Old people: living time machines

In My Humble Opinion
1

Young people: respect your elders’ experience.

When I was a kid, all my great-uncle represented was this boring, toad-like figure, sitting in the corner of the room drinking brandy and smoking foul-smelling cigars every Christmas, and us kids pretty much ignored him. It was only at his funeral that I discovered he was an accomplished painter, and a published poet. I had never thought to ask him anything about his life. If I had done, I’m sure I would have learned things that would have enriched my life, and that would have made him feel happier and less isolated.

A few months before my grandmother died, I asked her for a couple of hours of her time. I spent this time querying her about her life, and I am so glad I did. She told me of her life as a child in the colonial Caribbean, stealing papayas from the governor’s garden; her shock when she had her first period, thinking she was dying because nobody had told her, and the rags that she and her sisters used instead of tampons, and how they had to wash them in the river; of catching polio and malaria at the same time; of moving to England and having been so pampered that when asked by her older sister to peel a potato, she didn’t know what one looked like uncooked; of defying the first air-raid siren of 1939 to go to the spectators’ gallery of the House of Commons to watch Neville Chamberlain formally declare war to Parliament.

My other grandmother, when I challenged her racism, spoke of the “invasion” of a quiet London suburban street by flamboyant and noisy Caribbean immigrants - “you wouldn’t understand”, she told me, “you never lived through a war, fought for your people, and then have that country for which you fought taken over by foreigners.” She went on to talk about the unexploded bomb that pierced the front yard of her next-door neighbour’s house, that tunneled under her front yard and reappeared in the front yard of the house next door; of being an ambulance driver during the blitz, hurtling down pitch-dark fog-laden streets in a converted truck that was so big she had to tie blocks of wood to the pedals to reach them, with the headlights covered to preserve the blackout; of standing on a hill over London, pregnant with my father, eating a picnic and watching the Battle of Britain like a sporting event, cheering whenever a Messerschmitt went down, and booing whenever an RAF plane was hit.

Talking to older people about their lives is a unique privilege we have. Respect them, and respect their experience. I’m not saying there aren’t as many old assholes as there are young assholes - I utterly disagree with my second grandmother’s views on immigration - but when it comes to experience, they have you beaten, hands-down. That stuff you read about in history books, that’s their life.

Sure, there are books that tell you this stuff from a first-hand perspective, too, but they don’t represent the unique experience and perspective of someone you know and can actually talk to, face-to-face.

Your grandfather’s grandmother’s memories can connect you directly with someone who lived a hundred and fifty years ago. By talking to old people, uncovering their stories and experiences, and passing them down the line as you get older, you’re creating a unique chain of experience, joining hands across the generations.

They’re there for you - just pick up the phone, or go over and visit. You’ll appreciate it, and so will they.

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This is a lovely post.

We’ve moved away from being multi-generational family units, which was once the norm. I think some of the selfishness in our society comes from that (or maybe it’s the other way 'round.) I know in my own family that it’s only happened since my mother’s generation. I had frequent contact with my grandparents (and until I was in my late teens, one set of great-grandparents, too) but it was fairly formal contact. Not a lot of talking and getting to know one another, more a “paying homage/issuing directives” thing.

I’ve been informally surveying family members for a few years now, collecting their memories, trying to get a distinct picture of my extended family and journaling their experiences. It’s been an eye-opener. I’ve learned about their experiences as immigrants, the racism they encountered, some of the more colorful aspects of their adjustment to this new country and some shocking family secrets that contributed to the lack of contact between the generations now. I even did some internet research on specific individuals in my family, and found some very cool results.

I knew my great-grandfather was a cornet player, but I didn’t realize he was famous - he literally wrote the book on one particular technique using a mute! One of my great-uncles had a mysterious malady that forced him to use a cane to walk. I didn’t know until recently it was the result of an injury he sustained when he was in prison. My husband’s great-grandmother traveled west in a covered wagon, while her father laid telegraph lines ahead of trains, and her family had some interesting encounters with “Red Indians” she documented in a diary that was recently recovered in an aunt’s attic.

