I was talking to someone about my mother the other day.

Now, usually those discussions center around her faults, which, in all honesty, were plentiful. I mean, that woman — who could be so much fun when she let her hair down and had a drink or two — could also spoil a celebration with nothing more than a sigh and a well-placed facial expression.

But during this recent conversation, I surprised myself by discovering a positive trait that I never noticed while she was alive.

The talk had started as a discussion of personalities, and specifically those individuals who are needy, and require constant attention as an affirmation of their own worth. My mother was one of those; but she never wanted negative attention, never complained about the pain in her arthritic hands, or feeling tired after a long day at work. She needed praise, but not pity . . . and for the latter, I give her credit.

Because I now know how difficult that can be. And there are so many people who do what she didn’t: invent or exaggerate conditions in order to elicit sympathy, and of course, attention.

In thinking about it, it occurred to me that I don’t want either. I don’t want well-meaning people telling me that I’m still beautiful — I know I’m not, and at my age that’s okay.

And I certainly don’t want anyone thinking they have to sacrifice any part of their own lives in order to attend to my every whim, or feeling guilty if they can’t do more. That’s not how I want, or ever wanted, to grow old.

There is something I do want in my sunset years, however . . . and that is simply to remain relevant.

The majority of my body parts may be succumbing to gravity, rust, and erosion; but for the most part, my mind continues to function. My sense of humor is intact (and still on the diabolical, somewhat smutty side); and I am intensely — some say, compulsively — interested in what’s happening in the world.

I have a personal history, of course . . . and some of it is fairly interesting. I have been to foreign lands, met fascinating people, occasionally faced danger, and had my share of fun. I have an accumulation of knowledge and information, and a wealth of opinions, which I am more than happy to share with anyone who has the time and the desire to listen.

But people like me — people whose lives are no longer considered “useful” because we have retired from the workforce and perhaps are no longer able to keep up physically — tend to be overlooked. As long as we don’t complain, it’s assumed we’re all right. And as long as we have the necessary creature comforts — food, shelter, medical care (and, in my case, Haagen-Dazs) — it’s assumed we don’t need anything more. That’s how the golden years are supposed to be, isn’t it?

Well, no . . . it isn’t. Our souls need comfort too, and that requires acknowledgment of who we are, and what we still have to contribute to the world.

So the next time your parent, grandparent, or any older person can’t relate to your choice of music, your latest gaming craze, your ripped jeans, or your thoughts on LGBTQ rights, maybe you could talk about things that interest them . . . because in all probability, they do still have interests. Or you could ask them to relate some of their memories of growing up in the ‘40s and ‘50s, listen to their LPs of big band music with them, or perhaps review some much-needed rules of English grammar together (like “he and I” instead of “me and him”).

Who knows? You might even learn something useful. After all:

“There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”
– William Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act I, Scene 5

*. *. *

And that, my younger friends, is why I keep writing this blog: to remain relevant.

So how am I doing?

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
8/10/25