Opinions

It seems like yesterday that our son and daughter-in-law announced they were going to have a baby, and since then, between them and our daughter and her husband, we now have four amazing grandchildren. With all of these miracles, each child with their unique personalities has absolutely captured our hearts, and I think about them all the time. We love to buy them toys and clothes, and I’m planning the things I want to share and experience with them. I realize that everyone who has grandchildren feels this overflowing fountain of love. When my wife and I were young parents, we did not fully appreciate when older people would tell us how excited they were about their grandchildren, along with showing us never-ending albums of photos. We get it now. They were beaming with pride and thanksgiving and wanted the world to see these beautiful individuals who had no limits to what they could do or who they could be. In the last few years, I’ve found myself doing the same thing. Saying things like, “He has long arms and legs, probably going to play sports,” or “She is so alert and curious, I know she is going to be very smart.” I’m more than ready to provide unlimited cuddles and kisses and an endless supply of cookies and candy, not being strict about bedtime curfews, and always having time for one more story.

I had hoped I would age gracefully. In fact, I had planned on it. The idea of aging gracefully sounds so lovely--smiling at the years as they fly by, attaining a wisdom that is both enviable and attractive, too, while enjoying the moments in a way younger people simply cannot. But the truth is: I am not aging gracefully. I am, instead, rather put off by the whole endeavor. It is exhausting. It is infuriating. It is relentless. Worse still, there isn’t an attractive alternative. Nobody scrutinizes you as severely when you’re 40, 50, or 60. Until that seventh decade, you can blow up your marriage or your business and everybody will give you a pass. But as soon as you become “Sensational at 70,” all bets are off.

Scatter-shooting at a few slow-moving targets… like depictions of American presidents as the Messiah. President Trump is shown as a robed Jesus-like doctor touching a sick man on the head, and it triggered many. The religious right and Democrats suddenly became concerned with blasphemy. Oh the irony. A picture of President Obama as a thorned and crucified Jesus was hardly criticized, nor was a sculpture of him as Jesus. It was displayed at the Art Institute of Chicago during his 2017 presidential campaign and titled, “Blessing.” The school’s art director said it was “not a provocative work at all.”

There was once a cat named Blackie whose cavalier, devil- may-care attitude toward Life endeared him to those who were graced by his presence.

Every year, about this time, I recall with great anxiety the one time I owned a reeeaaal Easter rabbit.

I'll Tell You What

When she walked through my back door, the 93-year-old aunt’s first question was, “Did you grow those camellias or steal them?” I smiled sweetly and explained, “I borrowed them.” “That’s what I thought,” she said. “Aren’t they pretty?” Back at my homeplace in Alabama, which I frequent for solitude as well as repartee, I visit the cemetery where my two parents and my other aunt are buried. Magnolia Cemetery provides a lovely setting with a wrought-iron arch over stone pilings at the entrance, and a row of 50-year-old magnolia trees down the main drive.