There are loads more stories like this, and I am so glad to have them to pass down. One other thing - there’s a thread here called “how have things changed in your lifetime?” and it reminds me that my husband once asked his grandmother what she thought was the change that had the most impact in the 20th century - thinking she might speak of airplanes, computers, telephones. She replied, “Indoor plumbing.”

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My grandparents all died when I was “little” before I was a teenager, except for my mom’s mom, she died when I was 25. Her husband used to be a Dean at Penn State and did a lot of interesting things.

As for my 'rents they met when they were both in the Navy, stationed at The Pentagon.

My mom was at work in the Pentagon when President Kennedy was shot and killed and she told my brother and I how the Pentagon was “locked down.” She worked in a department that sent messages to submarines and other naval ships. She recalls reading a message telling of the death of the President to a telegraph operator and how the guy was operating the telegraph machine while crying his eyes out.

For Kennedy’s funeral, she was one of military personnel stationed on the Memorial Bridge leading across the Potomac to Arlington National Cemetary.

She also went to the White House on a number of occasions, as a “fill-in” of sorts for state dinners and such. She told us about dancing with Vice-President Johnson and how, “he was a pincher.”:eek: :stuck_out_tongue:

I got to meet Vice-President Bush, but that’s a tale for another time, if anyone’s interested.

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What a fantastic post jjimm. Thanks for sharing the great stories and experiences of your grandfolks. You are very correct in that we should pay our elders a bit more attention and respect.

Never have met my paternal grandfather and dad’s mom died when I was about 10ish. She did tell me a few tales, but unfortunately most have been forgotten.

My favourite grandpa, mom’s dad, died when I was about 6. I remember quite a lot about him and his stories. Grandma became very bitter and hard to live with. She passed away when I was about 13. Though I enjoyed hearing stories about the farm, it was hard to be around her long.

How I wish they were all here so I could talk to them again.

When working with the geriatric patients in various care homes, in the US and UK, it was always interesting to speak with them and hear about their experiences.

I can only pray that some day we’ll have grand-children to tell wonderful stories to.

Thank you, jjimm, for bringing back some very nice memories.

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I had one grandmother who used to winter with us each year. I was fascinated by her stories of how people lived in her youth, and the artifacts that were taken for granted. The fact that people used horses and carriages, oil lamps, gold money, and so on fascinated me. As a child, one of her household chores was to clean the lamp chimneys.

She graduated from high school in 1914 and did office work before getting married. Each Christmas, everyone in the office got a $10 gold piece! Then again, speaking of money, it amazed me that everything seemed to have been so inexpensive. Pennies, nickels, dimes, quarters…each of these could be used to buy a whole variety of everyday things, and you could easily leave the house without any paper money at all.

She’d taken piano lessons as a girl; I was interested to learn she’d attempted to learn The Maple Leaf Rag, ca. 1910, though I don’t think she really learned to play it well.

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My paternal grandfather (1890–1965) told me about his experiences in the early days of the Russian Revolution; and my maternal grandmother (1898–1982) taught me to do the Black Bottom and the Charleston.

Both very cool people.

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How lucky I was to have my grandparents living down the street. I was an adult before I realized that most people don’t have their grandparents around as much as I did.

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Why do I not have the slightest problem envisioning Eve doing either the Black Bottom or Charleston with the greatest panache? (Though the Castles’ Hesitation Waltz comes to mind first. ) :wink:

Love this thread. So great to hear the passed-down memories.

My paternal grandmother was a first-generation (German) immigrant. Growing up as a girl in a little girl in a little southern Ohio smelting town, she helped her mother at the counter of a general store. She had the gift, which she never lost, of effortlessly tallying up prices, to the penny, as fast as they were read off to her.

