I remember that he loved to do crossword puzzles and he listened to the radio all of the time. He loved baseball and would bring my brother and I to see the Expos if we were in town for a home game. He enjoyed reading, loved music and often whistled as he kept busy in the kitchen. He served canapes whenever we visited and he made the BEST Caesar salad in the world.
Whenever he poured a drink for me he would put in five or six Maraschino cherries because he knew I loved them. It made me feel just as special at thirty drinking a rum and coke as it did when I was ten drinking orange juice. Each time I would visit he would look at me and proclaim Julie, you're terrific before giving me a big hug. I am getting teary as I write this, just thinking about it.
One of my most vivid memories is from when I was five or six years old and I was playing in the front yard at my grandparent's home. It was rare that we would be in the front yard; the house was up on a steep hill and at the bottom of the driveway was a T-junction of two busy streets. Grandpa was washing his car -- which is likely why were in the front yard instead of the back-- and I was at the top of the driveway counting marbles from a bag he had bought me earlier that day. Somehow I spilled the bag and all of the marbles rolled down the driveway and into the busy intersection. Before I could even cry I remember him running down to the road and stopping traffic as he collected the precious glass balls that I had dropped.
It was over thirty years ago and I remember it like it was yesterday.
My grandfather died a few years ago. He was in his mid-eighties and had been in the hospital for several months. When I was a little girl he seemed huge to me but when he passed he seemed smaller, frailer. I was devastated by the loss.
------
Last weekend I had the pleasure of spending time with my two cousins O and H. While they are my first cousins they are the same age as my daughters. They had come up from the U.S. to visit for the long weekend and spent a few days in Montreal before coming to our house for Good Friday. On the first evening I was asking my Uncle about his visit to see his mother -- my grandmother -- who has Alzheimer's. It is a wicked disease that steals the people you love and hurts not just the patients but the people who love them.
I asked O if she enjoyed seeing Granny and she nodded. "Your granny is my granny too," I reminded her as she played with my daughter Kathryn.
"My grandpa is dead," she said in a matter-of-fact tone that comes so easily for a six-year-old. "But he was very old."
"He wasn't always old," I told her. It makes me sad to think that her only memories are of an old man in the hospital when I have so many wonderful stories about a grandfather who danced at my wedding and played cards with me even though I was too young to really understand the rules.
"When I was your age Grandpa was young," I told her. I did a quick calculation in my head. When I was O's age, he was only 51!
What?! When I was six he seemed old. Now that I am pushing forty I am seeing fifty-one in a whole new perspective.
I suppose I shouldn't be too shocked. After all, I am married to someone's grandfather and I don't think of him as old. Grandfather or not my husband is still the hottest man I can imagine.
------
Age is a strange concept. People argue that it is just a number and I guess that is true. What is really important is our ideas about that number and how those ideas can change with our perspective.
When I was in the second grade, I remember the teacher telling us about the year 2000. She was telling us how the turn of the millennium would be a big celebration that few people in history would get to experience.
After a quick calculation on the blackboard she told us that we would all be 28 for the big New Year's Eve party. I remember thinking: "Gee, I'll be too old to even enjoy it!" In reality I was too pregnant to enjoy it. At twenty eight I was expecting our first baby and didn't feel that old at all.
------
It hit me again last week when I noticed an obituary on the bulletin board at work. George -- one of our regulars -- had died of a heart attack at seventy-nine. I was stunned.
I liked George. He was a friendly guy who always had a smile and something nice to say. He liked to joke with people and seemed to enjoy his daily routine at the gym. Apparently he had been ill but I had no idea. He looked healthy to me. In fact, I was shocked to learn that he was seventy-nine. He was fit and active. To be honest, I had never really thought about his age at all.
Working at a gym in the mornings, the majority of the people in my classes fall into one of three categories: stay-at-home moms, shift workers and retirees. I remember one Spin class a few years ago when some members complained about a new heart rate chart that only went up to the 55-65 age range. What about the rest of us? Someone asked. I looked around and realized that almost half of them fell past that parameter but despite their age they could still kick ass on those bikes.
Working in fitness I have learned that chronological age is highly irrelevant. I know plenty of seventy year-olds that could run circles around my forty year old friends. I know eighty year-olds that are younger-at-heart than people half their age. I have always been very bad at judging age. When I was a teenager working in retail I would dread "senior discount day." I always ended the shift with a pile of voided slips from discounts I missed and offended patrons from discounts I offered to those who didn't qualify. I'd probably still suck at it today.
Maybe my inability to judge age is an advantage. I don't want to assume anything based on age. I would rather be shocked and impressed when I see people living their dreams -- age be damned.
