A few weeks ago, my husband and I spent a wonderful week at The Villages in Florida with long-time friends. We had a glorious time playing golf, busing to a spring training game, and generally basking in weather much warmer and snow-free than has surrounded us at Lake Tahoe for the past few months.
The Villages is basically an extended retirement community, accommodating well over 100,000 folks in a series of town centers and offering forty golf courses that range in length and challenge. I don’t know what the average age of its residents is, but Wayne and I, in our early seventies, were hardly on the upper end. Chatting with our friends, we all commented on how we were reluctant to live around “old people,” something we have noted for years. And which began to bother me more and more. Why, I asked myself, did I have this very clear bias? By the way, let’s get real: through the eyes of many, I’m an old person. So what gives? Am I not guilty of the very condescension and stereotyping that I disparage when it comes to talking about race or gender or sexual identity or any number of other attributes?
The reality of the stereotype of “old” has changed dramatically since our grandparents were “old” at 60. And were they truly much less capable at that age than we are now? While my grandfather died at age 65, he rode horses right to the end, despite crippling arthritis and heart disease. He trained his horse to kneel so that he could mount him. One of my grandmothers rode on her 80th birthday and boarded my brother’s motorcycle when she was 82. The other, widowed in her mid-60s, started an orphanage in Korea. My father stopped riding when he was 85, concerned that he might get hurt while mounting or dismounting and be a burden to my brothers and me. My mother’s diagnosis of Parkinson’s in her late 70s slowed her down in her early 80s, but she and Dad traveled the world — often on a standby basis — until that time. All were intellectually interested and interesting. When Dad’s arthritic hands curtailed his guitar playing, and his outstanding tenor voice began to wobble, he turned to storytelling.
The Villages were a beehive of activity, with literally thousands of golf carts rushing from one golf course or town center to another. We saw more women on the courses than we have seen anywhere else. One can take classes in virtually anything, whether it be learning a new language, dance, yoga, billiards or pretty much everything imaginable. Bands play in the town centers virtually every evening, and each venue attracts a wide variety of entertainment from Russian ballet to current comedians. Everyone we met was very much alive and kicking.
None of us likes being stereotyped. When I find myself doing so in terms of those who share my age bracket, I know it’s time to get over my bad self. My father was fond of ending any table grace with the reminder to “live while we are yet alive.” Regardless of what age you are.
Glass Full 
Fun to read, Ruth!
LikeLike