Understanding the Elderly

When I was a child, I knew there was one thing I never wanted to be when I grew up:  OLD.

My grandmother (whom I never saw as elderly) would take us to visit old people (or that's what I called them at the time).  It was a regular activity for us, and I am grateful to her now for showing me the importance of doing this.

Ruby Diamond
c.1905

There was a woman in Tallahassee named Ruby Diamond (yes, that was her actual name), and she was older than the hills.  She also, as they say, had more money than God.  In fact, there is the Ruby Diamond Auditorium, and the Ruby Diamond Concert Hall on the campus of Florida State University--they were named for her because of her continued support of Florida State as an alumna of the university itself.  I didn't know it at the time, but she graduated from FSU in 1905 (as a woman), and went on to receive her Master's from FSU.  My girls can't appreciate it now, but this was an amazing feat for a woman then.

I'm not sure how my grandmother became connected with her--I'm guessing it was because of my grandmother's support of the arts on campus also--but we would visit her.  She was in her 90's, and due to some health complication, she had lost her nose.  It was all I could do to not look at her plastic nose which hung from a hook on her glasses (I was a child after all).  She lived in a lavish apartment at the top of a building, and it looked like a museum.  Wood, hand-carved furniture, chairs covered in velvet, strands of beads hanging from lamps.  I'm afraid it was all a bit intimidating to me (especially her nose), and I sat patiently next to my grandmother as she visited with her.

We would also visit Ruth Lindquist.  All outside appearances would suggest that these two women were very different, but as an adult now I can appreciate that they were very much the same.  Ruth lived in a small, modest apartment, and her claim to fame (by my grandmother, at least) was that at the age of 85, she could still see without the aid of eyeglasses.  She had snow white hair which she braided on either side and then pinned around her head (in Swedish fashion).  She was incredibly intelligent and could keep up with my grandmother (who was at least 20 years her junior).

Almost overnight, Ruth was struck with dementia.  One summer she was vibrant and aware, and the next summer she was just a shell of a person.  Her apartment became untidy and it became apparent that she could no longer live independently. Because she had never married (nor had Miss Diamond), she had no family to take care of her.  My grandparents noticed the change and could do nothing but move her to a nursing home.  I'm glad now to think that she probably didn't even notice the change, or know what was happening, because the real Ruth would have been horrified at her own mental decline.

After I had children, and I would visit my grandparents, my grandmother wouldn't hesitate to take us along to her weekly nursing home visits.  She would bring anyone that would accompany her, with the idea that she could bring some happiness to those lonely people.  I don't know if any of my children (probably only Ethan) will even remember doing this--we would sing for quite a while with me at the piano.  John was wonderful about going around and talking to everyone (as he always does).

I could see it only one way:  old people think slowly, they move slowly, they drive even slower, and I would never (ever!) be like them.

In fact, I can remember in the vanity of youth, looking at my face in the mirror and telling myself that it would never change.  Why would it?  I would never let my body break down.

Now that I find myself (hopefully) in the exact middle of my life, I have learned a few things, and my perspective on the elderly has changed.

Two things that the elderly have on all of us:  wisdom, and experience.

I have learned that there is nothing like this from us "young in's".  In fact, I take great joy in speaking to older people, and listening to what they have to teach me.

I was recently released from my Sunday School calling, and called as the Stake Family History Center Director.  At first, I felt like this was a "busy work" kind of calling with not much to do, but it has taken over my life.  And I'm very happy about that.

The funny thing is that I am, by far, the youngest person in any kind of family history leadership calling in our stake.  The youngest by at least 20 or 30 years.  And because of this, I look back at the subtle lessons of respecting the elderly that my grandmother taught me, and I am sincerely grateful.

I have learned that there is much gained by slowing down.  I have spoken to patrons who talk about the decline in quality of family history work because of the speed of results with computers and the internet.  In "the old days", genealogists would need to order a film, wait for the film to arrive, and then spend days, if not weeks, pouring over every tidbit of information that could be gleaned from that film (whether or not it seemed to directly apply to your family) before they sent it back.  Books were actually used, and needed to be read in order to learn more.  During this slow process, thoughts could percolate and connections could be made that wouldn't have seemed obvious with less time.  The family history libraries were filled, with every table covered with papers and books, and it was difficult to find an open microfilm reader.

Now, as with digital cameras, we want our information immediately.  We don't want to wait, we don't want to work.  If there isn't an immediate result, people tend to give up.

People see family history as a computer-oriented activity now.  There are no pilgrimages to cemeteries, no becoming acquainted with localities, no time to think things over.  It's fast and furious, and unfortunately, laden with errors.

These wizened people have reaffirmed my own belief that it's good to reflect on things before moving forward.  I stepped into the calling five steps behind.  The program in our stake was dysfunctional, if functioning at all.  I have wanted to change everything in one fell swoop, but I have learned that it's better to make changes slowly and carefully, allowing other people time to recognize that the changes are good.

Too, when all is said and done, older people do tend to know more.  Not in every case, but in most cases.  It makes sense--they have been on this earth longer, and they have seen more than I have.  It's like someone who comes on a job straight out of college, versus someone who has been working the job for 20 years.  The senior worker knows more--maybe not about new advances, and such, but they have a deeper understanding of the job itself.

I balked at being told what to do when I was a child.  It's only been in the last few years that I have taken to listening to lots and lots of advice, and especially when I listen to John, I find that things run more smoothly than if I had done what I thought I should do.  I have a sister-in-law who sees things the same way I do, but she goes about doing everything differently.  I like to hear her thoughts, because it gives me perspective.  Friends too.  I enjoy my lunch dates with my friends because they are deep thinkers, and they challenge me to be a better person.



My favorite joke with Mark is telling him that I'm always right.  It usually comes out something like "Mark, I'm your mother, I'm smarter, and I'm right.  You can do it the way you want to, but you will be wrong, and you will come back to me and tell me that I am right."  This is said with a smile, and in the beginning, Mark would test this theory repeatedly.  In his junior year, he stopped testing me and started trusting me.  It then became a running joke that he would randomly announce throughout the house (in an Italian accent), "Mama, you are perrrrfecto. You-a are always right."



It became a beautiful thing to see him show so much respect to both John and me, by always listening to us.  In the beginning, he hated helping John with anything--fixing cars, building sheds, laying patio--but even now, from Russia, he continues to thank us for what we have taught him.

As an adult now, I wish I could go back to Ruby Diamond, and ask her about her life.  Ask her about the challenges of being a single, educated woman around the turn of the 20th century.  I wish I could talk to Ruth Lindquist about the books that she most enjoyed.  I wish I could ask both of them about life lessons they learned, and that I, myself, could learn from those.  There is much to gain from those who have lived longer and experienced more.  We just need to slow down too and remember that.