Financially speaking, I’ll live pretty comfortably without working, once my mother has passed. Not lavishly, but comfortably, seeing as she is my primary reason to stay in New York, when she leaves the planet, I can leave New York. Comfortable turns into slightly lavish outside the confines of the five boroughs.
I’ve dreamed of leaving for years. Returning to college in my late 30s, I’d imagined myself seeing the world and traveling across Asia and Africa teaching English as a Second Language. One month in Spain for a language intensive reduced me to tears. Daily. I missed my posse. I became something I never was—lonely. I’d thought I was a gypsy, turns out I was a closet homebody.
I don’t really have a posse in my 60s, not the way we did it then. I rarely talk to my close friends and see them even less. Social media fools me into thinking I’m more connected than I am, and I’d have that wherever I go. I daydream about driving cross-country with a cat or two. Picking up an old dog at the pound and becoming a schoolie. Living (almost) off the grid. Small town living. Shaving my head and starting a life on the ocean-side cliffs of Italy, walking to town for fresh vegetables, fruit and meat every day. Starting over. Most of these dreams involve me driving something, somewhere, with very few material possessions and a furry companion to be named at a later date. The me in those dreams looks…well, not 64. Which I’m close to, but not at yet, but then Big Edie isn’t at dead yet either, and I have no plans on pushing her down the stairs, so…
Do 60-somethings start over? Do we live out of our cars? Follow Dwight Yoakum on tour? Do we drive pick up trucks? campers? RVs? school buses all by our lonesome to who-the-hell-knows-where simply because knowing where is not nearly as much fun?
Recently, a simple fender bender left me with aches and pains for days, as well as being told by two emergency room doctors that I was okay, I simply had “age-related degeneration.” A rude reminder that my body is, indeed, aging. My brain still thinks of I’m thirty-something, my reflection always surprising me; I refer to myself as middle-aged despite being eligible for senior discounts and early retirement–but like it or not, my body knows. In my teens, twenties, and even my forties I could just walk away from a totaled wreck and head out in search of the perfect french toast. Now, a bump to my bumper reminds me my body is degenerating appropriately for its age.
I’m not letting go of my dreams of running away and starting over. I may have to find a more comfortable vehicle than what my mechanic refers to as my series of Fred Flintstone cars. I feel every rock and pebble and am always just a hair away from having to use my feet to stop. It helps me feel grounded, knowing what territory I’m negotiating–so much of life you spend negotiating unknown territory, sometimes it’s nice to know what you’re dealing with, if not where you’re going. But this, this getting older despite everything. This is uncharted territory I’m not sure how to negotiate at all.
“So you’re just going to drive around, visiting people? she asked when we talked about my plans.
“I know folks in Canada and Oregon and California, Pennsylvania and Arizona I haven’t seen in forever, Ma.”
“You would just leave me here?”
“After, Ma. After it’s all over.”
“So, I’m dead, and then—you get all my money—then you’ll just leave me?”
But I wouldn’t. I won’t. I will have whatever bits will be left of Big Edie with me as we Thelma and Louise it across the country. Her cremains locked in an urn or a silver cocktail shaker, strapped down and riding shotgun.
“You have to call the people, you know. I don’t want to just show up.”
“You’ll be dead, Ma.”
“I don’t care, you still have to call first.”
Call before visiting. Death is no excuse for bad manners.
Some things there’s no running away from. Her words, her voice. Riding shotgun in my head all my life, and for the rest of my life.
I understand completely. Kindred spirit from New Zealand
Come on out to the Pacific Northwest! Please call before you come. Not so much because of your mom, more because of the cats..
I love your line “…I could just walk away from a total wreck and head out in search of the perfect french toast.”
Careful there, buddy. I love the Pacific Northwest.
I love your mom’s advice to call before you come, so she doesn’t have to be impolite, even after death. I’m 64 now, my mom died last year. Still home, but I like your ideas. 🙂
Love this, Jodi. I’d go with the silver cocktail shaker.
It awaits.
Hilarious that you have convos with your mom about “after.” I also have “mommy issues” despite the fact that mine’s been dead for nine years. Thank your lucky stars that you don’t have sibs, who, in my case, are holding up the sale of the estate, a fairly valuable commercial property. Like you, all bets are off once the sale goes through. I might never be heard from in these parts again. And yes, over-sixties can def start over. Ready. Set. Start over!
Love your blog.
Not only do we have conversations about the after, we have arguments about what is going to happen to her ashes. When she was younger (and had her memory) she wanted them scattered off the coast of Maine. Then she didn’t care, as long as she wasn’t buried next to my father. Then she hated the idea of being “chopped up” (aka cremated) and there being no place for anyone to visit her after. Now we argue about the urn. I think I should get to chose because I have to look at it. She thinks it should be up to her because she has to wear it! Thanks for reading, and commenting, Nancy. I hope things finally smooth out with the sibs.
There’s no way Elayne is going to let you put her ashes in just any old urn. The one you’ve selected is lovely, but I don’t know if it’s fancy enough for her.
The conversation with your mom is priceless! And so very real and funny. I can see you (and your mom) visiting friends near and far — but only after you called.
Hop on a plane to Guam. See you soon