When I was six I wanted to be like my mother
because she always knew how to do everything
When I was ten I wanted to be like my new baby sister
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because I believed Mama loved her more than me
When I was 12 I wanted to be like Joanie Garrett who won the Christian Doctrine Medal
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in eighth grade . (I never did)
When I was 14 I wanted to be another Miss Subway because they were all so beautiful and their pictures were in all the NYC subway cars.
When I was 16 I read “THE LOTTERY” and wanted to be another Shirley Jackson and write for the New Yorker. (Another thing I never did)
When I was 18 I wanted to be another Elizabeth Graham who owned the fabled Elizabeth Arden company where I worked. (That didn’t happen either)
When I was 19 I only wanted to be “His” wife, and happily, I did do that.
When I was 21 and for years afterward, I only wanted to be a good Mother. I am not sure that happened, but I remember, I tried.
When I was 26, I reread all of Shirley Jackson’s words and borrowed a typewriter.
When I was 32, I had my fourth and last baby and returned the typewriter.
When I was 40 and everyone was finally in school, I rented another typewriter and wondered about using a computer.
When I was 50 I received my first acceptance letter including a check from the NYT.
After the year I entered my second half century, I spent most of my time staying afloat
as life rapidly kept changing, and escalating.
In the following years that swept by like a tornado, eventually my world issued unforeseen dramatic challenges.
I only wondered then if l could survive without the protection of love.
When I learned that is not only possible, but a demanding reality, I no longer cared about wanting anything ever again.
Until this week when sitting in an elegant dining room respite with flowers, colored linen cloths and other residents, I noticed one of the larger tables was always occupied. Their conversation appeared to be not only engrossing, but sprinkled with laughter. It seemed a nice place to be, and I wondered.
I began to notice the six occupants change daily with the exception of a tall stately white haired lady who always claims the same seat.
She wears the essence of quiet chic and I noticed both her opinions and attention seem to be constantly sought by all her various dinner companions.
When I inquired discretely, I was told. “That’s Lorraine. Can you believe she’s 101.”
Suddenly so many years later, I remembered the pangs of wanting to be like someone else,
This time it is Lorraine, who teaches others daily that growing older is a distinct privilege and not a time to be feared.
And I finally understood the meaning of the word inspiration.
