FALLING LIKE LEAVES: SOME THOUGHTS ON THE PASSING OF A GENERATION

         It happened again yesterday.  A friend e-mailed me to let me know that her father-in-law had died.  Two weeks before that, another friend’s father died.  Two months before that another friend lost her mother.  A year-and-a-half ago, my mother died. 

         They are falling like leaves these members of my parents’ generation. 

         It started out slowly, in the way that the first leaves drift slowly from an autumn tree.  My father passed nearly twenty years ago.  Over the years since, several friends have lost parents – I would hear of one and then, maybe a year later, another. 

         But now the pace is rapid.  The tree will soon be empty.  There will be no one left of the generation that gave birth to mine.

         I am a Baby Boomer--one of the many babies born during the hope-filled years following World War II:  1946-1964, to be precise.  I was born during the first years of the boom, and so I call myself a “vintage boomer.”   The members of my vintage cohort will soon all be parentless. 

         Apart from the obvious individual grief experienced by each person who loses a parent, this loss of a generation feels momentous.  Perhaps this is simply because my generation is now the one standing between our children and history.  Or perhaps it is because we lose so much when we lose a generation.

         With the passing of this generation, as with each one before it, we lose not only its members, but their lived experience.  We can read about their times, but we can never really know what it felt like to live them.*  I have read many novels set during World War II.  And I have read non-fiction accounts of those years.  The novels give me some sense of the experience, and the non-fiction works give me information, but these are not my lived experiences.  Once those who lived them have passed, all we will have is history.  And that is cold comfort, indeed. 

         And there is another loss.  A friend whose mother died recently has told me that she is trying to think about her mother before she got sick, before she lost her memory, before she was diminished by the ravages of aging.  This is a tricky business.  If we have been caregivers to our parents, the strongest and most recent memories are of persons who could no longer care for themselves.  We have to work to remember them as vital people, fully occupying their lives. 

         And then there this—we probably never really knew our parents as fully-realized beings, even when they were in their prime.  A line from Amy Tan’s novel, The Joy Luck Club, comes to mind.  If I remember correctly—and it is possible that I do not, given that I read the book years ago—someone asks the narrator something about the narrator’s mother,  who has recently died.  The narrator says (or thinks?), “How would I know?  She was my mother.”  

         This is the rub.  We do not grow up thinking of our parents, who are then in their prime, as people with lives unrelated to our own.  We know them only as “our parents.”  We grow up, if all goes as it should, under their care.  They are the constants in our lives.   We do not give a lot of thought to their hopes and dreams and losses and heartaches.  They are simply there. 

         It is only much later, if ever, that we attempt to pull together the  

threads of their lives, and to guess at the lived experience that each of these threads represents.  Although our attempts will fall short of breathing life into our parents’ experiences, even the shadows of those experiences are worthy of our attention. 

         And so, on this autumn day, I look out my window at the falling leaves and think of the passing of my friend’s father-in-law and of my other friend’s father, and of the many losses that preceded those.  And I pause to give thanks for the gifts (not least of which is the gift of life) that each member of my parents’ generation gave to mine.         

 *  I attempted to address this dilemma in an earlier post: My Mother Didn't Wear Make Up . . .or did she?

AMATEUR PARENTING 101

         Until I was 35, I knew everything there was to know about childrearing.  I knew that whiny children should not be allowed to “act like that.”  I knew that my future children would not have tantrums or talk back.  I was a font of opinions about how children should behave and about what their benighted parents were doing wrong.   

         And then, a few months after my 35^th birthday, I discovered to my horror that I knew nothing about raising children.  I, who had known so much, discovered that everything that I thought I had known was crap.  It was humbling.  It was terrifying.  It was too late to turn back.

         Yes, dear reader, I gave birth to my first child when I was 35.     

         There I was and there she was – all wide-eyed helplessness.  And there was her father, as stupefied with love and ignorance as I, and – you’re not going to believe this – they (the nurses and doctors) were letting us take her home from the hospital.  And not just letting us, they were sending us home from the hospital.  After only two days.  There was no licensing process.  No quiz.  No instruction manual.  Just here’s your baby; enjoy your new family.     

         Did they know with whom they were sending her home?  Did they not realize that we were rank amateurs?  (They perhaps got their first hint when Anne’s father ran back into the hospital to find someone who could show us how to work the car seat.) 

