Author: Sharron Burnett

I remember listening to the Beatles song When I’m Sixty-Four when I was in my early twenties and teasing my husband that I would still be fabulous at that age. Of course the very thought of being that old was unimaginable to me back then. Somehow I felt as though being old was something my grandmothers did, but certainly not me. My first brush with reality came when my lovely mother’s hair began to turn grey and she walked with hesitation because her knees were not quite working right. She gave up sewing by hand when her fingers became deformed by arthritis. and her usual energy was replaced with numerous naps during the day. Of course she was in her eighties by then, but I began to realize that I was following a pattern that she and every other human eventually must endure, the process of growing old. 

I have to humbly admit that when I finally reached the grand old age of sixty-four I was not that far off from my prediction that I would still be fabulous. My doctor declared that I was as healthy as a horse and I was still working twelve hour days at full tilt. I didn’t look so bad either, given my age. Sadly, from that magical point forward I came to resemble an old car that develops one problem after another and spends a great deal of time in the shop.

My knees were the first to go. A bit of surgery on one of them forestalled the need to replace either of them, but when rain or cold is on the horizon I walk more slowly and with a slight bend. Arthritis has found a home in all of my joints sending me to physical therapy sessions for arms, back, knees and feet. It never occurred to me that it would be my skeleton that would fail me and give me that first glimpse of being an old lady. 

I had nary a grey hair until about a year ago, but when the first one came the others followed in rapid succession. About the same time wrinkles began to show up here and there. Young people began to defer to me by opening doors and offering me seats on public transportation. They would ask me if I needed to have help carrying my groceries as though I had suddenly become an invalid. I had to remind myself that they were actually being polite and kind rather that trying to insult me. I learned to accept their offers with gratitude even though I am still perfectly fine standing in a moving train and lugging my own packages. 

I don’t recall my grandmothers ever worrying about getting older. They just went with the flow unlike my generation that seems to want to drink from the fountain of youth to prove that they can do anything a youngster is able to do. I am perhaps more guilty of such tendencies than most. I still move gingerly up and down the steps leading to my attic handling heavy boxes. I stand on high ladders to reach corners of my home. My daughters chide me and remind me that I should not still be doing such things, but I seem to have inherited by grandfather’s hardheadedness. When he was eighty-eight, he was still climbing high into the air to install light fixtures at NASA. He worked happily until a supervisor realized how old he was and sent him home for good. 

Without divulging my age I will just say that I am past the iconic age from the Beatles song. My doctor actually marvels at how well I am doing. He often tells me that I do not look or act my age. I know that I make an effort to stay active in both mind and body, but I have also witnessed some of my peers losing battles against the degeneration that is inevitable as their years on this earth accumulate. I grow weary of receiving learning that yet another dear friend has passed from this earth. I understand that my fate is entangled with the natural order of things. I can only stave off the march of time for so long before I too become more and more limited by a waning body and mind. 

For now I am somehow fortunate to still maintain a small sliver of my youthful energy. I have the strength to do most of the things I have always done, but not quite as quickly as in the past. I find great joy in each moment and appreciate things that I may have overlooked at one time. I hear to cooing of the doves that flock to my backyard each spring and it is glorious. I watch the children laughing and playing on my street and my heart bursts with optimism and hope. My youthfulness lies in my heart and my willingness to hand over the future to the hopes of dreams of the younger generation. I have every faith that they will do a remarkable job. 

To everything there is a season. My mother always told me that there comes a time to simply sit back and enjoy each moment, trusting in the wisdom of those who will follow me. My children and students and grandchildren are seizing each day in continuing the work that my generation and other generations so earnestly tried to do. The world keeps moving, and my part in it these days seems to be to simply to love and encourage optimism for the future. I stay young at heart because I look back with wisdom and gaze forward with hope. I age with grace. 

I used to be so thin that the cafeteria ladies gave me extra large helpings of food on those rare days when I had money to purchase lunch. I had a difficult time finding clothes that would fit without looking baggy. When I married I was five feet six and a half inches tall and weighed eighty-eight pounds soaking wet. I had to alter the wedding dress that I found to keep it from looking like it was hanging on a coat hanger. I was able to eat as much as I wanted and never gain a pound, but I often wondered if anybody thought I might have an eating disorder because I was able to keep pace with an athlete when it came to chowing down. 

