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.

One of the best things that ever happened to me was the Stilly Singers. I just love to sing, and I love the other people in the group. I don't really know how well I sing and if you ask me what part I take I couldn't tell you. But I love the old songs from the middle of the last century, remember most of the words, and enjoy letting it all out. Not sure what others think, and don't ask. I just enjoy.

Mother's Day is coming up, and I'm remembering why I love to sing. My mother sang. The house was filled with her efforts. That did cause some problem, however. She couldn't carry a tune. Never found a wrong note she didn't love. And to add to everyone else's discomfort, she rhymed her own words as she went, which didn't necessarily make much sense.

She was a very good poet. Wrote stories I still have and enjoy. Really wanted to be a writer. Yet when she sang, she rarely remembered the words, and created results sometimes unnerving. My father was known to leave the house for hours. Didn't bother Mom a bit. She sang anyway. I have seen puzzled looks on the faces of guests many times as they tried to make sense of what was coming from her vocal chords. I've often wondered if it was a form of revenge.

Mom was born two months before the end of the Gay Nineties. They weren't that gay for women. She knew her uneducated mother struggled to raise five children, doing menial work, after a father deserted his wife. When Mom was told she must quit school to help the family, an exceptional teacher paid a visit to my grandmother.

"She's bright, the world is changing, she needs to finish school." The teacher taught the business courses in the little Blaine high school. Grandma relented.

The teacher also arranged civil service tests for her class, then turned them into the proper authorities. This led to a job following graduation. Mom worked in the Bremerton Navy Yard. It was 1917. She lived in a boarding house with a roommate, practically no heat in winter. Only cold water, and a mean, stingy landlady. She loved every minute of it.

Mom was working with on older woman who, recognizing her abilities, encouraged her interest in writing. The woman moved to Portland for a new job. Mom continued to pour out poetry and short stories. She submitted them to local papers with some success.

Years ago, my daughter spent time at the Seattle Public Library. She came home wide-eyed. "Did you know Grandma's poems were in the Seattle P-I?" she asked. I knew.

When Mom met my father, home from the war, she had no intention of changing course. But it happened. The day after they married, she received notice of a job on the Portland Oregonian. Her friend had arranged it, but too late. It was 1920. Women worked during the war, not after. They were expected to go back to the kitchen. She never got over it. And she never let my father forget it, either.

If women really weren't capable, she certainly didn't fit the norm. Twenty years later, she went back to work. In three weeks, she was taking shorthand as well as she ever had, and typing up to speed. Her accuracy was never a question. She blossomed. By then I was through high school and working. She pushed for me to go further, but I met this boy.

The pattern had changed in twenty years. We wanted things. There was no question I would keep my job.

At least until we had land and kids. When I stopped work, I found other things to keep life exciting. Other activities were available and approvable. It was not my mother's world. It was healthier. I went back to work, not because I had to, but when and if I wanted to. And if I wanted to take a class in something, that was all right too. Before it was over, I was taking my mother along to writing classes.

In high school I had read "The Yellow Wallpaper" by Charlotte Perkins Gillman, one of the early day suffragettes. It detailed the mental decline of a brilliant woman who was deprived of any chance to improve her mind. A writing friend loaned me the book and I gave it to my mother. When she returned it, she said, "I wish I'd read it before I got married."

I still find it sad she could not have enjoyed the best of both worlds, and instead lived with regrets.

Retirement found us moving to another community where I met others like myself. They were not standing still. There was too much to do in our world. They were younger, more active, and better informed. They enjoyed good, healthy, fulfilling lives.

Then at 80, I was a widow. I knew I couldn't just sit and weep. I had to get out and do something--anything. The choices were there; plenty of them. I haven't sat still since. I'm writing and I'm singing. In tune and with the right words. In fact, I'm doing everything I want to do. I've got the skills and advantages to keep doing it until I drop.

We've got it made, girls. We've got chances our mothers never had. Go for it. SING!