Yes.
During the Trek to New England involving custody trial for Mrs. Plant’s (v.2.0) daughter, we visited her aunt in Rhode Island, I believe. Some small New England state. My Nephew by the now former marriage went up to an older woman at the swimming pool at the condominium, and seeing her Auschwitz tattoo, asked, “Why did you write on yourself?”
I chickened out and walked away.
What could I do, beg to carry her trash out and wash her dishes for the next fifty years? Drown the kid?
Hey, I own those sandals! They’re wonderfully comfortable, and I just don’t give a damn.
I’m 53 now, and I plan to keep on working until I can’t stand up anymore. Which will be later than it would have been had I been willing to wear uncomfortable shoes.
There is another shop like mine over an hour away so that we aren’t really in competition with each other for buisness. We’ve often referred customers to each other when they are better suited to that job. The owner of the other shop is at best a dillatante who excells at taking orders and dealing with customers. He couldn’t make a decent part in the shop with a gun to his head no matter how much he brags and blovates about how skilled and good he is.
His secret weapon is a guy named “Barney” (a psudonym) at 89 years old and is my inspiration. I’m 44 and feel like a mere apprentance watching him work. This old bastard (his words, not mine) can work longer and harder and with worlds better technique and skill at the lathe than I can imagine than me.
“Barney” came into our shop awhile back and dropped enough hints that he’d like to jump ship. He motherfucked and ranted enough about his pissant boss enough to make a hall of fame worthy rant here in our pit. It’s not about money, he believes he needs to keep moving and refuses to retire. I wish we had enough work to justify my hiring him. Og bless those amazing old buggers we are blessed to encounter once in awhile.
A lady I knew in my small hometown recently passed away at 104. I had met her years ago when she gave a eulogy at a relatives funeral. I mentioned that I lived in Los Angeles and she told me she grew up there, we talked for a good while about LA back in her day. When she was a young adult, her and a friend traveled the country preaching. Anywho, the striking thing to me - the notice of her passing mentioned that she and her husband had moved to Bend, OR, five years ago to be near family. So, let me get this straight? At the age of 99 she moved across country? I hope when I am 99 I have 1/10 of the energy she had!
At my previous job, working as a cook at my city’s convention center, one of my favorite coworkers was a guy named Jack. Jack is pushing 80, and still works at the convention center as a server. Most of the other servers are between 18 and 30-something, and he keeps up with them (and honestly outruns some of those dumb kids). The only concession to his age is that all he does is serve meals - he doesn’t do any of the heavy lifting involved in flipping rooms for different events. He shows up to serve the meals, and can still heft a tray loaded with 10+ plates onto his shoulder and deliver the meals to the tables. He moves just as fast as the “kids”, and gives great service.
The thing is that Jack and his wife live in one of our local “retirement” homes (not the same one where I work). But he’s far from retired. Aside from working as a server at the convention center, the guy is also a freaking lifeguard at the YMCA swimming pool. Seriously, Jack is in better physical shape than I am, and I’m not even 50 yet.
I was driving to work early one morning, and I spotted Jack on his way to the YMCA - he doesn’t drive; he had his backpack on and was hoofing it up the street, just as quickly as I can when I walk somewhere.
Last week I bumped into him as I was going into Safeway to do some grocery shopping. His retirement home is next door to Safeway, and he was actually just there to sit at one of the outside tables to do some reading. So I got to sit down with him and have a nice chat. I enjoyed telling him about Annith, and he thought it would be fun to meet her.
I should add that the main gist of our conversation revolved around her asking me if I was married, and when I said, “no”, she wanted to know “why not?” and was surprised that I have never been married and have no children. And from there I learned that she had been married just once, for 54 years. Her husband passed 25 years ago. And being married “once was enough for me”.
On another note, from my cook perspective … she usually eats fairly lightly, but today she apparently had an attack of the munchies. For breakfast she went all out. Two pancakes, two eggs, plus sausage. Then she wanted a blueberry muffin. Then she wanted another muffin. Then, before lunch, she came into the kitchen wanting more food.
She’s also very proud. Last month, she fell in her apartment and banged up her face a bit. And she was horribly embarrassed about it. She didn’t want anybody to see that she’d hurt herself, so didn’t want to eat with the other residents. So she came to the kitchen very early and asked if we could hook her up with some breakfast to take back to her room, and we accommodated her. I’m happy to let her keep her pride.
There is a reason they call them “The Greatest Generation”. I always make sure my staff calls them on snowy or icy days. If the weather’s bad, the young patients don’t show up but you can bet that most of those over eighty do.
I had a 94 year old patient who walked in the mall regularly for exercise. At one visit I asked “Are you still walking in the mall?” and she answered “Yes-but I’m slowing down. Pretty soon I’m going to have to walk with the old folks.” At 96, her cardiologist told her that she had a bad valve and recommended that she take it easy and not strain herself. She came to me upset, asking if she could at least still ride her exercise bike. I told her to ignore him and do whatever she wanted as long as she wasn’t having pain or shortness of breath, and if she dropped dead on an exercise bike at 96 more power to her.
This story reminds me of my dad. He was young by the standards of this thread, only 70, but in the last year of his life as he was dying of cancer.
In one of the small bedrooms in his apartment he had two twin beds situated near to each other. He would lie in one for a while, and if he started getting uncomfortable, he would move to the other one.
As his health deteriorated, he found this harder and harder to do. On one occasion when I was visiting, I was helping him to make the switch. He was about halfway between one bed and the other when a police car happened to go by outside with its siren blaring.
“OK, OK, I’m going!” my dad said. Doesn’t sound that funny, maybe, but it made me laugh out loud at the time. I was gratified that, despite the pain he was going through, he could still summon a sense of humor.