Even after I had two children I only weighed one hundred ten pounds and stayed that way for years without dieting or doing a great deal of exercise. I enjoyed being able to eat to my heart’s content without worrying about calories. People whose girth slowly increased over time often told me that they were jealous that I had no need to worry about what or how much I ate. it was actually quite wonderful, and I usually gave away unstylish clothing that I wore for years before it began to look too dated to use any longer. 

When I turned forty years old all of that changed. Suddenly I only had to look at food or think about it to gain a pound here and a pound there. I began doing pilates at home and carefully portioning what I consumed. Nothing worked. it did not even seem to matter whether I worked hard to count calories and eat tons of vegetables instead of carbs and fat. I continued to grow heavier, adding weight a little bit each year. It was terrifying.

I joined a gym and worked out five to seven times a week. I walked all over my neighborhood. I tossed out anything that had salt or sugar or any other fattening ingredients. I drank water like I had just returned from a trek across the desert. Still I gained pound after pound. In addition I began to shrink, which made my situation even worse. Over time I lost my reputation as a tall girl by losing two and a half inches of height. My once long waist became short and fat popped out in my mid-section. I became obsessed with returning to my former svelte glory. 

I invested in healthy eating cookbooks and magazines. I controlled my portions and pushed deserts away. I followed all of the rules of multiple weight loss programs with very little progress. Sometimes I would actually go down five or six pounds only to regain it almost overnight. My feet and ankles would swell and on those days and I would be four pounds up. With water and a bit of elevating of my feet I would be back down overnight, and so the yo-yo went. 

I’ve been in a larger size than I care to admit for about ten years. The good news is that I seem to be in a stable place, but I would still love to lose a bit each year until I reach a more comfortable point. It does not seem too much to ask given that I really don’t over eat anymore and haven’t for at least a decade. I make sure to drink the right amount of water each day and to include green vegetables and healthy fruit in my diet. I’m not a great fan of meat and I don’t like to consume a lot of bread so by any standards I am being good.

My mother thought I worried too much about returning to my former thin self. She often urged me just to enjoy eating whatever I want as long as I don’t overdo anything. She pointed out that with my osteoporosis I I probably needed a bit of extra padding to protect my bones in case I fall. She thought I actually look better than when I was more like Twiggy. 

My mother-in-law had a theory that there is always a reason when even the most careful dieting does not result in a loss of weight. She used to theorize that my body had just decided that I needed to have more weight for some unknown reason. While I liked her encouragement, I still felt frustrated that I worked so hard for very little progress.

Of late I’m just happy that I am still rocking along with lots of energy and no real health problems. I feel fortunate that I am able to purchase good healthy food and try to not worry as much about whether or not it is leading to weight loss. I work out on my stationary bike and my treadmill and do exercises for my arms with weights and elastic bands. I go for walks whenever I can. My new goal is just to stay healthy rather than to develop a slender figure. My clothes still fit and I am a grandmother, so how I look just does not matter that much any more. 

I still have binders filled with recipes from Cooking Light and Weight Watchers. I follow a rule of moderation and staying active every single day. I won’t turn back the clock to a time when my metabolism was so fast that I did not have an ounce of fat on my body. I have wrinkles now and my hair is thinner than it used to be. My knees tell me when it is going to rain or turn cold. Once in awhile my back halts my heavy lifting and I’ve given away all of my stiletto heels. I am not so much acting my age, but deferring to its changes. I feel good and that seems to be all th at really matters. My doctor seems to think that I am going to be around for a very long time because other than a bit of arthritis nothing is wrong with me. I feel proud of myself and the efforts I make to stay as healthy as I am. If that includes a bit a fat, then so be it. My only diet is an easy one…I eat small meals and try to avoid fatty or sugary foods. As long as I continue to feel upbeat I suppose that I am on the right track. My search for the Twiggy version of me is done.