         They, hopeless optimists that they were, sent this precious newborn home with a man who would spend the next several weeks periodically holding a mirror under the nose of his backward-facing-in-the-back-seat daughter WHILE HE WAS DRIVING to make sure that she was breathing, and a mother who cut her tiny daughter’s tiny finger the first time that she attempted to trim her nails.

         They sent us home without a nurse or a coach.  And, with the help of a couple of books and a lot of love, we faked it, more or less successfully, without benefit of nearby family. 

         We did better two-and-a-half years later with our second daughter.  We were calmer.  We had some idea of what we were doing.  And yet. . . And yet I still managed to close the car door on Mara’s little foot while balancing her on one arm and a bag of groceries on the other.  In short, the learning curve was steep.  

         I have been thinking about those early years recently as I contemplate the fabulously complex and competent adults my daughters have grown to be, and wondering how much, if anything, their father and I had to do with this.  After watching my daughters and the children of friends grow up, I conclude that parenting is some combination of instinct, trial and error, love, skill, and circumstantial and genetic dumb luck.  The dumb luck part should not be underestimated, nor should the skill part be over-estimated.  I have known people whom I consider to be exemplary parents, whose children nonetheless suffered from illness or trauma or drug addiction.  Love and skill are not guarantees.  There is still that luck piece. 

         I knew, for instance, a woman who had several children.  She told me that the first three were well-behaved and a pleasure to be around.  She, of course, prided herself on her parenting skills, and felt a bit smug when in the presence of less-well-behaved children. 

         Then, she had her fourth child.

         This child was, shall we say, a teensy bit more challenging.  After this, the woman figuratively smacked herself on the forehead as she realized that the behavior of her children had as much to do with the inherent temperament of each of these little beings as it did with her parenting skills. 

         This should be a reason for parents everywhere to breathe a little easier, and for those of us whose kids are grown to let go of the retrospective self-criticism.  It is not, after all, entirely about us and what we do/did or don’t/didn‘t do.  It’s also about who these creatures we have brought into the world are at the core of their being.  I think of those little novelty sponges that they used to sell at the Five and Dime – you know the ones – you add water and they expand before your eyes into a seahorse or a dog or whatever was contained in that sponge.  Sometimes parenting feels a bit like that – you add love and mental and physical nourishment and they grow into who they were meant to be -- right before your eyes.  And despite your missteps. 

          Sure, with hindsight there are things I wish I had done differently, but not too many, really.  I tried not to make the mistakes that I perceived my parents to have made, and, in the process, I expect that I came up with new ways to drive my kids crazy.  They will do the same for their children.  And so it goes.          

         The good news is, I think, that there is not one way to parent “correctly.”  Parents can, of course, do terrible things to their children, things that do lasting, even irrevocable, damage.  Cruelty, abuse, and neglect come readily to mind.  But, for those who come to parenting with an open heart, there are few mistakes that cannot be forgiven.  Children are, after all, resilient.  They know who they are, and if we give them food, shelter, love, guidance, and acceptance, if we read to them and listen to them, they will grow into exactly who they were meant to be.    

         So, if you are, as I was, an amateur parent, I hope you will be able to relax and enjoy the unfolding.  It is a humbling and amazing journey, especially for those of us who discover that we knew nothing when we began.      

        

 

        

         

VANITY OF VANITIES; ALL IS (RETROSPECTIVE) VANITY

         My daughter Anne lives in London where she is pursuing her passion for acting.  Because she, like most other artists, is not able to support herself by her art, she is generally working at least two part-time, minimum-wage jobs.  One of her best non-acting gigs was a stint working at the Mom’s Pavilion at the London Olympics three summers ago.  This was a place for moms and other family members of athletes to relax and be pampered.  

         One of the perks of this job was a bunch of free samples of beauty products, and when Anne visited me a couple of months later, she presented me with a jar of very expensive face cream.  I proceeded to read the label aloud.  I don’t remember the exact wording, but the promise had to do with skin rejuvenation, the elimination of wrinkles, and the all-around restoration of lost youth. “Oh, honey,” I said, “That horse has already left the barn,” and we both laughed a bit about the outlandish fountain-of-youth claims. 

         Of course, I did use the stuff.

         Here’s the thing:  I am no longer young, but neither am I really old.  My sun, however, is setting.  (Never is this clearer than when I stand in front of a mirror with one of my two twenty-something daughters at my side.)  I would like to be able to say that I am entirely sanguine about this, but that would be a lie.  After all, it was only yesterday that I was longing to leave my geeky girlhood behind and grow into my adult self.  Am I really at the other end already?

