Adaptation is the key to survival

JUDGE NOT a GRANDPA'S SHELL
Heather McKeown

The outward shell of a man might be the camouflage a wise person utilizes so people just leave him be. You must never look unto a human dressed in old skin as someone without superior intellect, rich life experience or the ability to feel, teach, love, leave and choose.

        The flight was from Newark to Orlando on a cold, cold day. We were advised to be aware that turbulence was to be a constant for most of the trip, so expectations of spending time in the aisle was minimal. In the course of doing our job, the best perk for me rests in the interactions between me and 'them'. 'Them' being the folks sitting in comphy leather seats as drinks, snacks and nurturing are offered by we who serve. When bumpy air is in the predicted, the potential for meeting, greeting and talking with the customers is minimized because the inflight crew is usually strapped into galley jumpseats instead of marching up and down between the rows of travelers. On this particular flight, the fact that I was to be out of service turned into a terrific opportunity to familiarize myself with a man in the first row, aisle seat.

        His name was Ed and he was delivered to the plane in a wheelchair, almost carried to his seat and offered very little evidence of mobility. His clothes, loosely worn, softened the acute angles of his inoperative extremities. A plaid shirt of well-worn flannel reminded me of how most of us dress in rural Vermont when we've attained an age when comfort trumps fashion. To me, thinned by time and laundry flannel, screams, “Take me as I am because this is as good as it gets!” The man's torso was hunched forward by the force of a spine in the throes of its last ditch effort to support anything at all. The posture I judged comfortable if he'd been a gardener or scholarly monk. His pants, the sort that showed their age by the spotty shine remaining after the umteenth pass of the iron, were black and of a thinning material. He sported a woolen cap with the slightest of brims pointing in whichever direction his old eyes aimed.

        Old eyes. That they were. I remember them as being blue for some reason. Maybe just the quiet peace shining out of them put me in mind of this color. He was a black man and was aging as men of this bloodline do. With an acceptance and appreciation of all things more mobile, vital and virile. He sat in a contented bubble of quietude. A gentleman whose inner self would prove far more able than the outer wrapping would suggest possible. The turbulence of life and flight didn't concern him. Ed, the man who would forever brand in my memory the spirit of grace married to reality, was primed to teach. I would serve as only one of a myriad of willing pupils, I'm sure.

        Those old hands couldn't quite buckle his seat belt. Slanting his head to allow his eyes to catch my own he whispered, “I can't do this.” Bending down, I lifted his right hand and replaced it with my own. His hand offered no resistance as I moved it and placed it on his leg. My own knobby digits completed the task. I could sense nobility even in his acquiescence. There's a certain dignity among the elderly when they ask for and then allow someone to render aid. The memory of what they once could do sustains as youth wains. Healthy aging includes a dose of remembered superiority in all things and the wisdom to say, “I can't” without any trace of self-pity.

        “There you go, Sir.”

        “Thank you.” was carried on a gentle breeze to my ear.

        The flight took off and we were on our way. The bumps were steady and service was completed sporadically. I found myself in the front with time to make sure the slumping man was alright.

        “How are you, Sir?”

        “Oh. I'm fine, thank you. I'm retired. I taught electronics and physics. When I taught, I told my students, “In this classroom, there's only one voice. Mine. If you don't listen, you won't learn.” This he volunteered in the quiet, modulated monotone of someone accustomed to a respectful class. “I won't go over the material more than once, so, it will serve you well to listen, I told them.” His head cocked so I could see his lips form the words in case I couldn't hear his quiet delivery. I was drawn into the calmness of his manner and became his student. I won't be his last.

        “How long will you stay in Florida, Sir?”

        “I don't know. As long as I can get away from my wife.” This wasn't delivered as a punchline, but with a self-reflective squinting of those blue eyes. He was serious and this trip to Florida was obviously the follow through of his master plan. “I'm going to stay with my son.”

        I knelt down beside him and looked up into his downward facing visage. His weakness was tangible. A body that had given up everything but the spirit inhabiting its casing seemed brittle and in danger of complete collapse. Those eyes, warm and intense seemed to know that time might be too short to teach all he could in this, a final segment of his life.

        “You weren't joking when you said you were getting away from your wife, Mr. Ed.* Why? Is she mean to you?”

        “No. She just won't let me do anything my way. Everything I do, or try to do, she complains that it isn't the right way. It isn't her way. Ever since I got sick, some two years ago, she's just changed. We were both teachers. My son's a nurse and my daughter's a teacher, so we did alright by our children. We traveled. We've been to just about any place you could name. We did so much. Then I got sick. My wife's much younger than I am and I've told her that we're in a different phase of life now. I've tried to explain that, even though we can't do what we used to do, life can still be good. The body doesn't work but I'm still the same person I always was. I'm just old, that's all. She gets mad at me all the time and can't understand that we have to adapt to these circumstances. She's the type of person that has to look in the mirror every half an hour. Doing this, she doesn't notice herself aging. It's not such a shock. I look in the mirror once every couple of years, maybe. I see big changes this way and understand more about getting on. It's too much for her to want to comprehend or accept. Her mode of coping is to control everything I say or do. So, I'm going to see my son. He's thirty-five and married. Just had his first child so you know how spoiled that baby will be.” he gave a solid chuckle in keeping company with the first smile I'd seen.

        “Adaptation is the key to survival, according to Darwyn.” I offered.

        “That's right. I'm about to have the chance to spoil my grandson.”

        I don't know how long this gentle being will live. I do know that he'll be alive from within for as long as it takes to be a part of that lucky baby's life. He'll stay as long as need be and, if the Universe is kind, that old teacher will plant seeds of wisdom into that little grandson of his. It's not like the traveling he enjoyed in his prime but, smiling down at a wee one and speaking truth in a gentle voice is totally possible. This will be enough for both grandfather and grandson. If the Universe allows, that child will never forget his grandfather Ed. I never will, that's for sure.

*Mr. Ed is as familiar as I was willing to be. Calling the elderly by their first name or by some beaux mots, such as, Darling, Sweetie, Honey, Dear is something I just won't do because, to do so, feels disrespectful, wrong and downright patronizing. The elderly deserve a Ms, Mr. or Mrs. and at the very least, Sir or Ma'am in my humble opinion.

Thanks Heather