Chicken Soup for the Woman's Soul (25 page)

One day, the community center staff came to me and asked if I would help with the entertainment for a Hawaiian luau they were putting on. I said yes. (I’m a yes person—I say yes first and think later!) Then I talked five other ladies into dancing with me.
How hard could it be?
I thought.
The hula? Just wiggle your hips!
We performed the hula and a war chant and brought the house down. Someone had a camera and took pictures, then sent them on to our local paper. We got requests for more engagements, which in turn led to more publicity and yet more engagements. Soon we had invitations from all over the country. The Dancin’ Grannies were born!

The sad thing was that we met the most resistance from our families and our peers. Older women were disgusted when we performed in leotards and often echoed our children’s advice, telling us to “act your age.” What did that mean? Being humpy, lumpy and grumpy? No thanks! (Of course, after we were asked to perform at the White House for President and Mrs. Bush and visiting dignitaries, our families changed their tune.)

We often ran into age prejudice. The young in particular assume things about older people that aren’t always true. One weekend we were invited to perform at a university in Wisconsin, and it was arranged that we would sleep in the dorms. Well, the students dismantled their bunk beds for us grannies! They must have thought that either we wouldn’t be able to get up to the top bunk, or that if we made it up there, we might fall out.

Our performances haven’t all been smooth sailing, either. Our first parade was a disaster! I had choreographed a dance number where we started out as old grannies, with hair nets and robes, and then changed into hot grannies—putting on hats and gloves and taking off the robes. Bad Idea! Have you ever tried to change clothes and dance while you’re moving with a parade? Plus, as we traveled down the road, the groups who saw the old grannies were not the same people who saw the hot grannies, so the whole point of the dance was lost anyway. Finally, we ended up just changing clothes and then running to catch up. And the audience loved it!

People are amazed at how physically demanding our routines are. We do splits, cartwheels, one-armed pushups, somersaults and high kicks. Our best cartwheeler is 72 years old.

But I think the real secret of the Dancin’ Grannies is our attitude. I was raised extremely poor—no-food poor. If we wanted toys we had to make things up to play with, so I learned early to be very creative. And you know, I think being poor was one of the best things that ever happened to me because I learned to look for treasures.

That’s what I’m still doing today—looking for the treasure in growing old. I’m getting better and better. I haven’t heard one young person yet say, “I’m just dying to get old—that looks like so much fun!” But it can be. We are pushing the edge of the envelope, living longer in a totally different world. When I was little and visited my grandmother, it was always “Watch out for granny’s knickknacks. Don’t touch anything. Be quiet.” When my grandchildren visit, they like to try and test me, and I say to myself, “I’m not going to let those little twerps beat me!” And oh, we do have fun!

It’s true that antiques have to be treated a bit differently, with a little care, but they still have a beauty all their own.

Beverly Gemigniani with Carol Kline

A Romance of the ’90s for
Those in Their 70s

A
ge does not protect you from love.
But love, to some extent, protects you from age.

Jeanne Moreau

There he stood, tall and handsome and 71 years old. There I stood, going on 70, and his face went straight to my heart.

We were waiting to see the same doctor at a small Iowa hospital. I sat down right next to him as we both looked at magazines, but I don’t think I absorbed a single word I read that day. An hour later, at the local market, I was amazed to find him waiting at the prescription counter as I went up to talk to the pharmacist. I said, “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.” He responded courteously, but I found out later that he hadn’t even noticed me the first time!

His name was Bill. As we chatted, I was surprised to discover that this attractive stranger was the father of my granddaughter’s kindergarten teacher. His own grandson was also in the class, and the two children had been mysteriously drawn to each other.

Each of us had moved to Iowa from our respective coasts to be close to our children and grandchildren. We had both left unhappy romances behind and were, in a sense, starting over.

The more I learned about this man, the more intrigued I became. He had built his own house with serious environmental consideration. He was an artist and professor of art history. He had been a Conscientious Objector during the war, and in case after case, his values matched mine perfectly.

After a few phone conversations, our two families convened in the town square for a band concert. My daughter insisted that I bake cookies. Apparently they came out pretty good that night.

One day Bill phoned and apologized for not walking me to the door the evening before. I assured him I was a liberated female who didn’t need such pampering, and he said, “No, I mean that if I had walked you to the door, I could have given you a good-night kiss.”

They say timing is everything. I had been caring for a woman with Alzheimer’s disease, and was about to move on. So I was temporarily sharing cramped quarters with my son and his family, planning to find a room to rent somewhere. I stayed with Bill for just a few days when he said, “It would be fun to plan our garden together.” That meant our lives were weaving together, and I couldn’t have been happier to hear it.

Soon in his sweet, sensitive way, Bill suggested we marry to protect my good name in our closely knit community. I told him I was not concerned with appearances. Then, after a few weeks of what can only be described as domestic bliss, I found myself sitting on his lap one day. He looked at me, smiled, and quietly said, “It would be fun to plan our marriage together.” I didn’t know my heart could glow like that. How could I possibly say no?

We planned an exquisite June wedding at full moonrise. So many people expressed a desire to witness our union that we put an ad in the local paper in the form of our four grandchildren inviting all to the marriage of their grandparents. When we exchanged vows, I declared that, “Everything in my life has prepared me for this magical moment.” I truly believe that nothing was wasted.

Bill and I came together at a time when both of us had “paid our dues.” We’d experienced a lot of pain and a lot of beauty in our lives, and we’d each finally arrived at something like inner peace, self-sufficiency and even self-appreciation.

When I think of our relationship, I think of a passage I once read:

I must conquer my loneliness alone.

I must be happy with myself, or I have nothing to offer.

Two halves have little choice but to join;

and yes, they do make a whole.