I saw an editorial recently entitled There Is Almost Too Much To Worry About. I suppose that throughout the history of the world there have been times when war, disease, and economic insecurity have coincided to upended the human ability to maintain a happy disposition. Sometimes I think that therein lies the old saw that “ignorance is bliss.” Whenever we begin to contemplate the dire seriousness of the issues facing the entire globe there is often an overwhelming temptation to echo the words of Scarlett O’Hara, “I’ll think about that tomorrow.” 

Even in the best of times each of us endure personal challenges that can crush our spirits and threaten to push our minds into submission to sorrow and even anger. When we sense a collapse of our control over our situations in life we respond in differing ways ranging from attempting to pretend that nothing is wrong to being paralyzed by depression. Often our reactions are a hybrid of the range of emotions along a continuum. All we know inside is that we are not alright even if we pretend to be. 

Like everyone I’ve had my share of difficult challenges although mine have almost always been accompanied by compassionate support from other people, often those that I least suspected would come to my aide. I’ve learned how to carve out moments of sanity during sorrowful times as a prophylactic against feeling totally defeated by life’s most insidious moments. I realized long ago that first and foremost I have to care for myself by creating snatches of happiness even in the darkest times. 

I have drawn heavily on members of my family whenever I found the world opening a chasm under my feet. Often they had no idea that I was even suffering or that they were the medicine that I used to heal my sorrow. I used to drop in on my grandfather unannounced and just sitting in his presence calmed me and gave me the resolve to stay calm and carry on. My husband is a rock of wisdom and support who always seems to know exactly what I need when times get tough. My daughters allow me to vent with honesty that I would not dare to reveal to anyone else. My brothers are my soulmates who have shared the earliest difficulties that threatened to sideline me into an abyss of darkness. My dozens of cousins remind me that there are always wonderful moments of fun and laughter that promise better days ahead. My grandchildren show me how much hope there remains for a bright future. With family my happiness always returns.

I have had the good fortune to enjoy the friendship of truly remarkable people. Many of those from my past are now gone, but new younger folk have entered my life to bring me joy. I find such goodness in the people that I know, even when we have different opinions about how the problems of life should be tackled. They remind me constantly that while there might be evil in our midst, there is far more love and kindness. We lope along together with our human imperfections supporting each other no matter the circumstances. We push each other uphill in tragic times and stroll comfortably when the path is smooth. Always, just thinking of my friends clears my mind and brings a hopeful smile to my face. 

I still find great joy in teaching. My official career ended ten years ago, but since then I have found ways to keep my hand in the business of education. I teach and tutor small groups or single individuals now. My scope of topics ranges from long division to exponential functions. Not only does educating students in the sometimes mysterious and challenging ways of mathematics help then to unravel the puzzles, but it also keeps my mind from going into spasms of worry when times are tough. Just as schooling soothed my savage thoughts after my father died, so too does teaching keep me focused on hopefulness. 

I cannot imagine a life without reading. I have a voracious appetite for a good story, a brilliant editorial, a well researched article. Reading keeps me attuned to the commonalities that we humans have shared from the very beginnings of time. Considering the words of others forces my mind to move away from my own obsessions and realize that everyone experiences ups and downs and questions about the best ways to live. There is a pattern in our history and a similarity in our desires. Reading soothes me, delights me and reminds me that I am never alone. 

I love to write. I am better at expressing who I really am in the combinations of letters that I type onto the screen of my laptop. My heart flows through the tapping of the keys and into a kind of confessional to the world that I do indeed see and hear both suffering and joy, ugliness and beauty. Writing is a purposeful release of my mulling into a form that I hope will inspire and comfort. 

There is also something deep inside me that comes from my very DNA. Just as my two grandmothers transformed the earth with their lovely gardens, so too do I till and fertilize and nurture the plants in my yard. I talk to the roses as I prune their thorny branches. I caress the blooms on my hibiscus bushes that burst forth in shade of red, yellow, and tangerine. Just dipping my hands into the soil performs miracles of healing inside my brain. Being one with the earth almost makes me giddy. 

