Those 70ish Girls

When I was growing up, I used to love sitting on the sidelines of family gatherings and just listening to my parents, aunts, uncles and grandparents talk, absorbing their emotions, thoughts and experiences as they told their stories. It took me away to another time and it was mesmerizing, it was fun. Maybe they would tell about the “Dirty Thirties” and struggling with life on the farm, or that coupled with the “Great Depression” and when they talked about one another like Uncle Wayne and how he survived being bit by a rattlesnake and almost died. Or when Grandma had her garden to keep the family alive and she carried water from Horse Creek to sustain her plants. Or about WWI or WWII. There were some sad and tragic stories, also happy ones, and they told them so vividly. You were there with them.

When you get old, then older and the absolute oldest, there are stories in your brain, waiting there, pausing patiently, ready to burst forth. They need to be shared, to keep the audience listening. So many fantabulous, uhh maze ing, real true blue to life stories and recollections. Someone needs to hear them and realize life is a fleeting moment filled with memories both good and bad.

But the stories that got told, then repeated can also be changed or get embellished somewhat. That’s all right though because no one seems to care nor remember exactly what happened long ago. At some point, I just got distracted, grew up and we moved away from close family and even though my Mom kept telling me stories of her life in South Dakota and my Dad told about growing up poor in Pennsylvania, the stories got repetitive and I grew tired of hearing them. When you’re a teenager or young adult, you’re building your own story. You think you know better than the “old folks”. That’s what happens naturally. I used to get sick and tired of hearing them tell the same old things over and over. Chock it up to innocence or plain ignorance.

Fast forward to being 70ish, now weary with all life throws your way, slowing down and getting a different perspective on life no longer through rose colored glasses but through bifocals or new lenses after cataract surgery. You play some of the stories from the past like a movie set up in your mind’s eye and enjoy hearing those old folks tell and retell their stories, however, you don’t always get them right or forget parts. You can’t hear them firsthand or you don’t hear as well. You wish you had written their stories down or at least videotaped them telling about the past. Regrets come flashing through.

Now we are the old folks, the ones with the stories. I’m not sure ours are as interesting. Let’s share them in any case with our children. I know I want to. Saayyy… did I ever tell you about the time my friends and I cruised La Habra Blvd listening to the new Beach Boys song?