Better Not Wish
The Source
You’ve heard the conversation dozens of times. Folks of a certain age will be gathered around bemoaning their aches and pains brought on by their advanced years on earth and somewhere in the conversation someone will say, “Oh, what I wouldn’t give to be young again.” The rest of us will nod, not giving it much thought but knowing that it sounds like a good idea if we could just pull it off. I was often among the head nodders . . . then came Saturday morning. It was one of those beautiful spring mornings when it seemed like God was just showing off, and I’d driven out to the Senior Center at Community Park. Every spring our local senior citizens organization fills their meeting room with an explosion of everything wearable, usable, readable, and knick-knack-able as the group empty out their drawers, cabinets, garages and attics to provide some needed funds for the cause and provide welcome bargains for those of us who travel to the park on that weekend. Added to the thousands of household items is a cornucopia of baked goods, all homemade and tempting. I always tell myself that I don’t need any fattening desserts and that I’ll simply go to buy a book or two, and without fail I skim over the books then head right for the pastries. You must be careful with your goodie shopping because chances are very good that the very ladies who made these delicacies are sitting right behind the table watching you choose. If this is a sales tactic, then it works. I can watch the eyes of the gals and tell when my fingers brush over a cookie or piece of pie they’ve made. They act as sort of a gastronomic Geiger counter, silently ticking with their eyebrows as your hands near their pastry. There’s really no safe alternative but to buy one of everything. But the coolest thing about these few days at the senior citizen flea market/garage sale/bakeoff is the atmosphere in the room. You can sense it even before you open the door to the senior center. Laughter, smiles, handshakes and hugs are the order of the day. It’s the sort of place you’d want to visit even if you didn’t need another potholder or peanut butter cookie. I bought my few things and went on my way, being blessed by several more conversations on the way to my car. Then I remembered the other event I needed to attend. One of our local youth groups was having its own sale of sorts in another part of Jacksonville. These kids hadn’t really lived long enough to collect much in the terms of flea marketing, but they had various foods on sale, including a barbecue lunch. I knew some of the group and wanted to support them so I stopped in for lunch, and the atmosphere at this event was. . . uh. . . different. I’ve gone to funeral home visitations that were livelier. The little gal who manned the ticket table looked up at me from her cell phone . . . that’s all, just looked up, so finally I said, “I’d like a lunch ticket.” I think she hated to be disturbed in the middle of a text then said, “Okay. How many?” I looked around and noticed that I’d not brought my church choir or a Boy Scout troop with me so I said, “Just me.” The atmosphere inside the dining hall wasn’t much cheerier. Hey, these were nice kids. I knew many of them and many said hello, but it was like they were on some sort of forced march. I guess their sponsor had been numbed to their indifferent attitudes and she smilingly handed me my iced tea and thanked me for coming. It wasn’t unpleasant, just lacking in the joy that I’d felt minutes before at the senior center. Okay, I was an adolescent, too. I don’t actually remember it, but I’m sure there were days when my teachers or youth leaders or parents wondered why I was such a grouch, but if I’d had a school bus that day I’d love to have loaded up the entire youth group and took them on a tour of the senior center, simply saying, “Here! Here’s how you enjoy life!” Whenever I take a cruise I especially enjoy the last few days knowing that when the ship finally docks I’ll be thrown back into the real world, and I find myself paying special attention to every detail of the journey. Maybe we have so spend some time onboard to truly appreciate the trip. In any case, the next time I’m around a group of us olders and I hear someone want to return to the “good old days of youth,” I’ll try to remember that like old wine and fine cheese, we really do get a bit mellower and sweeter as the years go by. Okay, there’s an occasional grouch, but I’m not counting them.