The two most startling memories of hers? During the chaotic civil rights days of the Sixties, Grandma matter-of-factly recounted that her best friend while growing up was black (though Negro was her term.) I had the firm impression that the racial divide was absolute during “those days”. Not absolutely. Grandma played with her constantly–kick the can, dolls, exploring the woods nearby–and nobody made anything of it. She was spent quite a bit of time at her friend’s house, which she described as “neat as a pin”; high praise from a tidiness-mad German, and her friend was welcome at hers. Only as children, though. Grandma as a very old woman was still sad that the girls were slowly but inexorably parted as they grew out of childhood. She had nothing but praise for what fine people her friend’s family were but “the way things were” prevailed. It suprised the hell outta me, but it was my first clue that history could hold quite a few subtleties.

Grandma lived to see Neil Armstrong walk on the moon. It was one of the few times I ever saw her cry. She remembered as a very little girl the first time a plane, an actual flying machine, flew over the town where she lived. She said that every building emptied, people pouring into the streets to see. Men waved their hats, women waved hankies, everyone cheered and cheered until they were hoarse. Grandma said her mother was working in the garden, so she just flapped her apron for all she was worth , repeating over and over (in German), “It’s a miracle, it’s a miracle.” For weeks after, impromptu parades, lemonade-and-concert socials and porch gatherings sprang up where people marvelled, over and over, how it was looking like just about anything was possible. Just imagine, my grandma experienced all that to a moon landing, and lots in between. So much for mundane lives.

Veb

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This thread reminded me of one of the sweetest stories my great-grandmother ever told me.

Turns out she was about 15 or 16 during the great flu epidemic, and got sick from it. Her entire household was quarantined, as were the houses in either side of her. My great-grandfather, according to her, was one of her many suitors, but, and this was one of the reasons she eventually chose him, he was the only one who continued to come by her house every day. Since they could not open the windows they talked through her closed shutters. Great-grandpa heard the entire story, but he just waved his hand in dismissal while listening to a baseball game on the radio, I think that was confirmation.

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When I was growing up, I had an elderly Irish uncle who had fought in the Irish Civil War and in World War II. He’d come over to our house once a week, my Mom would put on a pot of coffee, and we’d listen to him tell his old war tales. And, to put it mildly, our eyes used to glaze over when he’d tell the same stories again and again. After he went home, my brothers and I often laughed at him.

Years later, long after he was dead, I saw “Saving Private Ryan,” and was utterly mesmerized. But after it was over, I couldn’t help thinking, “I KNEW a man who was there in France, fighting the Germans. He used to be in my living room, telling stories at LEAST as exciting and important as this, and I used to treat him as a joke!”

I knew a genuine war hero, and treated him like an old windbag, when I COULD have learned a lot from him.

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I’m lucky, I have a grandmother still alive today… growing up I had both of them my paternal grandfather and two great grandmothers that I got to listen to stories from. Interesting people, I’m amazed at the things my great grandmothers lived through for example.

My mother’s mother’s mother was born in Appalachia and moved to middle Tennessee when she was 14 via horse drawn wagon. She was married on the way and had 10 children. My father’s father’s mother was died and lived her entire life within 10 miles of her birthplace and childhood home. She had a hard life, she married a guy who was a moonshiner and got sent to federal prison after being caught running whiskey during the prohibition. After he got out he was a changed man and abused her, he died under mysterious circumstances and my great aunt had it that she killed him. After he died she raised her three kids by herself and earned money cutting down and hauling timber for the railroad company… she’d pull it out of the woods all by herself with a rope over one shoulder. Both of these women saw WWI, WWI, the moonwalk, Vietnam, the fall of the Berlin wall… the Gulf War before they passed away. My grandparents had just as interesting stories to tell, and my paternal grandmother told me quite a bit about her father and grandmother who immigrated here from Germany, her grandmother came over hired to be a nanny for a family in Texas… she told my grandmother that she watched Native Americans ride their horses beside the train out west from NY. It’s really something I think.

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It is quite interesting to read these stories.

To those whose grandparents are still living, I envy you.

Thank you for sharing your stories.