Twenty years ago, I was finishing up a degree in Secondary Education and was asked to interview someone of retirement age. I picked two of my favorite people in the world: my mom and dad, who were then 66.
In light of my father’s recent diagnosis, and in honor of his service to this country, I am republishing this story from (not so) long ago. I remember it like it was yesterday, you know? Cherish your time with the ones you love.
The day was bright, the early morning sun falling with its customary late September crispness as I drove the 45 miles to my hometown. It was Sunday, and I arrived to find my father standing at the sink. Apron on, he had his hands in a bowl of apples just gathered from the trees out back. “Your mother’s resting,” he told me.
He sat down with me at the table to be interviewed for a paper I was writing. “My life is an open book,” he said. “What chapter do you want?”
* * * * *
My father was born 66* years ago on March 28, 1925. He was born neither far from nor long after my mother in a small town in northern Minnesota. His parents were farmers and the infamous “Dustbowl Days” were no kinder to them than to anyone. His dad lost the farm, twice.
Yet, “we always had enough food on the table,” my father acknowledged. “Dad seen to that. They were very trying times, but we were united as a family. We were closer together in the Depression Days than if you grew up with a lot of money, it seems like.”
His education began at the age of six. With one hand holding close his books and the other on his lunch, (most likely a couple of pancakes rolled with sugar, a peanut butter sandwich or—on a good day—a bit of pork), my father would make his way to the one-room country schoolhouse the children jokingly referred to as “Brushwood College.” He spent eight years there and then transferred to the parochial school in town. He left, two years shy of a diploma, on December 7, 1941.
“I got real gung-ho to go into the Marines,” he said, “And I was only seventeen years’ old then. I conned my mother and dad to sign the papers so I could go in and be a big-shot Marine—a big hero.”
My father spent a total of 33 months overseas. He seldom speaks about his World War II experience, giving in only to persistent children who have papers to write. Even then he speaks more matter-of-factly than emotionally. He saw “a lot of combat.” He “grew up in a hurry.” Still, I know he spent many, many sleepless nights in the foxhole, alone with his rosary and his fear, and I have seen the creased black-and-white photograph that he retrieved from the body of an “enemy.”
The boy who went off to war returned a man. He brought with him some painful memories, yes, but also a budding hope for the future in his heart and a set of photos in his pocket. (My mother didn’t know that her sister had been sending Dad my mother’s pictures; however, both her sister and her mother had been determined to have him in the family.)
A year and a half later, on January 29, 1947, my father George and my mother Rita were married.
After about 45 minutes of being interviewed, my father grew restless, shifting in his chair and checking his watch. “How much longer?” he asked. “I gotta get my pie made.” My mother certainly didn’t marry a stereotype. Her husband is a man who spends as much time in the kitchen as he does beneath the hood of his daughter’s car—and who is as comfortable washing the floor as he is watching a football game on TV.
“We’re nearly finished,” I told him. Up until this time, the interview had been a sort of review—an interesting history lesson. Yet I knew that for every story my father told there was a moral, and I wondered what the voice of 66-years’ worth of experience might whisper to the person who had gained it.
“What is old age?” I asked him. “Does old age come with being retired?”
“Far from it!” he said. “Old age is when you sit in a rocking chair looking out the window all day. That’s when your old age comes.” He spoke about keeping active–be it through a good hobby, or doing some farming–but above all, keeping active. “Otherwise old age will set in fast.”
“Do you feel 66?”
“Oh, yeah. I get little aches and pains that I never had before. It was ‘go go’ before, you know? Heck, the Lord’s been good to me. I don’t get sick very often. Your ma and I, we lead a pretty quiet life.”
“Do you think about death?”
“Oh, any time the Lord wants to take me I’m ready.”
“Are you afraid?”
My father’s voice drops low, and more than his answer–more than his conviction–I hear his faith. “No. Absolutely not. We’re all going to die–it’s just when the Lord calls us. And if you’re ready to meet Him, what’s there to be worried about?”
