Don’t tell Mom that there is no fountain of youth.
She has found it. And she will tell you that it’s right under – or rather behind – your nose. It’s your brain. Use it and stay young. There is plenty to do in Newburyport, so get out and do it.
To set the record straight, she is not my real Mom, but a surrogate for the one who passed on several years ago. My logic goes like this. Her son is like a brother to me so I call him my brother by another mother. And thus by association she must now be my mother by another brother. And each one of her four daughters (one is my girlfriend) is my sister by another mister. So if she is my surrogate mother, they are my surrogate siblings. Don’t think about that too deeply. It’s about as deep as a puddle and it’s just my way of making a short story long to let you know they are like family to me.
Mom is a native Porter, born here, raised here, and remained here all her life.
Her husband was a native of Amesbury and together they bought a house in Newburyport and raised a family. (He is no longer with us, but is deeply loved by his children. He and Mom did one heck of a job raising the five kids, imbuing them with a sense of personal responsibility for their lives. I do not know the statistics, but to raise five kids who stayed close to kith, kin, and hearth, who made good lives for themselves – well, I’d bet that’s far from the norm in America.) These children – three within walking distance and two within twenty minutes by car – and a lifetime of faith and friends anchor her.
She is a proper gadabout of insatiable curiosity and boundless energy. She satisfies this thirst for the happy life by getting out and staying active.
She shovels snow by “brooming” it while it is still freshly fallen. She rakes leaves and twigs from her yard and bags them. She tends to the small creatures by keeping her birdfeeder full. She holds garage sales and is the “greenest” person I know, reusing all recyclables until they’re good for nothing but the recycle bin. She is physically more able than many her age, but here lies the conundrum of cause and effect. Is she active because she is able or is she able because she is active? My unscientific guess is the latter.
She loves her town library and come the biennial book drives, she’s sure to come around to collect our old books. The free afternoon movies there are not to be missed and when she’s seen them all, the Screening Room is high on her list of things to do and places to go.
Senior Discounts are appreciated!
She watches for town restaurants offering senior discounts and coupons and loves to invite friends to accompany her to local fast food joints for the two-for-one specials. She still drives and the worst part of the snowstorms this past winter was not the snow but being snowbound. After several hours, she gets cabin fever, especially if it’s Sunday as the Sabbath is an integral part of her life. She sings in the choir at the Immaculate Conception Church and is an erstwhile member of the Newburyport Choral Society. When her daughter and I make our occasional appearance at Sunday services, her face lights up. We have made her day.
So it was Mom that telephoned on Good Friday to remind us not to eat meat. “Go to McDonalds. They are selling two fish sandwiches for the price of one. I just got back. One for lunch and one for dinner. Or you can make tuna fish and add in some hard-boiled eggs. It’s yummy. And I’ll be looking for you Easter Sunday at church.” The latter is not a question, but a not-so-veiled commandment and a reminder that as the body needs nurturing so does the spirit.
Born and raised a Presbyterian, I’ve never been under the contraint to avoid meat on Fridays. Now it seems I am a Roman Catholic by association and let me tell you this: If you can persuade a Presbyterian to consider even for a moment a papal bull, you’ve got some serious power. I’m under her spell and sway. Her faith, optimism, and cheer are contagious.
Appreciate the wisdom and wit of our Seniors.
She’s 87 going on eighteen and no shrinking violet. She’ll pull up in front of the house and beep the horn like a teenager who just got her license. “What’s up? Come with me. There’s a photographer I want to see at the Firehouse. Why not? You gonna mope around the house on this beautiful day? Let’s go! Afterwards we can get something to eat. I’ve got a bunch of coupons.”
Once, as I sat next to her on the sofa at a family gathering, one of her children said something gently impatient to no one in particular and Mom turned to me and whispered, “Oh, Malcolm, she can be such a grouch.” She winked and smiled.
Her son, a good and dutiful one, visits regularly to help with the heavier chores. An orange peeled and sliced and a sugary sweet something are always plated and waiting for him before he leaves. Mothers are like that. Yeah, they are.