Speak Out: Never Too Late... or Too Old
By Millie Baker Ragosta
arttimesjournal March 21, 2021
I recently read that the largest growing group of Americans is over 100 and
soon to reach ninety myself, I say, “’Way to go, folks.”
Don’t get me wrong, I love children, too; if I didn’t, I would not have
spent half-a-lifetime giving birth to and co-rearing eleven of them.
Nevertheless, I believe my respect and fondness for the elderly is partly
because the hippies of my generation consistently insulted—their elders
with phrases like “Don’t trust anyone over thirty.”
Those same hippies—faster than they could imagine—now are Baby Boomers.
Mother Nature being the Queen of Revenge, I hope “her Majesty,” will bear
in mind that not every Baby Boomer holds their elders in contempt, by
consigned them—sans their consent—to “homes-away-from homes” in which—to be
accepted—you must be at least 65.
I, for one, would hate never seeing anyone younger than myself; indeed, I
rejoiced when a couple with two young children bought the house next door.
The kids, Maddie, twelve, and Henry, seven, are a delight to me. Like any
siblings, they sometimes bicker, but it’s easy to tell they love and
respect each other.
The first time the two dropped by, Henry—attracted by an antique flax wheel
(a Christmas present from son Tony and his wife, Kathy) in the corner near
the fireplace—knelt in front of it and mimed steering a ship. Then, he
glanced over his shoulder at me, presumably his first mate, and—trying in
vain to deepen his voice—threw me terse query: “Will you overboard my
sister for me?”
I roared my laughter; both kids did, too.
In my opinion—when age groups are kept apart—the biggest losers are the
youngsters, who would thereby miss the incalculable wisdom and kindness of
the elderly . . . like the inimitable George Burns who authored, How to
Live to be 100 (and More) shortly after passing that milestone himself.
Or Sir Lawrence Olivier, who had—with heavy make-up—played King Lear when
he was a mere boy of 39 and reprised the physically and emotionally
demanding role on television at the age of 75. By then he, ravaged by
cancer, had endured such suffering, enduring, and forgiving that he no
longer needed make-up to recreate Lear; his final performance was
magnificent.
In 1988, Helen Hoover Santmyer, who had been born in 1900 and was, at the
time, a long-time nursing home resident, offered her first—and last—novel
she had entitled And Ladies of the Club, to the Ohio State University
Press. The editor, quickly recognizing a masterpiece, brought out a modest
first run, whereupon Ms Santmyer’s niece sent a copy to the prestigious
G.P. Putnam publishing firm, whose editor also recognized the novel’s merit
and acquired it. His first printing was a whopping 50,000 and The
Book-of-the-Month Club offered it for sale that fall.
However, when Miss Santmyer was interviewed about her remarkable literary
achievement, she said she began writing the best-seller in 1920 after
reading Sinclair Lewis’s Main Street. “I thought he looked on the dark
side; he didn’t see any good.”
I say, “Right on, Miss Santmyer!”
There is always a good side . . . and—if you’re lucky—sweet kids next door.