But two wholes when they coincide . . .

That is beauty. That is love.

Lillian Darr

Bessie

F
ew people know how to be old.

La Rochefoucauld

EDITORS’ NOTE: The following is an excerpt from
Having Our Say: The Delaney Sisters’ First 100 Years,
a memoir of Bessie and Sadie Delaney, two remarkable African-American women who had careers as a dentist and a school teacher before American women had the right to vote. Bessie passed away on September 25, 1995 at the age of 104, and we are honored to include this contribution in her memory.

I’ll tell you a story: The house we own is a two-family house, and sometimes the neighbors can hear us through the wall. One time, they had a guest who was up in arms. Just up in arms! She heard these sounds, like laughter, coming from our side, late at night, and she was convinced there were ha’ants. Yes, sir, she thought we were ghosts.

Our neighbor came over the next day and quizzed us down. And I said, “Ain’t no ha’ants, it’s just the two of us being silly.” It hadn’t occurred to them that these two old sisters, at our age, would be a-carrying on like that. I guess they think of old folks as people who sit around like old sourpusses. But not us. No, sir! When people ask me how we’ve lived past 100, I say, “Honey, we never married. We never had husbands to worry us to death!”

I love to laugh. There’s a song I just remembered from the 1890s that we colored children used to sing. Sadie and I thought it was hilarious. I hadn’t thought of it in, well, about a hundred years! It goes like this:

The preacher he went a-hunting
On one Sunday morn
According to his religion
He carried along his gun
He shot one dozen partridges
On his way to the fair
And he got down the road a little further
And spied a big, grizzly bear
Well, the bear stood up in the middle of the road
The preacher dropped to his knees
He was so excited
That he climbed up in a tree!
The parson stayed in that tree
I think it was all night
Then he cast his eyes to the Lord in the sky
And these words said to him
Oh Lord, didn’t you deliver Daniel
From the lion’s den?
Also brother Jonah
From the belly of the whale,
And when the three Hebrew children
In the fiery furnace sent?

Oh Lord, please me do spare!

But Lord, if you can’t help me,
Please don’t help that bear!

Honey, we thought that punch line at the end was just about the funniest thing in the world. Oppressed people have a good sense of humor. Think of the Jews. They know how to laugh, and to laugh at themselves! Well, we colored folks are the same way. We colored folks are suvivors.

There are certain stereotypes that are offensive. Some of them don’t worry me, though. For instance, I have always thought that Mammy character in
Gone with the Wind
was mighty funny. And I just loved “Amos ‘n’ Andy” on the radio. So you see, I have enough confidence in myself that those things did not bother me. I could laugh.

Sadie and I get a kick out of things that happened a long, long time ago. We talk about folks who turned to dust so long ago that we’re the only people left on this Earth with any memory of them. We always find ways to celebrate our memories of our family and friends. Why, we still have a birthday party for Papa, even though he’s been gone since 1928. We cook his favorite birthday meal, just the way he liked it: chicken and gravy, rice and sweet potatoes, ham, macaroni and cheese, cabbage, cauliflower, broccoli, turnips, and carrots. For dessert we’ll have a birthday cake—a pound cake—and ambrosia, made with oranges and fresh coconut.

Generally, we stay away from liquor. Except once in a while, we make Jell-O with wine. What you do is replace some of the water in the recipe with wine. It’ll relax you, but you won’t get drunk. The truth is, I have never been
drunk
in my life.

One thing Sadie and I do is stay away from doctors as much as possible. And we avoid hospitals because, honey, they’ll kill you there. They overtreat you. And when they see how old you are, and that you still have a mind, they treat you like a curiosity: like “Exhibit A” and “Exhibit B.” Like, “Hey, nurse, come on over here and looky-here at this old woman, she’s in such good shape . . .” Most of the time they don’t even treat you like a person, just an object.

One time, some doctor asked Sadie to do a senility test. Of course, she passed. A year later, he asked her to do it again, and she said, “Don’t waste your time, doctor.” And she answered all the questions from the year before, before he could ask them. And then she said to me, “Come on, Bess, let’s get on out of here.”

People assume Sadie and I don’t have any sense at our age. But we still have all our marbles, yes, sir! I do get tired, physically. But who am I to complain about being tired? God don’t ever get tired of putting his sun out every morning, does He? Who am I to complain about being weary?

Funny thing is, some days I feel like a young girl and other days I’m feeling the grave, just a-feeling the grave. That’s why it’s important that we get all this stuff written down now, because you never know when you’ll meet the Lord in the sky.

Bessie Delaney

“Are We Having Fun Yet?”

Y
ou don’t stop laughing because you grow old; you grow old because you stop laughing.

Michael Pritchard

Every summer when I was a kid, my family took a two-week vacation at a resort in northern Minnesota. We looked so forward to this annual event that I clearly remember not being able to sleep the night before, and I actually felt my stomach tickle as we drove down the lane of the resort.

The resort was on a lake named Potato. Honest to God, that is still the name of this lake; and no, you don’t fish for potatoes. I do, however, remember some rather clever names given to boats: “Sweet Potato,” “The Potato Chip” and “Spuds.” My dad had visited this lake when he was a kid, and tells us how he was taken in by the sheer beauty of the place and the friendliness of the people. So when he and Mom were married, somehow he convinced her that this was to be their “honeymoon haven.” Needless to say, she fell in love, and so our annual vacation saga began.

I don’t know when I first met Delores. She was kind of like a relative. You know how it is, you grow up with them, and they are always just sort of around. Delores and her family had a cabin at the edge of the resort and were always actively involved in everyone’s vacation. I laugh to myself when I say “actively involved” because Delores was known as the resort’s “Activity Director,” always drumming up something to do.