I use these avenues of happiness as tonic for my soul. They work to keep me focused on the remarkable miracles of compassion and kindness that unfold even when things seem almost hopeless for the human race. I smile again and push forward even if my steps feel heavy. I know that there are promising tomorrows because I have seen them with family, friends, teaching, reading, writing and working in my garden. We may be dormant for awhile but new blooms always burst forth. New life tells us that we are not doomed. Joy always finds its way.  

I vividly recall my first job interview after graduating from college. I had filled out hand written applications to a number of nearby school districts and I had my fingers crossed that somebody would give me a call. Back then I had to attach a photo to the upper corner of my application which also asked for information about my religious preferences. Since I knew that every district required women to wear dresses or suits with panty hose and dress shoes, I had purchased a navy blue suit and a fresh pair of hose in a neutral in case I landed an appointment. 

I was over the moon when someone finally called. I mentally prepared myself for the kind of questions that I thought I might have to answer to demonstrate my skills. On the appointed day I nervously smoothed my skirt as I drove over hoping to keep it from getting any obvious wrinkles. My heart was almost jumping out of my chest as I waited in what was then called the Personnel Department. 

Finally I was ushered into an office where a commanding looking man sat behind a desk motioning at a chair where he wanted me to sit. He was a friendly sort who kept the situation at a chatty level. He began by complimenting my perfume which I found to be a bit strange, but I let it go. Then he pulled my application out of a manilla folder and paused for a moment to scan its contents. 

He first noted that I was Catholic and then proceeded to tell me that there had been a time in the not so distant past when I never would have had an interview much, less a job offer. He babbled on about how they had one school year when there was a shortage of teachers so they hired a couple of ex-nuns. The two women were such phenomenal educators that they changed their mindset of the district about the value of Catholics as teachers. Once I told him that I had gone to Catholic school for twelve years, he appeared to be ready to hire me on the spot, but instead he continued the interview.

The next focus of his attention was on my appearance. He actually mentioned how much he liked my suit and the fact that I had worn panty hose for our meeting. He noted that many women came looking like they were going bowling or had just finished cleaning house. He thought they my care in dressing myself was a good indicator of what type of person I would be in the classroom. I sat silently letting my thoughts stay inside my mind least I accidentally utter them and lose any chance of landing a job.

He was a wealth of information including telling me about a Catholic church near where he lived that had been burned down three times before members of the Klan gave up and let it stay. Amazingly he did not seem even remotely interested in finding out my philosophy of teaching or how I might handle classroom management. The fact that I had graduated Summa Cum Laude did not appear to matter to him either. Nor did he inquire about the various awards I had received as a student. He did mention that he liked my attentiveness to his statements and then he gave me a bit of history of his own climb up the career ladder in the district. 

That was my very strange interview, with him congratulating me and assuring me that he was going to call several principal to recommend that they hire me. Indeed I had requests from principals for interviews almost as soon as I got home. I ended up working in a great school with an inspiring principal, but I was still stunned by the nature of my initial meeting with the Head of Personal. Even before such topics became commonplace I found myself wondering how he had had the audacity to speak about my clothing and personal grooming, not to mention discussing my religious background in detail. 

Of course I would eventually hark back to that interview when I was earning an advanced degree and studying labor law. I knew that my experience would never happen in more enlightened times. At least this is what I believed, but when I watch the hearings for Supreme Court nominees I cringe. It seems that our Senators seem to think that it is more important to know someone’s views on religion than to discuss their knowledge and skills as a judge. They would rather ask unrelated medical questions than delve into the individual’s resume. It was not like this in the past when most nominees were approved quickly and with overwhelming majorities. Now instead of asking what strategies they would use to reach fair decisions, the inquisitors want to know the individual’s political philosophies and spread innuendo about their work history. 

Somehow the hearings have become sideshows rather than showcases for the talents of the nominees. They are opportunities for bloviating senators to grandstand and pontificate rather than politely listen to the candidates. It is sound and fury signifying nothing. 

