I’ve been a writer for about 60 years now. In that time, I’ve filled up thousands of blank pages with personal thoughts and feelings. Some of those I’ve shared with you, my readers. Some of those pages will need to be shredded or relegated to my laptop’s trash file after I pass. (Looking at you friend, who promised to do just that. You know who you are.) While there are many wonderful things about being a writer, probably none is better than getting to revisit your younger self.
I wrote an essay for PADUCAH LIFE Magazine when I turned 40. I’m sure that when I was 40 I thought 65 was REALLY old. Maybe some of you feel so now. I had no idea what age 40 held for me: that I would be in a horrible car wreck, break my neck, and have to recover physically and emotionally for months. And it goes without saying that I had no idea what the next 25 years would bring. Thankfully, no more wrecks, but other challenges that stretched me.
At age 40, I had no idea if that teen-aged son of mine would always be rolling his eyes at me whenever I did something goofy (he does) or if he’d even want to ever be in the same room with me again (he does). I mean, those teenage years can be hard on a mom of boys. Boys you are shaping into men. Boys you are teaching to be independent. Boys you simultaneously want to launch and hold onto.
So, a few years ago, when that son began working on us to move to where he lives, I wondered: “Does he really mean it?” When he persisted, I thought, “Do I really want to?” I expected to live in Paducah for the rest of my life. We had fabulous friends in Paducah. We loved our church. My parents lived next door.
But something a man about 25 years older than me once told me kept niggling me. He was in his 80s when he said, “It’s too late for me to move to where my kids are now. I should have gone when I was young enough to establish my own community, make my own friends. If I go now, my kids would be my whole world, and that’s a lot of pressure on them.”
I’d never thought about it like that, but there is truth in what he said. If you have your own friends, your own life, independent of your adult children, you’ve got a community that will help them when “real” old age sets in. (Note to self: get younger friends who will still be around.) And if there’s one thing I know with certainty, I want to help my kids as much as I can. No one wants to be a burden to their children—ever—but we don’t get to choose what challenges aging will bring. We can only try to position ourselves in a way that hopefully helps them.
When my Dad passed to glory, we did not want to leave Mom in Paducah, but we also knew we wanted to move to Charlotte. Being the kind of person my Mom is, she graciously, BRAVELY, agreed to move with us. (Another note to self: be willing to make sacrifices for your kids without making them feel guilty.)
So, we ended up in Charlotte, N.C., just 10 minutes away from the son whom I once described as “chagrined” by my very presence. The life I thought I would always live in Paducah changed, as life always does.
I’ll forever consider Paducah my hometown, and I will always treasure the LIFE we had there. But I’m glad we made the move. Our grandkids are growing up so fast, and it’s such a joy to be around them. They probably look at us and think we’re “old.” But, for the record, 65 is young and fun and interesting and challenging and surprising. It’s way better than 25, 35, or 45 was. And, God willing, our grandkids will also know that someday.
I don’t know what the next 25 years will look like—or if I’ll even be around for 25 more years. But I do know they will hold new challenges, fresh joys, more hopes and dreams.
That’s life. I’m so grateful.
