We called her Gramma Skunk. She lived kitty-corner from our home in Savant Lake, Ontario, and she became a bit of an icon in our family’s Savant Lake folklore. Somewhere in Mom’s photo albums is a picture of Gramma Skunk chopping wood – the piece to be split sits on top of another chunk of wood, she is holding the axe and peering out from behind her glasses, a Mona Lisa smile hinting at her face. I don’t know her story, but I’m guessing it wasn’t easy. Yet, what I do remember of her is this sense of a calm acceptance of life as it was.
Then there was my Gramma Shantz. She lived in her little green house at the corner in Yatton. The door from the garage into the kitchen squeaked a certain squeak when it was opened. Inside, a mantel clock chimed melodiously every fifteen minutes, melancholy but homey. Her kitchen was spotless and had the kind of food that a child likes – sweet, homemade pickles and fruit loop squares. I know a bit more of her story, though mostly through secondary sources. Gramma too had an aura of quiet steadiness that made her home a safe haven. I remember more a sense of her presence than words that she spoke, and she emulated a gentleness that was laced with mirth.
How good it would be to sit with a cup of tea and my knitting with both these women, elders for the entire time I knew them, and have their stories gently open like the petals of a rose. What were their dreams when they were young? How did they live and thrive through the rough patches that inevitably find their way into our stories? What are the simple things that brought them a tranquil joy? And were they naturally inclined to this gentle way of moving through the world or was it a means to survival?
When I think of elders, I tend to think of people much older than me, but truth be told, me and my generation are more elders than “youngers” by mere factor of age. Looking in a mirror, I see my own dark hair being fired to a delicate silver and crowning a face seasoned with years. One of my grandies was recently intrigued with the “sticky uppy” veins on my hands. However, though my physique is being altered by ageing, I continue to see and to feel the essence of the same little girl who exchanged quiet smiles with Gramma Skunk on her way to play with friends, the same little girl who found the old dollies in Gramma Shantz’s toy box in the hall tree bench by the front door. To this day when I’m out wandering the fields in solitude, I feel the very same inner sense of belonging to the essence of who I am as I did when I was a young girl in the delicious solitude of the northern outdoors. Our bodies age, but it seems to me that the pith of who we are has potential to become further and further unfettered and free with age.
It’s known that filters are lost with ageing. And maybe we cringe at the thought! What will come out of our mouths without a filter in place?! But could there be another approach?
Years ago, when Fred was first producing maple syrup, he would manually strain it through a cone-shaped felt filter to remove the grit of the sugar sands. Now the syrup is put through a filter press, going through multiple layers of specialized papers to purify the end product. When I make black currant jelly, I let the cooked currants sit in the jelly bag, allowing the juice to drip out slowly and not forcing it otherwise the jelly will be cloudy. Filtering separates what is wanted from what isn’t.
I wonder if rather than bemoaning the loss of filters with ageing we could be focusing on a practice of self-awareness and self-reflection that sifts through and sits with our thoughts, responses, and reactions and then find a path that leads towards the elimination of the need for filtering. If we can purify the product further back in the process, might filtration (or the lack thereof) be less of an issue? As I see it, it’s not about eliminating spiciness in word or deed that elders can be known for, but more about cultivating a deep compassion for ourselves and others and thereby have our starting point in our interactions be one of kindness and “soft starts” rather than an opinionated mutterings.
Ageism is a thing, and as a society we have epitomized youth. As Fred and I join our siblings in the care of elderly parents, it’s evident that the challenges that come with the so-called golden years can be daunting. “Growin’ old ain’t for sissies” is what my friend’s mother used to say. The alternative to growing old is to die young and that usually has heartbreak attached to it. So how do we as a society cultivate a climate of pro-ageing rather than anti-ageing? Can we learn to see a human person, individual and unique, when we look at elders rather than seeing otherness? And how do I as an ageing woman cultivate an inner climate of continued openness and growthiness as the sun begins its descent in my own life?
Wendell Berry ends his poem “There Is No Going Back” with these lines –
Now more than ever you can be generous toward each day that comes, young,
to disappear forever, and yet remain unaging in the mind.
Every day you have less reason not to give yourself away.
Poppa and his youngest grandie – whose face lights up when she sees him.