I would like to see more rationality, decorum, and meaningful questions driven by critical thinking than what now takes place. Our Senate is turning the process into just as much of an insulting joke as my first job interview was. I never said how demeaned I felt by the patronizing and invasive comments of the man who had the power to decide my fate. Such a situation should not have happened then nor now. We the people need to speak out and let our senators know that we want to see professionalism and respect; not a devolution into times when impropriety was deemed okay. We know better, so we should all do better.

I often wonder why we humans sometimes treat each other badly. I can understand getting briefly angry about something. I honestly do that more often than I wish, especially when I am tired. What I cannot understand is deliberately and repeatedly hurting someone. I see posts on Facebook that ask how a person’s mother disciplined them and it features belts, and other forms of physically abusive instruments. I marvel when I see it because my mom never used any of those things on me. She whipped one of my brothers so half hearted with a belt one time that he was unable to maintain his composure and began laughing. She broke out in a knowing smile as well and that was the end of punishments designed to inflict pain. Instead she sat us down and talked about what we had done wrong and helped us to understand that there are better ways of doing things. She even had a rule that we should never go to sleep angry and so there were many late night apologies in our home. 

It was not until my mother developed extreme episodes of mania that she would utter hurtful things to us. Since her only professions had always been encouraging and loving we understood that it was not her speaking, but rather her illness. When she was well she was profuse in her declarations of devotion to each of us. I suppose that I developed my own way of relating to other people from her examples. She was always forgiving and guileless in all of her human interactions. 

When I was studying to be a teacher I encountered a professor who cautioned me to never degrade either my students or my colleagues regardless of the situation. She noted that I would spend more hours in contact with my students once I was working than I would with my own family since many of my hours at home would be spent sleeping. She pointed out that I would learn the triggers for the individuals that I taught and that it would be bordering on evil to use them. I always tried to remember her words even when a particular child was frustrating me. I chose not to tear anyone down. In fact, I would always assert that I never hated a person but, I sometimes hated what they had done. My students understood and appreciated that distinction and many came to call me “Mama B.”

My mother was a beautiful single woman who wanted and deserved a happy social life beyond spending time with me and my brothers. When I was in college she met a man that she had known as a teen. They began doing things together, but there were things about him that bothered her so she kept him at arm’s length for a very long time. Eventually her loving spirit and compassion led her to consider entering a long term relationship with him, mostly because she believed that he and his young daughter really needed someone like her in their lives. Unfortunately he ended up being a controlling and angry man who emotionally abused her with fear. As I witnessed him destroying her optimism and saw the laughter leaving her I found myself actually hating him and wanting my mother to assert herself and send him away. It was the first and only time my emotions were so strongly negative.

Eventually things came to a head and he left the scene but not before he had done grave damage to her. He had taken advantage of her kindness and had slowly chipped away at her confidence and courage. I saw in real time what my professor at college had warned me to avoid, using my intimate knowledge of someone to destroy them. 

I have learned over time that people who verbally or physically attack others have generally been damaged by someone themselves. While I am able to understand why they seem to be filled with rage and hateful behavior, I grieve that there is so much of it in the world. The fact that entire nations sometimes suffer under the weight of psychological terror from a despot is even more tragic. For such a thing to happen in a supposedly free country is even more difficult to understand. Anyone can be strong and tough without ever degrading another person.

I laugh when I think about the time that I served as summer school principal at one of my schools. I had to rather strictly discipline a student who had disregarded the rules on multiple occasions. I used my mother’s method of letting the student know that I truly cared about him, but could not let him think that his poor behavior was acceptable. He took my lecture and his consequences rather well, telling me at the conclusion of our meeting that I would make a great principal. “You are good and mean and fair all at the same time!” he proclaimed.

I wish that everyone learned how to be good and mean and fair all at the same time like I did from my mom. I wish that nobody ever purposely abused another either with words or physicality. Life is hard and we each struggle to find our place in it. We look in the mirror and into our hearts and seem to perceive every flaw that we have. We would all benefit from a kind and lovely talk and a big hunk of forgiveness when we mess things up. My mother understood that so very well. I learned a very important lesson from her. As a teacher it’s the one wish I most like to convey to the world. I would urge everyone to take a breath and be kind, hate the sin but never the sinner. Imagine how great that would be if everyone heeded my word.