This week Jo Cross is introducing a sometimes humorous, sometimes poignant series reminiscing about the funny things that have happened, and about the people that have made things happen in the Cuchara Valley.
by Jo Cross
CUCHARA- “Darling, I am growing old, silver threads among the gold.” If you are getting along in years, you may remember that old song. You may also notice that the so-called silver is a drab gray that is unmanageable, uncurlable, and unsightly. The only hair that turns silver is red hair, and it turns pretty early.
When you reach 60 years, youngsters regard you as senile and unable to understand how to manage anything without explicit instructions. That gets better, though, when you turn 85. Then they regard you with awe, to think anyone can live so long and still function.
When you’re pushing 93 years old, you begin to speculate that these “golden years” show a good bit of tarnish. You lose your fingerprints, but who needs those anyway? Your once flawless complexion has more wrinkles tham crumpled aluminim foil. Your saliva glands work overtime to compensate for dry skin and fingernails.
Aches and pains are annoyances you learn to live with and to control by ignoring them. You can’t start this practice too soon. In your teens you need to develop as many interests and as many skills as possible, so that by the time you reach old age, you’ll have something to think about besides yoiur aches and pains. There’s nothing more aggravating than someone who insists on telling you blow by blow how he feels today! It doesn’t give you a chance to tell him how you feel.
There are good things about growing old however, and one of these is memory.
I can’t say I remember much about 1915 and 1916, but I had total recall of an incident in the spring of 1917. My sister was in school, and my parents and I were in the living room. My father had on a hat and a small case was on the floor beside him. He asked my mother if she was going to the station with him, and she said no, that she might cry, and it would never do to break down in public. Years later, my mother and I were talking about those days, and I said I remembered when my daddy went to Camp Fenston. She said that was not possible, as I was only two years old. I repeated their conversation to her amazement.
Having a good memory isn’t always a blessing, but most of the time it is, for there were many happy times in my childhood. I was lucky enough to learn at an early age that my parents were people whom it’s nice to know, and not just parents.
Aging is a slowing down time of life – a time to plan for and think about. How do you want to be remembered? Think about that and plan for that time.