         When I was maybe 10 or 11, skinny and awkward, my best friend’s much older brother told his mother, who in turn told me, that I had beautiful eyes and would be a knockout when I was older.  I lived on that for years. 

In fact, I was never a knockout, but from my vantage point 50 years later, I think I can safely say that I was pretty on my good days.  Here’s the thing, though.  I was never conscious of my prettiness in the moment.  Whatever vanity I have had has always been retrospective.  That is, I will look at old photos of myself and think (ignoring some unfortunate hairdos), “Hey, I looked pretty good then.”  This is always in comparison with how I look now, whenever now has been.  As I settle into my “senior” years, it occurs to me that there is a lesson to be learned here.  How about if I view my current self from the vantage point of, say, my 80-year-old self?  I’m suddenly looking pretty good.     

(Once, when I [well into my 50s] was walking through my mom’s assisted living facility, one of the other residents said to her, ”Is that your daughter?  Has she started her family yet?”  Bless her myopia.  Oh, yes, I felt young among the 80-year-olds.) 

         How old are you?  This is a pretty straightforward question, right? Well, actually, no. Sure, the basic answer is simple:  I am 65 years old.  But, here’s the thing.  Psychically, I feel about 40.  And my soul, well, my soul is ageless.  This leads to some confusion when I look in a mirror.  My 40-year-old self is startled again and again to see her mother looking back at her from the mirror.  And she is not polite about it:  “Aak!  Where did you come from?” is her pointed cry.   And my soul is becoming quite bossy about her  container.  “You’d better shape up, missy,” she whispers.  “I’m going to need you for a while longer.”

         So much pressure. 

         Didn’t I know I would get older?  Well, yes.  I knew it, but I didn’t exactly expect it.  Mine was the generation that was never going to grow old.

         A fantasy.  Alas. 

         So, how to do this gracefully?

        

         This is a question that will require some pondering.  For now, I will start here:  No cream is going to stop the passage of time.  But, as my skin thins, my soul will have the opportunity to shine through. 

         It’s time to focus on my soul. 

         It’s time to be the person who I was always meant to be.  And that has precious little to do with my soul’s container.       

         And, oh yes, I will look at myself through the eyes of an 80-year-old, and try to appreciate where I am while I am here.  But I will not be looking to see whether I am pretty.  I will be checking to see if I am courageous.  If I am kind.  Grateful.  Generous. 

         To see if my soul is shining through. 

  

Photo by Daria Shevtsova from Pixels

LUCK BE A LADY

I came across this today.  I wrote it for my daughters, although I can’t remember when.  I only remember that I was expressing the wish shared by all parents to keep my children safe.     

(For those of you not up on your mid-century musicals, Nathan Detroit is a character from the musical Guys and Dolls.  He is a gambler who runs the “oldest established permanent floating crap game in New York.”) 

            It feels like a toss of the dice.  If I were Nathan Detroit could I get it right?  Listen girls, I’d load the dice if I could.  Problem is, I don’t know which are the magic numbers that would keep you free from pain.  What if I chose wrong, screwed up – loaded the dice, stacked the deck, and the rules changed, somebody sent in a ringer? Hell, I’d gamble away my youth – what’s left of it – sell  my soul to the devil (all the while desperately mixing my metaphors), but what do I ask for?  That you walk fearlessly in the world?  That you experience everything except the one pain that is too much for you to bear – whatever that might be?  That whatever your heartaches turn out to be, I am not their cause?  That whatever your heartaches turn out to be, they will not do you in?

            I’m looking for a sign.  A tip.  A card with a folded-back corner. A rabbit’s foot to tuck inside your backpacks.  I need the entire cast of Guys and Dolls – Marlon Brando included – to sashay across our lives, singing Luck Be a Lady Tonight.  Look girls, I’d keep you safe if I could.  If only someone would rig the roulette wheel and give me the keys to your hearts. 

Photo by Riho Kroll on Unsplash

THE TOP TEN THINGS I LEARNED AT THE ASSISTED-LIVING FACILITY

My mother spent the last 12 years of her life in an assisted-living facility not far from my house.  During this time, I spent many, many hours at the facility.  Here are the top ten things that I learned from observing, and interacting with, my mom and other residents.    

10.      Everybody has a story. 

            Even those, or especially those, whose lives look diminished and sad have stories to tell.   Ask for these stories.  You will learn that the storyteller’s life was not always so small and that she likely lived a very full and interesting life.  My mom’s assisted-living facility published a weekly flyer that frequently included the biography of a resident.  It was humbling to be reminded that these people had lived long and fulfilling lives before their need for care.        

