People get more beautiful as they grow older
- col-leslie-pearce-keating
- April 9, 2023
- 819
When I was a little girl, I had a tiny rabbit I carried in my pocket. He was no bigger than an egg. I don’t know who gave him to me, but I always treasured him. He fit so well in my little- girl hand that I often took him with me wherever I went.
I lost him once in a department store when I went shopping with my father. Dad called after-hours security at the big downtown Youngstown store and begged the security guard to find my tiny rabbit. Luckily, my rabbit was recovered, and Dad and I drove downtown to rescue tiny Peter. After that, I learned not to be careless with those I love. That little bunny is still in my possession, poking out the window of a log cabin sitting on my hearth. The little stuffy reminds me of the good things in my childhood, like kisses from my parents and soft cuddles as I lay in my grandmother’s lap.
When I was a little girl, I already knew that grandmothers were the best of friends. Mine was no exception. We didn’t live in big houses back then. There were six people in 3 bedrooms, with one small bath. I seldom bathed without an intruder.
My maternal grandma bunked in the same room with my big sister and me. I remember a few times when Gram visited my Uncle Ray in California, and as Mom told it, I became terribly sick without her. I awaited Grandma’s return with bated breath as I counted the days. She was all of 60 when I brooded over her safety, her health, until her return some months later. She died on my birthday 34 years ago at almost 92. I was certain she chose that date because she loved me best.
I guess you could say that I learned early that elderly people are the dearest. I loved our neighbor Mrs. Babik when I was small. Whenever Mom couldn’t find me, there I was sitting on the porch with Sophie Babik across the street. I loved Mrs. Babik’s long white hair that was coiled in a neat bun just like my grandma’s. I loved the stories she told and the hugs she gave. Years later when I had my own kids in Wooster, I found Ada and Vanna, 2 elderly sisters who became family. For years, they came for Easter and Christmas dinner and birthday parties, and my daughter took Vanna, a woman who had never married, to her school on Grandparent’s Day.
When we lay my sweet Uncle Don to rest last week, my sister gave my cousins and me a lovely photograph of a young Don in a trench coat. I looked at his photo when he was so young and near perfect, tall and strong with thick dark hair. I then recalled his visage before I said my final goodbye, when he was laid to rest at age 90. I realized that if people really were thinking clearly, they would never choose Botox or hair dye to change the markings of age because it is when they grow old that they are most beautiful.
Although Don was a handsome man all his life, I remember his sweetness most, his kind words of acceptance when he was old and gray. I’m not sure that we liked each other nearly as much when I was young, when he didn’t need help in the bathroom or hope I’d bring him donuts when I visited his nursing home. His edges had softened. He cried easily. He gave compliments more readily. He kissed me when I held him in my arms.
I guess I’ve been thinking a lot about the elderly people I’ve loved and lost. Like Nydia and Katy and Joanne. Those memories reminded me of my favorite book, The Velveteen Rabbit. The book describes the child’s playroom and all the toys that have been acquired. As the sweet book concludes, it says, “You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily or have sharp edges. Or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real, you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”
Yes, there is no sin in having wrinkles or lines, gray hair or age marks. For then, you are Real. And then just like my tiny Peter Rabbit, you should be treasured all the more.
Leslie Pearce-Keating can be emailed at leslieannpearce@gmail.com.