Grandmas

Once upon a time there were two little girls called Rosa and Cinnamon. One day, while their grandma was taking them to her house for a sleep over, she overheard the older one, Rosa, telling her littler sister in a very matter-of-fact way:

“We’re going to Grandma’s because she lives all alone and she hasn’t anyone to talk to except a cat”.

This alarmed Grandma who was unable to reply as she was busy driving her little silver car in heavy traffic.  She thought of her grand daughter’s statement which while true, made her sound like she was a sad, lonely old lady.

Grandma actually had a very full life with good friends, activities like Tango dancing, (well until her right knee needed an operation), and the odd silver-haired handsome prince who would stay over, so very rarely did she feel lonely.  It was true that she did live with a strange black and white cat known as Paco with whom she would hold whole conversations that no one else really understood.  She would say something and Paco would reply.  This sometimes went on for quite a while and she didn’t think it anything strange.  She knew people commented on this about her but this didn't worry her.

Grandma felt that overall grandmothers got bad press, or rather were frequently misrepresented. Whenever there was a grandmother in a storybook she was shown as a plump old lady with her white hair in a bun and an apron donned over her bosom and pulling a tray of cookies out of the oven or sitting in a big old fashioned chair knitting.  Spectacles were always perched on the end of her nose. The picture book Grandma was kindly and never swore whereas Grandma sometimes said four letter words when no one was around, though never in front of Rosa and Cinnamon.  It was like believing that little girls were made of “sugar and spice and all things nice” and boys were made of “frogs and snails and puppy dog’s tails”. It simply wasn’t true picture of how children were just as the picture books weren’t true about the grandmas she knew either.

For example her princess-pretty grand-daughter Rosa with her flaxen plaits most definitely was sugar, whereas Cinnamon, (the younger one), with her mussed-up golden brown hair along with a look of mischief in her dark eyes was all spice with “puppy dogs tails” - thrown in for good measure.

Grandma liked be glamorous yet had a leather biker jacket she liked to wear now and then along with dangly earings - mostly because it made her feel younger.  She had a job of sorts.  Her hair colour varied but it was never grey.  She exercised daily to keep her figure trim and used all sorts of magic potions on her face to keep the grandma-like wrinkles at bay.  She enjoyed listening to the radio especially current affairs on BBC.  When she could afford it she went to the opera or ballet in her best frock but now and then she broke out and danced to Bruce Springstein or raved to Led Zeppelin like there was no tomorrow.  Rosa and Cinnamon liked it when Grandma danced and they would join in and all rave together.

Grandma worked hard at not conforming to a stereotype that was, she believed, a relic of a former age.  Just a few years ago before she actually became a Grandma she went off to South America to live in the Andes.  Most people thought it was an exciting adventure for her, which it was but what really prompted her to go was a mid-life crisis.  With no partner, no grandchildren and her youth receding behind her, she was secretly disgruntled about being at this stage of her life with nothing to look forward to.

Or so she thought until she returned from the Land of the Incas and grand children came along and then she was disappointed at the world at large for holding out on her for so long. How wonderful grandchildren really were, especially her own Rosa and Cinnamon!

And she knew that out there other grandmas who were like her.  Grandmas who had done all sorts of things in their lifetimes like working hard in low paid jobs to support their families, writing novels, lobbying for political change, running corporations, canoeing up tributaries of the Amazon along with the grandmas who baked cookies, knitted and held long meaningful conversations with their cats.

Grandmas, it seems, come in all shapes and sizes with a variety of hair colours, yet what they all have in common is that they love their grand children very, very much.


* The name of the cat has been changed for reasons of confidentiality

Life Lesson in a Coffee Cup

This morning, in common with many others this time of year, I was feeling rather glum around the various fiscal deadlines that must be met by Christmas.  I have a lot of anxiety around money and practice jam jar economics by robbing Peter to pay Paul, then slyly picking Paul’s pocket to pay Mary. There is a refrain in a Bruce Springstein ballad something along the lines of, “More bills than an honest man can pay”, which hovers in my mind like my own personal Nemesis.

