnehaha creek. he taught me to whistle with a blade of grass between my thumbs. he coached me through a math worksheet as i learned to count and add change. he took the training wheels off my bicycle. one of his last emails to me, which he sent after looking at photos of last summer's trip to japan read "keep up the travel. keep moving." he is always teaching. and that is just my life. he's had an impact upon the rest of our family, his kids, his grandchildren, and even some great grandchildren. he tutored immigrants and gre students in minneapolis. he kept in touch with his colleagues from NSP. he was a bright engineer and worked a long time; when he retired he spent time at his cabin and helping other people. he swam multiple times each week. going back to his early years, he was in the signal corps in the army and was near pearl harbor when the japanese attacked. he missed the intense fighting at iwo jima just because the transport ship carrying him broke down.
all of this must seem lightyears away now, as his days are as long as a year is to a younger person. he is at home, in a townhouse he downsized to about ten or fifteen years ago. he is happier there than in a nursing home. he is in a wheelchair and, ever determined, wants nothing more than to sit in his same chair he's sat in for years, as he watches old movies or naps. he is stubborn and headstrong. his body is old. his mind is not.
i hugged him as i said goodbye, and he patted me on the back, telling me he could still give me a run for my money. i hugged him tighter, and he did so right back. he told me to hug jim for him, too. and to pat him. i had spent two hours there and his message could not have been more clear. he's still grandpa, through and through.
an hour later i was having friday lunch with a group of third graders. we played alibi around the table and i watched as they ate random smatterings of food - one boy ate two big servings of plain yogurt, one girl ate salami on bread, and another boy ate a couple of small vegetables and a pile of brown rice. they all moved constantly, talked constantly, and as soon as we'd started it was time to clean up the tables, get in line, and walk back to class to learn about prefixes. the constant hum reminded me of a beehive. i watched as the students proudly got things right, and put their heads down in concentration to figure it out when it was incorrect. time flew by. suddenly it was time for music class, the end of my visit, and i couldn't believe that an hour and a half had gone by since i'd arrived. it had felt like seconds.
and that is the great contrast between old and young, the constant action and the lack thereof. the third graders have so much ahead of them, they are being groomed for greatness, and everything still seems possible to them. they will be fantastic grown-ups one day. the days go fast. in old age, looking back at life, the days slow. the routines must grow monotonous. but, a little change to the schedule, a visit from a grandchild, can still bring a smile out. and so, minnesota. big sky, lots of snow, beautiful lakes, and loved ones, all setting me straight once again.
i visisted my grandpa while i was there. he is well into his 90th year, and as dad told me the other day, he had a wonderful first 88 years. it is the past couple of years that have been so unfair. mini strokes have slowed his speech to a near-halt, and on the day i visited, at least, i was struck by the contrast between what his eyes conveyed and his words told me. so little could come out verbally, but so much was told with his eyes, the same ones i have looked into for so much of my life. i think back to days spent with him, playing in the backyard of grandma and grandpa's house, hiking along the minnehaha creek. he taught me to whistle with a blade of grass between my thumbs. he coached me through a math worksheet as i learned to count and add change. he took the training wheels off my bicycle. one of his last emails to me, which he sent after looking at photos of last summer's trip to japan read "keep up the travel. keep moving." he is always teaching. and that is just my life. he's had an impact upon the rest of our family, his kids, his grandchildren, and even some great grandchildren. he tutored immigrants and gre students in minneapolis. he kept in touch with his colleagues from NSP. he was a bright engineer and worked a long time; when he retired he spent time at his cabin and helping other people. he swam multiple times each week. going back to his early years, he was in the signal corps in the army and was near pearl harbor when the japanese attacked. he missed the intense fighting at iwo jima just because the transport ship carrying him broke down.
all of this must seem lightyears away now, as his days are as long as a year is to a younger person. he is at home, in a townhouse he downsized to about ten or fifteen years ago. he is happier there than in a nursing home. he is in a wheelchair and, ever determined, wants nothing more than to sit in his same chair he's sat in for years, as he watches old movies or naps. he is stubborn and headstrong. his body is old. his mind is not.
i hugged him as i said goodbye, and he patted me on the back, telling me he could still give me a run for my money. i hugged him tighter, and he did so right back. he told me to hug jim for him, too. and to pat him. i had spent two hours there and his message could not have been more clear. he's still grandpa, through and through.
an hour later i was having friday lunch with a group of third graders. we played alibi around the table and i watched as they ate random smatterings of food - one boy ate two big servings of plain yogurt, one girl ate salami on bread, and another boy ate a couple of small vegetables and a pile of brown rice. they all moved constantly, talked constantly, and as soon as we'd started it was time to clean up the tables, get in line, and walk back to class to learn about prefixes. the constant hum reminded me of a beehive. i watched as the students proudly got things right, and put their heads down in concentration to figure it out when it was incorrect. time flew by. suddenly it was time for music class, the end of my visit, and i couldn't believe that an hour and a half had gone by since i'd arrived. it had felt like seconds.
and that is the great contrast between old and young, the constant action and the lack thereof. the third graders have so much ahead of them, they are being groomed for greatness, and everything still seems possible to them. they will be fantastic grown-ups one day. the days go fast. in old age, looking back at life, the days slow. the routines must grow monotonous. but, a little change to the schedule, a visit from a grandchild, can still bring a smile out. and so, minnesota. big sky, lots of snow, beautiful lakes, and loved ones, all setting me straight once again.
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