On Old Age

I visited my grandfather today. We toured his new house–downsized from the 13 acres he used to inhabit–and examine his dwindling firearms inventory. A .38 caliber revolver. A silvery 1911-style .45 manufactured in Argentina.

“I’ve got a Saturday night special under my pilla,” my granddad declares. He checks near the head of his bed, then tosses the sheets about, looking for the firearm. “I moved it to make it less conspicuous,” he comments.

I eye the bedside desk. “Is it in here, Papa?” I ask, opening the top drawer and removing an ancient gray revolver loaded with rat-shot.

My grandfather may be 85, but he is still mentally acute and physically fit, as I discovered when I stepped into his house and found myself caught in his crushing handshake. I haven’t seen him shoot recently, but I remain confident that his revolver is in the hands of a capable user.

We’re in the process of collecting some of his paraphernalia. He has a list compiled of some of his more important items and who is to have them, “In case I die without permission,” as he laconically puts it.

I hope I’ll be like that when I’m his age.

My generation seems to fear old age. Youth is something to be relished and enjoyed, but with old age comes a dysfunctional body, it seems. Beauty fades. Money is no longer spent on pleasures and instead spent on hospital bills. Old people become disagreeable, self-centered, walking surgeries.

I’ve never really been keen on keeping up physical appearances, myself. Perhaps, for me, that would be a case of crying over spilt milk. But I understand the natural fear of growing old and the various health problems associated with it.

That’s another reason I want to grow up like my grandfather; he’s exceptionally healthy. If I live on 13 acres tending a garden until I’m in my mid-eighties, I’ll be pleased.

But the one real benefit that I believe comes with old age is experience. That seems sort of obvious and trite, I suppose, but I don’t believe my generation understands or appreciates that.

I find this forgivable, however, because I believe many members of my grandfather’s generation have become self-centered and petty in many ways. In part, I think we encourage that–we worry about them, ask them how they’re doing, and then wait patiently for the never-ending list of medical information that we really don’t want to hear about in the first place. We ought to be asking the right questions if we want to learn from our elders.

But I also believe that many of my grandfather’s generation have succumbed to believing they deserve something. They’ve adopted a selfish attitude because they’re old, they’ve done their part for society, nobody really cares about how they feel–and quite frankly, they feel a lot of pain. There is nothing like pain, physical or emotional, to turn people into themselves. It is, after all, the body literally screaming, crying for our attention. And we are a captive audience.

And all this makes me wonder, what will I be like when I am a grandfather? Will I be a selfish, crotchety old man? Will I be disillusioned because I put my hope in money or fame or my appearance or my relationships? Will I be selfish because I am in continual pain?

Or will I live instead to pass my wisdom onto the next generation?

I spend a lot of time looking at my grandfather’s collection of cups and baseball caps. A CIA glass. Rumor has it that agency aggressively conducted a fruitless pursuit for my grandfather’s talent in his younger days. I sometimes wonder if they succeeded.

A Nimitz cap. My father’s carrier. A VF-211 cap. My father’s squadron. An F-35 JSF cap. My father’s job.

So much of the life of a parent–in this case, my mother’s father–is wrapped up in their children. I can see that my grandfather’s son-in-law–my father–seems to have contributed much to his life.

My grandfather has contributed much to mine. Besides his direct contribution in the form of my mother, my grandfather’s resilience and advice has made a lasting impression on me.

Sleeping the night before a test will do you more good than staying up all night studying for it, he wrote in his spidery, thin handwriting when I first arrived at college. I’ve found his advice to be sound.  Some of my friends should try this novel idea.

My grandfather is even more stoic than I am, which makes it difficult to tell if he realizes how much I look up to him. It also feeds my own reticence, making me unwilling to say something like that directly. As I’m saying goodbye, I comment that I hope I’m able to crush my grandson’s hands when I’m his age. He shows me how to exercise my wrist.

“I’ll start doing that when I start getting grandkids,” I say.

“If you wait until then, it’ll be too late,” he replies.

My grandfather is right.  If I want to grow up to be like him, I’d better start now.