Senior Daze

by Katie Bourg

About Katie: Having arrived in time for the Great (?) Depression, WWII, and all other 20th century problems, I am endowed with long and varied memories. Writing classes have long been my home away from home. Other people's stories are fascinating, and sharing is growth at its best. Hope you seniors will join me with your stories. Try it. You'll like it.

My mother taught me many things--some not appreciated at the time, some I never expected to use. I was wrong.

Widowed early at the age of fifty-seven, my mother never sat down. While she stayed in her home for a few years, it was primarily a place to hang her hat. Within a year, she was taking trips. When I questioned the wisdom of traveling too far, her answer was, "Humph." Translated, that became, "not to be discussed."

I got the message. The subject was closed.

Less than a year later, I wandered to the mailbox to find a postcard from Honolulu. I held my breath until she called to say, "Come pick up your pineapple." When I asked when she'd be home, she replied, "A day or two." Another message: "Move fast if you want that pineapple."

I don't recall the next trip or postcard. She came home to pay bills once in awhile.

Eventually, she settled for short trips to a senior center. An avid bridge player, she found others of like mind, and spent many afternoons at the center. It was a long way from the house.

She began to re-connect with old friends, some from as far back as her childhood. Many were in similar situations. Some joined in her adventures and remained close. Others became known as Fuddy-Duddies, the ones who didn't know how to move on. This was said with mild contempt and very little patience. I thought she was a little cruel. She thought I had a lot to learn.

The house became a nuisance and it was soon sold. She found an apartment close to The Tuesday Club on Broadway in Seattle, also a senior center. The bridge game continued. Other activities followed and it was necessary to make appointments.

My husband and I suggested, timidly, I might add, that she consider moving close to us where we could be of help. We were informed she'd had help for thirty-seven years and didn't want anymore. She also said old relatives could be a bother. That we'd do well to get on with our own lives as she was doing with hers.

Privately, she let me know I might consider taking lessons as I could be in her position one day. I pouted but made no further effort to impose help upon her.

Fast forward, forty-five years. I was right where my mother had been. The silence in the house was deafening. I fought panic. A necessary move a year before left me without resources. My one friend had lost her husband ten months earlier. We had been taking her to the Stillaguamish Senior Center for Friday lunch and music. She'd found other activities available there.

Within days, she called. She didn't ask, "Do you want to go to lunch?" She said, "Where are we going for lunch?" She repeated the question every day after. She joined the Stillaguamish Singers, insisting I go with her. I'd already found my way to the Creative Writing group.

Too busy for panic or housework, I have now survived four years. Children shake their heads, and ask for appointments. It's their problem. I hope they are taking lessons.



Having arrived in time for the great (?) depression, WWII, and all other 20th century problems, I am endowed with long and varied memories. Writing classes have long been my home away from home. Other people's stories are fascinating, and sharing is growth at its best. Hope you seniors will join me with your stories. Try it. You'll like it.