Anyway, taking up my own advice on coping with unemployment, I decided to go to a local café for a barista coffee, which is something of a luxury these days.  Not only did I order my usual flat white, but treated myself to a luscious Tarte Limon as well. There was a brief internal debate about the cost, as I must do with every purchase but frugality crumbled in the face of feeling so utterly dejected over my financial situation.  Life is constantly about choices and this choice was made on the basis that it wouldn’t hurt to have my homemade Basil and Broad Bean Pesto over pasta for a second time this week.

I hadn’t been seated long when a group of ordinary looking women, up to a decade older than myself, sat down at the adjoining tables.  I had seen them in the café before, at the same time of day and guessed they were a walking group by their dress. Yes, they were and called themselves the Silver Sneakers.

I engaged by a couple of them in conversation. I learnt about U3A, (http://www.u3a.net.nz/) and all the courses it offered, and spoke with another member who is about to have a novel published through Amazon and how effective their online self publishing arm is. I told her that I didn’t regard myself as retired for I worked for myself although I had recently taken up volunteer work.  Apparently by doing this I am “transitioning” into retirement, she said.  I had never thought of it that way, though I was conscious when I committed to the training that it would give some structure to my life when I did eventually retire.

I was in awe of their vitality and experience. As one of them accompanied me to the library afterwards, I thought how being engaged in a stimulating life hadn’t stopped for any of these women upon retirement from the paid workforce. I am certain a few of them had had stellar careers. They had no doubt, like myself, found fulfillment in various roles determined by their lives as daughters, wives, mothers and grandmothers but now was the time to fulfill their own expectations.

When people retire there is somehow this idea that the person’s previous life was more valid than their life now; a curiosity to be preserved under a glass dome on a dusty shelf. Something to be seen as a remembrance of a life once lived, but with usefulness to society now over.  Retirement, particularly as portrayed in advertisements for Viagra or retirement villages, is shown as existing in a perpetual sunny, soft-focus haze.  It is shown as a time when one slows down, (though obviously not if one takes Viagra), joins the usual clubs, takes a cruise, prunes the roses or walks along a deserted beach hand and hand with a partner.  Nothing wrong with any of that but I have often wondered if it would be enough for me.  However what I saw this morning told me retirement offers way more. It is up to you.

The outcome of following my intuition and allowing it precedence over my inner Scrooge put me in a frame of mind equal to almost anything.  What I learnt over a cup of coffee was invaluable.  Choose to shatter the glass dome of public perception about older people, leap off the shelf and always wear silver sneakers.

Ageism and Sexism in News Reporting

I am increasingly perturbed by how middle aged people are reported in the media. We're frequently pigeon-holed into a byte-sized description that is more stereotype than reality. For example take the " Elderly sixty-year-old grandmother of three charged with terrorist attack." Why do we never see a corresponding description of a sixty-year-old grandfather of three?

As women we are still defined by our fertility, although I have never seen a woman described as "childless" unless it was integral to the news report. Occasionally it still seems to be necessary to mention if a woman is blonde in a news story. Important yes, if the report is on a missing person. The "Marilyn Factor" with all its salacious connotations, is alive and well. This is also discriminatory against us L'Oreal'd brunettes.

Why the use of the moniker "elderly" is objectionable to me is that most baby boomers in western society are still working, running businesses, technology savvy and contributing taxes. We are a core part of the volunteer work force. When you've reached six decades, it is likely you may still have a parent living who is truly "elderly" in their eighties or nineties. Considering our governments want to push the retirement age upwards from sixty five to eventually to seventy years, being described as elderly is no longer appropriate. Having encountered covert ageism in my job seeking endeavours, it is time to bring about a change in the attitudes embedded in our society about older people. For starters, the media could rethink their terminology.

Certainly as recently as forty years ago being in your sixties was elderly. I certainly feel younger than my own mother who by the time she was my age had suffered a number of strokes. With each generation life expectancy increases in tandem with advances in medicine, knowledge of nutrition, the role of exercise and an overall higher standard of living. In Victorian times it was rare for children to know their grandparents.

So to the journos out there, who are probably unlikely to read this anyway, the goal post has shifted kids. Middle age was once thirty five, only ten years older on average, than you are now. I hope you remember this in thirty years time when my generation is truly "elderly".