It was about that time that my mother emerged from the back bedroom. She smiled, a bit sheepish at having had to nap. “Are you ready,” I asked. “Oh sure,” came the response. She poured a cup of coffee and took a pair of scissors and the coupons from the Sunday paper with her to the table. That way at least her hands could be working on something while she was being held a captive of my interview. My mother has never been one to sit idle.
My thoughts were still on what my father had just said, and that was the subject I wanted most to return to.
“Ma, what is old age?”
She looked at me. “Do you want the truth? I haven’t had time to think about it. Really and truly. And I haven’t had time to think that I’m growing old, because I haven’t finished–I haven’t near finished what has to be done.” Her eyes were on the coupons before her–scanning, choosing, methodically clipping–and I felt that her words were being chosen in the same easy yet deliberate fashion.
“A person is old when they feel old,” she continued. “When they don’t feel they can accomplish anything more. When their sight is gone, and when they can’t think, and they can’t go and be and do for others…” She thought for a moment. “When they’re not able to be the person they’ve been all along.”
“Do you feel like you’re 66?”
“Well, I don’t know how old anybody’s supposed to feel at what age. Chronologically I don’t feel like I am what I am, except on certain days…” Again she paused. “You have to keep your hands in something and keep at something. As it is now we gotta just go and go and go.”
My mother has always gone and gone and gone. She finished high school at the age of 16. From there she went straight on to business college in Minneapolis, graduating in May of ’41. At 22 she married my father and at 26 began a family (after several years of trying). Her family was still growing 16 years later when she had me; she was just one month shy of 42.
She has done volunteer work at hospitals and retirement homes, and has worked with the area Hospice program. I wondered if her experience with Hospice had changed her outlook on death.
“I’ve never been scared of death,” she said. She showed me the obituary of a woman in their community who had just passed away, a woman she had known and worked with. “You know, it kind of makes you envious. Her pilgrimage is done and I’m proud to have been a part of her life.”
I asked my mother why she thought so many people were afraid of death. “If people don’t have faith and they don’t know there’s a Lord waiting for them–if they’re not headed in the right direction–they think this is the end. And it’s not.”
* * * * *
After these interviews I was struck by how my parents’ convictions so closely paralleled one another. The years of their life together represent not only a union in marriage but a union in faith. Their faith has always seen them through–from the Depression to World War II to raising four teenagers during the sixties. (“My hair turned gray!” said my mother.) Their reward is in their family–their six children, their 22 grandchildren, their 14 great-grandchildren–and their reward will be in death.
“You must remember,” said my mother, “that we have won the battle. ‘Greatest is He that is in you than he that is in the world.’ And he that is in the world is forever trying to make us despair. And there’s just no way! I mean, I’ve looked at the last page…and we’re the winners!”
Sweet and inspiring. I love the last line! Love it,
I remember this post and planned on not reading it because I know I'd cry. (again) so, I skipped to the end, and of course cried anyway. Beautiful.
You look just like your beautiful mama. I love their wedding picture.
That's really sweet of you to say, Jamie. Thank you.
I came over From Bearing's blog, and I am glad I did! What a wonderful tribute to your parents. Thank you for posting this.
Like.
Oh, my! That is just so beautiful!!! I am blubbering over here. I can't even put it into words, but your parents remind me so much of my own – but my own dear mother has gone on to her reward. Feeling so blessed to have had such wonderful parents… thank you for reminding me by sharing about yours!
I enjoyed reading this post very much. I will continue to pray for your Dad. I lost mine on May 16th. I have to admit I am a bit jealous that you've had your Dad longer than I was able to have mine. You mentioned he was 66 when you did this interview. My dad was just 64 when he died two Thursdays ago. It's so hard to lose a parent. I will pray for strength for you. He seems so strong and so vibrant. I'm happy to hear he is also very spiritual. My dad was, too. He was SO ready to go….my mom not so much. She's still taking it very hard, but I have plans to bring her up here to be with us. We'll see what happens. She's young, too, only 65. God bless you all, Margaret.:)
Faith lived, a wonderful piece!