Leaving Grandma in our Dust

            Last night, I saw Iron Lady, and Meryl Streep’s performance was wonderful. It wasn’t just the make-up and the costuming – she was Margaret Thatcher. And in the opening scene, she was a very old Margaret Thatcher. She hobbled into a bodega, fumbled with her purse and bought a pint of milk, and no one in the store or on the street recognized her as the former Prime Minister and leader of the free world.

            Which isn’t all that surprising.  I mean who pays any attention to old ladies, except to complain about them on the road?

            Well, now that I’m 60 minus 41 days, I think that should change. Better yet, it should change retroactively because I never really paid much attention to the old when I was young.

            I’m thinking of my own grandmother. Grandma was a short timid woman, who walked in small mincing steps, a little unsteadily and never very far. She adored her grandchildren, but she never got down on the floor with us or threw a ball or played make believe. She always dressed in heels and hose, not that any adults knew from sneakers back then.

            Although Grandma was born here, her hold on the country seemed tenuous at best. She worried about nearly everything, especially whether a miscreant du jour was Jewish. Thank god she didn’t live to hear the name Madoff.  Her quiet voice would always get lost around a big holiday table, and while she’d smile at our jokes and antics, we were never quite convinced she understood. A woman born around the turn of the last century, Grandma was unprepared for the 1960s. And we were too busy embracing our own lives to try to bring her up to date.

            Styles change, and old today is much more active and robust. Yesterday, for instance, I took a walk with my sister.  Marcy is now a grandmother herself and, in case you don’t already know, she’s just a couple of years older than me, not that she looks a day over 60 minus 41 days.  We walked a few miles at a very brisk pace that would have left our grandmother in our dust.

            Still some things don’t change. Obviously, there’s always going to be a sizeable age gap between children and their grandparents. And I don’t think Grandma chose not to bridge that gap.  She just didn’t know how, and we didn’t try hard enough to help her.

            So I just hope that someday (god willing, and no pressure intended) my grandchildren will try a little harder with me.