9.        If you want to know how to approach an elderly person, watch how kids and pets do it.   

            If you want to give an elderly person a treat, bring a dog or a kid to visit him.  Then watch what happens.   A dog will not feel awkward around an elderly person’s disabilities, and generally speaking, neither will a small child.  My mom spent the last 10 days of her life in an adult foster home because she was too ill to stay in assisted living.  It was wonderful to see the delight on her face when the owner’s children would prance into the room and dance for her. 

8.        Start getting rid of your stuff.   

            If you are over, say, 55 or 60, start looking at your possessions with a cold eye.  If you live to be very old, the time will come when you can no longer take care of or use all of that stuff.  And, if you have had to go through a parent’s stuff after they pass, you will know what a burden you are creating for those you will leave behind.  As Roz Chast says in Can’t We Talk About Something More Pleasant?, her wonderful memoir of her parents’ last years, once you have gone through and sorted your parents’ stuff, you start to look at your stuff “a little more postmortemistically.”  So, organize your photos.  Take on a room every year and get rid of what you no longer use or enjoy.  And then start over again.  Not only will you be doing your kids, or whoever is left to pick up the pieces, a favor, but not having to take care of so much stuff will free you up to do what you really want to do with the years left to you.  (Unless, of course, taking care of your stuff is how you want to spend the years left to you.)

7.        Keep moving. 

            No, not your residence, your body.  Here is the bottom line, people.  If we don’t keep moving as we get older, we will stop being able to move.  And then everything will go downhill really fast.  So walk.  Or swim.  Take a yoga class.  Stay limber. Get out of your chairs.  Move your body.  Every day.      

6.        Keep your balance.

            Of course we want to be balanced in mind and spirit, but I am speaking here of physical balance.  Old people fall.  A lot.  So, don’t wait until you are really old to work on your balance.  Stand on one foot at a time for a while every day.  If you want a little more challenge, do the yoga tree pose every day.  Take a tai chi or qi gong class.  Of course, if we live to be very old, we will probably fall, but I like to think that working on our balance before then will forestall that day. 

5.        Make younger friends.

            By the last few years of her life, all of my mother’s friends had pre-deceased her.  This is a very lonely business.  So, don’t put all of your relationship eggs in one generational basket.  Cultivate younger friends.  If you are lucky, maybe they will visit you in your dotage. 

4.        Learn to enjoy your own company. 

            Here is the sad truth.  Most of the people who lived at my mother’s assisted living facility rarely had visitors.  Even if you have family nearby and even if they visit you when they can, if you live to be very old and your friends pre-decease you, you will probably end up spending a lot of time alone.   So, if you don’t enjoy your own company, make it a priority to cultivate alone time, and figure out what to do with it.

3.        If you are an unhappy, self-absorbed adult, you will be an             unhappy, self-absorbed elderly person. 

            Any one who has cared for an elderly or very sick relative knows that we continue to be ourselves, only more so, as we grow older or sicker.  So, if you have unattractive qualities, you might want to work on those now.   In this way, you might be more likely to keep those family members and friends coming around.      

2.        Show up.

            If you have a friend or family member who is ill or frail, show up for them.  Be generous with your time to the extent that you have any to give.  Your loved one likely can’t remember what it felt like to have a job and a family and multiple calls on her time.  She just knows that she feels very alone.  Although we can’t picture it now, the time is likely to come when we are the ones who long for a visitor.     

1.               Practice kindness and patience and the gentle art of listening.

            These are the most important gifts that we can give to someone whose health is failing.  (OK, they are the most important gifts that we can give to anyone.)  And they are sometimes not easy gifts to give when our loved one is moving and talking slowly or repeating the same stories over and over again.   I wish I could say that I was always patient with my mother.  I was not.  Here are two things that I did find to be helpful:  (1)  Ask about something that you are interested in, (see lesson No. 1 above), then be silent and listen.  I would sometimes ask my mother to tell me about her girlhood or her experiences during WWII.  Not only did this cut off her oft-repeated stories about old TV shows, but now that she is gone, I am so glad that I asked these questions.   In fact, I wish that I had asked more; (2)  When you run out of patience and the ability to be kind, take a few days off to look away and do whatever you need to do to restore your ability to be present with patience and kindness.  This may help you to ward off burn-out and keep you from becoming one of those persons who never shows up.      

Of course, all of these lessons are aspirational.   May we all do our best to take them to heart. 

Photo by Joshua Hoehne on Unsplash