Out on the beach today, I saw an old guy sitting in a wheelchair, staring out at the surging ocean. The waves off Daytona Beach were crashing loudly just 50 feet out, but by the time they reached the wheels of his chair they were just harmless bubbles and foam. He sat there for some time, and I wondered what was going through his mind.
Likely, he was wondering how it has all come to this – sitting in a chair and staring at the ocean instead of plunging headlong into the oncoming waves. Perhaps he had been a championship swimmer or a surfer dude in the 1950s. Perhaps he stormed a beach in France and can never shake those gruesome memories. No doubt he saw the hard, fit bodies of the young men and women running and playing around him and remembered his own halcyon days of summer. But I’ll never know what he was thinking because I didn’t ask him. I just saw him as “an old guy in a wheelchair.”
I am (hopefully) somewhere in the middle of life, numerically speaking (if I live to be 102!), but there are days I feel closer to the old guy in the wheelchair than I do the young people around him, and all this got me thinking about how much time I spend (or don’t spend) listening to the stories of the older people in my life.
I’m reading Sara Gruen’s wonderfully enchanting novel, “Water for Elephants,” right now, and she’s got me thinking about all the stories there are out there, lingering in nursing homes and retirement villages and senior citizens clubs. I love a good story, and I’m afraid I may be missing some exceptional ones.
“Water for Elephants” begins with this memorable and very funny first line: “I am ninety. Or ninety-three. One or the other.” No doubt our memories fail us all from time to time as we get older, and that’s all the more reason to consider the importance of harvesting, cherishing and celebrating the stories of the older people in our lives.
Jacob Jankowski, the narrator of “Water for Elephants,” lives in an “assisted living facility,” but thankfully spends much of his time dreaming and daydreaming about his life in a traveling circus as a young man, and the stories we are privy to in his memory give us an entrance to a world we may have otherwise never seen. That’s the power of story.
His family visits him weekly (his son is in his 70s, which made me smile just thinking such a thing…) and tries to convince him to play bingo with the others. “Doesn’t it sound like fun?” they ask. He answers: “Sure…maybe if you’re a rutabaga.” I love this crusty old guy. But he goes on to reflect more seriously on his inability to talk to his family and share his stories:
My platitudes don’t hold their interest and I can hardly blame them for that. My real stories are all out of date. So what if I can speak firsthand about the Spanish Flu, the advent of the automobile, world wars, cold wars, and Sputnik – that’s all ancient history now. But what else do I have to offer? Nothing happens to me anymore. That’s the reality of getting old, and I guess that’s the crux of the matter. I’m not ready to be old yet.
The truth is, we often don’t pay much attention to the old people in our lives who sit staring out at the ocean. And the loss is twofold: We don’t ask them to tell their stories, and we run the risk of those stories being lost forever. We don’t ask them to tell their stories, and we don’t give them the gift of being able to tell their stories. Everyone loses when stories aren’t shared and passed on.
If we think they have nothing to share we’re kidding ourselves and selling them short. Imagine the lives they have lived and the stories they could tell if only someone was listening (and maybe writing them down). Imagine the thundering waves of stories aching to be told and the tragedy of stories that peter out like a wave reaching a deserted beach…harmless bubbles and foam.
Steve, this was an amazing and beautifully written post. And poignant to me, as my parents are getting older and I fear for the stories that will be lost when they are gone.
By the way, I went to see Water for Elephants this weekend (with my gift certificate!) and I really liked it. I loved the book, and each scene looked exactly as I’d pictured it as I read the book. The movie is pared down, choosing to focus on the romance between Jacob and Marlena and forgoing or minimizing the other relationships in the book, as well as Jacob’s story as an elderly man. But once I recognized and accepted that, I really enjoyed the movie for what it was.
Anyway, thanks again for a thought-provoking and beautifully written post.
Sharon
Your posts stimulate me to think and reflect. Thank you
Thank you Steve! Water for Elephants is a wonderful movie, will also have to read the book! I love to ask my mom about things when she was younger (she is 83). I also asked about how she and Dad met, as there is a 7 year age difference, but they were born and lived in the same town (Christened in the same Christening dress) When Dad left for overseas during the WWII, he was 17 (Mom would have been 10). It is a beautiful story that I will cherish..I now also know where I get my romantic side (from my Dad…RIP). Thanks again. Hope all is going well with you. Blessings!
I so understand where you are coming from. I did hear some stories from my mother and dad when I was growing up; my dad especially was involved in so many things in his life–things that were briefly explained or I was in a hurry and didn’t really listen, and life is busy . By the time I was ready to listen dementia overtook his mind and he lost the ability to tell me. Many things that I found in his belongings and books and pictures after he died (he was 91) and my mom 4 months later, are now question marks–no one alive can tell me. So set aside time now, ask now.