The Silent Generation

Each of us must find their own comfort zone, and I have found mine.  While I mentally hover between the ages of 19, when I first met the young man who then held my hand for the next 57 years, and 26, when a life-threatening pregnancy miraculously ended well for both my baby and me, reality does eventually sink in.  Every female mortal, even those of us who have abided by the rules (8 glasses of water daily, 100 strokes to our hair nightly, daily exercise both physically and mentally, and on and on and on,) finally have to concede.  Mother Nature knows best, and we can no longer be viewed as anything other than members of The Silent Generation.

Sometimes, it is not a bad thing.  It is lovely when we are blessed with loving young members of our family, who keep in contact and are still interested in their ageing relatives.  It is a spontaneous delight when a younger person graciously finds a subtle way to assist when the path is icy or obstructed for any reason.  Their gestures of kindness light up our days, especially when they are done with tact and a smile.

Sometimes, however, it can be rather jarring when advice is given without permission.  And so it was the other day when I found myself in an uncomfortable position without ability to respond.  The young woman, who knew nothing about me, other than my last name and the fact that I lived locally, lectured me without pause for 30 minutes on the necessity for me to relocate.  She has never seen my home nor has my address.   She doesn’t know if I lie in a hovel or a castle.  Truthfully, I live in neither.  Yet she not only asked, without waiting for a response, what I was waiting for before moving to a southern state.  When there, she advised without taking a moment for a breath, I would relinquish my car, buy a tricycle, and perhaps upgrade to a golf cart which I could then decorate.  She ventured further to give me advice on how to locate in the area she felt best for my needs (or possibly age) and told me to go home, search the Internet and start preparing to make this move.

Recently, the word filters has become popular in discussing perimeters of conversation.  It has been applied mostly to elders who are losing these filters because of either disease or age.  Yet, my lecturer was certainly neither aged nor ill.  Rather she felt it permissible to give me not only unsolicited advice but also a lecture on my lack of wisdom remaining a resident of New York.

I realize what a dreadful winter we have had.  The weather splintered into other areas of life.  There are home repairs waiting to be made, additional bills due to constant snow plowing.  Still I must confess I love New York.  I do not relish being isolated indoors when the snow pelts my windowpanes, yet I love the small signals of spring.  There are tiny buds popping up along the side of my garage where they have been sheltered from the wind.  I love the anticipation of the lilac bush blooming, and the aroma that will flood my patio.  I love the sound of the children on the bicycle path once the school year is over.

I absolutely love New York despite all its peccadilloes.  And while I am well aware that I can no longer jog on the tree lined road across from my home or participate in a marathon, it does  not diminish my pleasure in abiding in a part of the country I consider home.I have never been an advocate of political correctness always feeling truth was imperative.  However, I also believe here are conversational boundaries where unsolicited advice can be a form of arrogance.  But possibly, I was wrong when I chose not to make a scene or respond.  And perhaps that was due to being part of The Silent Generation and undeniably ageing.  And so it goes!