Up until a few years back I shied away from admitting being of the baby boomer generation. I didn’t wish to be considered “old”. I remember my daughter, when she was a 21 year old working in an investment banking company, had told me of a smart 27-year old investment banker who was interested in her. She discouraged him from showering attention on her because he was “too old”. Too old! I thought, what does that make me, decades older – ancient? When my son’s wife became pregnant, I was elated, yet I planned to ask that I be called Mama by my grandchild. But when my grandson Eliott was born in July 2009, I couldn’t help celebrating the thought that now, here’s one who will call me Lola! It has been that way ever since. Without embarrassment, I can declare to the world, I am a baby boomer Lola, graciously and gracefully advancing in age and somewhat wiser — once a blooming teen of the 60’s, a lover and hater of tissed poofed hair, still a nostalgic for old romance and hootenannies, still a swooning fan of Beatles songs, and now a striving student of the modern tech world, an aspiring poet and songwriter, a dreamer, a doting Lola very much in love with the cantankerousness of youth. Also now, a very “young” blogger.
What is it about the invading tech world that many (generally speaking) of my generation fear, refuse to learn or grapple with, ignore, or not have anything to do with. I may be among the brave few who use and depend on computers for regular work. But don’t ask me to troubleshoot a technical glitch. I’d rather leave that to the much appreciated and revered IT department. I probably could resolve the bug if I put my mind to it; but no … I decide that the IT person can do a better job. I don’t tinker with the fledging gadget because I cling to the crazy notion that the machine might either blow up in my face or completely break down. Silly, but I don’t dare risk it.
For over four decades, my husband drove Ms Daisy. I was Ms. Daisy, happy to get from point A to point B without the knack for learning or knowing directions. He liked driving and rendered me this service as one of the perks of love. I graciously accepted and enjoyed being the sitting queen.
When he passed nearly two years ago, I intensely grieved over the loss of my love — and sorely missed my driver. I had to re-learn driving skills and confidence, thanks to my son’s thoughtful gesture of enrolling me in driving school. Now, Ms. Daisy drives, and more, I’ve learned to gas up the car, steer up to car wash lines, and go to auto service shops whenever a warning light pops up on my dashboard. I relish the thought that an ability has been added to my list of “can do’s”.
Still about my visit in that car shop — what was I thinking! Did I assume that car repairs always ended in a good car wash? Honestly, I did. Wasn’t it that way in early days? I told the customer service guy that I’d get back my car after the car wash following the repair. He looked at me strangely like I was from another planet. Quite respectfully, however, he said, “Ma’am, it’s not done anymore. Maybe many, many years ago, that was part of our service, though I don’t recall when that stopped.” Oh no, that wasn’t my intent – reveal that I came from the ancient world. Of course, I was dismayed. I wanted to save a trip to the regular car wash.
However, what I got from that repair shop as I spilled out my car woes was remarkable customer service — a respectful listener, a sympathetic look, efficient response, accurate diagnosis, and quick recording on the computer. “Needs oil change and a checkup,” he advised. “OK, I’ll wait,” I said.
A brown little bird whizzed by my ear and flew into my home as I opened the patio door to reach for the broom standing in the corner. A surprise and unexpected visit from a winged intruder I quickly named Tweet-Tweet was, for the first three minutes, a playful flurry that I enjoyed. When that novelty wore off, anxiety settled in. How could I make Tweet-Tweet fly out the open door! With no thought of catching it, I just wanted to shoo it away, out the open door. It read my mind if it had any brain at all. I decided, yes, definitely with a brain in its tiny pointed head. It expertly avoided me, often with exultant chirp-chirps that teased and irritated. No, that’s not all correct, Tweet-Tweet amused me, too. Strangely, I found myself chatting back with a lilting chirp-chirp version of my own that aimed to top Tweet-Tweet’s. When I did, Tweet-Tweet stopped fleeting back and forth, alighted on a ledge far above my reach, and ogled at me with its round black eyes like I was a friend, or plain crazy. Then it resumed circling the living room with such graceful elegance and no qualms, no shame, like it was master of the house. For one fleeting moment, I considered keeping it for a house pet. Quickly I abandoned that ridiculous thought when it fluttered about my head in taunting fashion.
What do you do when you fancy what you’re eating to the max, and feel like you’re in seventh heaven? Do you close your eyes with an ethereal smile? Do you roll up your eyes in disbelief of what you’re savoring in your palate? Do you grunt and exclaim “Wow” in between munches? Or do you look down at your food and pray over it in utter gratitude?
I swing my legs under the table as I chew with gusto. I was unaware of this quirk until my husband pointed it out to me. Some years ago, while I was contentedly eating at the table, my husband relaxed on the couch watching his favorite TV talk show. He finished his dinner ahead to catch a feature on 60 Minutes. That was fine with me because I appreciated some quiet time with my food, intending to catch up with the day’s chats after his program.
A strange memory popped up – my first painful encounter with defeat. It was in the fourth grade when I robustly volunteered for a needle threading contest: walk fast ten yards to the person holding up a needle, thread the needle in lightning speed, and … easy, I thought.
The first to thread the needle, I stopped right by the human post. I couldn’t understand why some zealots in the audience were waving ferociously at me. Were their waves victory gestures? I smiled triumphantly back at the waving people. But suddenly, my smile froze when I realized something was wrong. The other contestants were rushing back after threading the needle. Then gripped with the sad realization, my heart suspended in mid-air, anger with myself followed over “youthful stupidity” fringed on lack of focus. I was too busy listening to my thoughts of winning, and failed to hear the full instructions.
I am a baby boomer and a Lola (Grandma). Shhh! Don’t ask … wondering how old I am? It’s just a number – and I’ll keep you guessing.
Babyboomerlola.com offers meanderings from the heart. Looking back over the years, I recognize how much more I know now, how remarkably I’ve experienced the nuances of life, the summation of which is the wisdom of what and how much I’ve learned – through all the mesh and mush: gaiety grabbed, foolishness treaded, anxieties bashed, choices snubbed, ambition seized, triumphs celebrated, dreams chased, hopes abandoned, and wise counsel followed or wasted. The vortex of this wisdom is the humility of realizing the vastness of opportunity, experience, insights, lessons and care bestowed in generous measure by love and blessings.
My blogs will share observations, memories, thoughts, feelings, reflections. They will reminisce the “old days”, see how they compare with the changing times perhaps with some nostalgia sufficient to elicit gratitude for what was then that effected what has become. There, too, will be tid bits of significant trivia of the day, or flashbacks of episodes meaningful enough to remember and tell: random musings, mind teasers, contemplative cliffhangers, stories that may run the gamut from interesting, instructive, sophic, intriguing, amazing, to humorous or simply ridiculous or foolish.
I invite you to come step into my world – or, take a peek and linger a while. With variations, it could be your world, too.