I went to a birthday party last November. The birthday girl wore a tiara, a feather boa and a smile. The dozen of us there smothered her with affection and she radiated joy in return. There was cake – carrot, with thick icing. And an awful lot of candles. Because this birthday girl, my grandma, was turning 98.
Ria Maude Hart is going strong in her 99th year. She lives alone in her apartment with her cat Bernie – named after George Bernard Shaw.
She recalls events from the 1930s with shocking precision. She hosts visitors each week. She goes to exercise class and she meditates. She stays up late and she sleeps in. She isn't just getting by. She is growing, thriving even. An inspiration to her family and friends, she is a lightning rod for love and affection.
But it wasn't always that way. “I was a sourpuss,” she told me during a visit this summer.
My grandma didn’t make a big impression on me when I was a youngster. She wasn’t nasty or unkind, but she wasn't particularly warm or endearing either. I was not drawn to her when I was troubled and needed a hug or someone to talk with. On the stage of my young life she occupied a minor role, outdone by my parents, my aunt and even my grandpa, an avid gardener, potter, photographer and woodworker who died in 2006 from the accumulated strain of 94 years of life.
If you were a gambler, you would have bet that Ria would proceed as she had in her earlier years: critical of herself, living in the background, being a caring but reserved grandmother and a person who accepts limitations in her life. If you were that gambler, you would have lost.
When she tires of reading, she listens to audio books. Last time I checked she was reading books about neurology – not exactly fluff.
Before her 98th birthday party, I went to visit my grandma at her apartment. She greeted me at the door with a hug and a smile. “Oh deary,” she said in her old lady voice, “it is good to see you.” I kissed her on the nose and ruffled her shock of white hair. She laughed and her blue eyes sparkled. “I just brushed my hair you know,” she said with feigned indignation.
I asked what she had eaten for breakfast. “Toast and tea,” she said, “and pills!” I laughed at her quick wit and we moved to the kitchen, walking past the cane that she occasionally carries with her. Carries, not uses – the cane dangles above the ground as she walks, more like a chrome ornament than a walking aid.
Once seated at her tiny kitchen table I poured more tea and reached for her top-drawer chocolate stash. Sipping tea, we talked a while and then she cut to it: “How's your heart?” she asked, inquiring into the state of my emotional and spiritual well-being, signalling that the time for idle chatter was over. It was time to really talk.
Ria is no longer interested in a superficial existence or trivial conversations. She has higher aspirations. The catalyst for this change was her daughters. Both worked to nurture a new awareness in their mother by introducing her to new ideas and ways of being and challenging her to police her negative self-talk.
About 10 years ago, with some trepidation, my mom gave Ria a book of daily meditations to read and reflect upon, hoping it might loosen up her mind. Ria read the book, found that the words resonated with her and began to seek out more reading materials of the same vein, including books on Buddhist philosophy that she never would have considered earlier in life.
