Celebrating the Winter Years

As I write this in early May, the world (at least the parts of it that are interested in such things) is celebrating the victory of the filly in the Kentucky Derby. I missed the race, but I was in Louisville for the Derby Week festivities preceding it, sharing the delight of my nephews and niece at the predawn liftoff of the hot air balloons, the outdoor music of Three Dog Night, and the late-night fireworks over the river.

The visit with my sister and her family, tacked on to a speaking engagement in Louisville, gave me a unique opportunity to revel in Kentucky's spring. The bluegrass was waving, newborn foals were taking their first steps on the farms surrounding the city, and the dogwoods and azaleas were in full bloom.

As I enjoyed the new life of spring and the energy of my sister's young children, I also had frequent thoughts of some friends of a decade ago on the other end of life's spectrum. I seem unable to see spring flowers without remembering the annual "garden contest" at Ribicoff Cottages, a public housing project for elderly tenants in New Haven, Connecticut.

Every spring, resident judges walked around the tiny cottages and awarded a prize for the prettiest flowers out front. As a seminary student serving as chaplain to the housing project, I had the privilege of officially congratulating the winner. When I stopped by Mrs. W's cottage, she leaned over and whispered to me, "I've won it three years in a row now. The flowers are plastic. I bring 'em in every fall and stick 'em in the ground every spring -- the judges are too blind to notice."

I WAS ALWAYS MOVED by the humor, creativity, and wisdom that those tiny cottages contained, found in people who suffered from the problems associated with being old, poor, and sick. For many, the greatest pain was that of being forgotten by family and friends.

Mrs. P had been a concert pianist in Poland; newspaper clippings, concert programs, and photographs plastered on every inch of her walls attested to the truth of her claim. A large piano took up most of the space in her small living room.

"It won't be long now until you'll be ready for a concert -- we'll do one together!" she proclaimed as I sat behind the keys and awkwardly pounded out "Turkey in the Straw," the only song I seemed to remember from my years of piano lessons. She thumped on my back with her arm like a metronome, shouting, "But you'll never be famous unless you get your rhythm right!"

She would not talk to me unless we went through this ritual every week, and she never gave up believing that I was a pupil arriving for my piano lesson. When I was through, she would sit down at the piano, and her nimble 82-year-old fingers would glide over the keys, moving from delicate sonata to beautiful rhapsody.

Miss G was an artist, paralyzed below her neck, who painted beautiful watercolor landscapes with a brush held between her teeth. Her devoted friend was Mrs. A, a woman from Scotland who had a delightful accent, as well as an infectious smile, with or without her teeth. She always welcomed me with cake-like Scottish scones and butter cookies, and a special blend of Scottish tea, which she kept warm in her silver teapot covered with a colorful "tea cozy" bearing her family's coat of arms.

Perhaps my favorite was Mrs. L. She was a rotund black woman with salt-and-pepper hair -- a mother of 13 children and grandmother of 104. She kept a closet full of sweet potatoes and collard greens, and gave me my first dinner of pigs' feet, tails, and ears.

Mrs. L spent most of her hours reading her family Bible. Sitting beside her was like being transported down South to her North Carolina home. She told me tales about the freedom riders who came through; her welcome mat was always out for those who were fighting for the rights of her people.

The most unusual request I've ever received came from Mrs. L. She asked me if I would be willing some Saturday morning to help her walk five chickens back from the market, chop their heads off, pluck and dress them. She planned to save the feathers in a pillowcase and make them into a pillow some day. It wasn't exactly in my job description, but she clearly needed the help.

On the morning of the venture, however, she called to tell me it was off. Word had gotten out to the neighbors, and I think it was Mr. M (he regularly accused his next-door neighbor of stealing his electricity) who said, "We have enough problems around here without having a bunch of birds running around like chickens with their heads cut off!"

On my last day at Ribicoff, Mrs. A asked me to accompany her to the project's senior center. I walked into a surprise party. The residents were singing a song they had written about me -- "Joyce to the World" -- to the tune of the Christmas carol. I laughed so hard I cried. And I left Ribicoff with that marvelous vision of all of them together, a community singing and celebrating.

Come spring every year we always have lots to say about celebrating "new life." I'm glad there's so much of it to be thankful for. But we rarely take time to celebrate "old life," to be grateful for the wisdom and talent and perspective that come from aging gracefully -- and even sometimes not so gracefully.

This spring perhaps we could keep in mind those who are in their winter years -- and be thankful for the beauty they bless us with.

Joyce Hollyday was associate editor of Sojourners when this article appeared.