Many old-age issues make us uncomfortable and too often we avoid dealing with them—to everyone's loss.
But I urge you to write your stories! Your memoir can change the way readers view old age and old people and you.
Your stories can also impact the way people care for your
loved ones in their old age—and how others treat you when you’re old and feeble. (See links to related posts, below.)
They can help them grasp that they, too, will someday become aged and wobbly and face the unknown of growing old and frail.
Sometimes the most effective way to deliver such messages is
through someone else’s words, like we did last week with “The Wooden Bowl.”
This week we’ll look at “Crabby Old Man,” a piece many
people claim to have written. (There’s also a version called “Crabby Old
Woman.”)
Crabby Old Man
(author unknown)
What do you see nurses? What do you see?
What are you thinking when you're looking at me?
A crabby old man, not very wise,
Uncertain of habit, with faraway eyes?
Who dribbles his food and makes no reply
When you say in a loud voice, "I do wish you'd try!"
Who seems not to notice the things that you do
And forever is losing a sock or shoe?
Who, resisting or not, lets you do as you will
With bathing and feeding, the long day to fill?
Is that what you're thinking? Is that what you see?
Then open your eyes, nurse you're not looking at me.
I'll tell you who I am, as I sit here so still,
As I do at your bidding, as I eat at your will.
I'm a small child of ten, with a father and mother,
Brothers and sisters who love one another.
A young boy of sixteen with wings on his feet,
Dreaming that soon now a lover he'll meet.
A groom soon at twenty, my heart gives a leap
Remembering the vows that I promised to keep.
At twenty-five, now I have young of my own
Who need me to guide and a secure happy home.
A man of thirty, my young now grown fast,
Bound to each other with ties that should last.
At forty, my young sons have grown and are gone,
But my woman's beside me to see I don't mourn.
At fifty, once more babies play 'round my knee.
Again, we know children, my loved one and me.
Dark days are upon me. My wife is now dead.
I look at the future and shudder with dread,
For my young are all rearing young of their own,
And I think of the years and the love that I've known.
I'm now an old man, and nature is cruel.
‘Tis jest to make old age look like a fool.
The body, it crumbles . Grace and vigor depart.
There is now a stone where I once had a heart,
But inside this old carcass, a young guy still dwells,
And now and again my battered heart swells.
I remember the joys, I remember the pain,
And I'm loving and living life over again.
I think of the years, all too few, gone too fast,
And accept the stark fact that nothing can last.
So open your eyes, people! Open and see
Not a crabby old man. Look closer: see ME!
(author unknown)
What do you see nurses? What do you see?
What are you thinking when you're looking at me?
A crabby old man, not very wise,
Uncertain of habit, with faraway eyes?
Who dribbles his food and makes no reply
When you say in a loud voice, "I do wish you'd try!"
Who seems not to notice the things that you do
And forever is losing a sock or shoe?
Who, resisting or not, lets you do as you will
With bathing and feeding, the long day to fill?
Is that what you're thinking? Is that what you see?
Then open your eyes, nurse you're not looking at me.
I'll tell you who I am, as I sit here so still,
As I do at your bidding, as I eat at your will.
I'm a small child of ten, with a father and mother,
Brothers and sisters who love one another.
A young boy of sixteen with wings on his feet,
Dreaming that soon now a lover he'll meet.
A groom soon at twenty, my heart gives a leap
Remembering the vows that I promised to keep.
At twenty-five, now I have young of my own
Who need me to guide and a secure happy home.
A man of thirty, my young now grown fast,
Bound to each other with ties that should last.
At forty, my young sons have grown and are gone,
But my woman's beside me to see I don't mourn.
At fifty, once more babies play 'round my knee.
Again, we know children, my loved one and me.
Dark days are upon me. My wife is now dead.
I look at the future and shudder with dread,
For my young are all rearing young of their own,
And I think of the years and the love that I've known.
I'm now an old man, and nature is cruel.
‘Tis jest to make old age look like a fool.
The body, it crumbles . Grace and vigor depart.
There is now a stone where I once had a heart,
But inside this old carcass, a young guy still dwells,
And now and again my battered heart swells.
I remember the joys, I remember the pain,
And I'm loving and living life over again.
I think of the years, all too few, gone too fast,
And accept the stark fact that nothing can last.
So open your eyes, people! Open and see
Not a crabby old man. Look closer: see ME!
Below is an elderly person’s poem of gratitude, a benediction,
for those who treat old folks with grace and dignity:
Beatitudes for Friends of the Aged
(Esther Mary Walker)
Blessed are they who understand
My faltering step and palsied hand.
Blessed are they who know that my ears today
Must strain to catch the things they say.
Blessed are they who seem to know
That my eyes are dim and my wits are slow.
Blessed are they who looked away
When coffee spilled at the table today....
(Click here to read the rest of Beatitudes for Friends of the Aged.)
Write your stories! It’s okay to add other people’s poems
and essays to your own collection of stories. They are important. Your stories
can be anchors for your kids, grandkids, and great-grands as they help loved
ones through old age—and as they face aging themselves someday.
You have this opportunity
to educate younger generations
about old-timers.
Life for all generations can be better
if you share your
wisdom and insights.
Related posts:
Growing old: the silly side
