There is a certain satisfaction in wreaking destruction in positive ways. I was very much enjoying the act of ridding my sidewalk of the overgrowth of crabgrass and other weeds when a friend of my granddaughter’s stopped looked over and said, “Whatcha you doing?”
I gave a chunk o’ crabgrass a hard tug and said, “Edging the sidewalk.”
Grandgirl’s friend frowned. And she said — meaning to be helpful, I’m most certain — that I shouldn’t be doing the kind of work myself. I should find someone else to do it, maybe my son.
She’s young and so I forgive her. Sort of.
Let’s face it, to her I probably do seem absolutely ancient. I remember when TV was only in black and white and, if you were lucky, you got more than two channels.
Heck, I even remember what it was like before remote controls, when we actually had to get up from the couch and switch channels ourselves.
I’ll bet she doesn’t even know I remember the advent of microwave ovens, too. They were like the modern miracle of the kitchen, able to bake a potato in only 10 minutes. Which makes it sad to think that I seldom use mine for anything more than heating up leftovers and making popcorn.
Speaking of popcorn, I still know how to make it in a cast-iron skillet, just like my grandma did. I am, however, young enough to have enjoyed Jiffy-pop before our society was too jaded to appreciate the excitement of watching that foil unfold to accommodate the popping corn.
A second event took place over the weekend that reinforced the message of my fossilhood. Driving two of the grandgirls back from church youth group Sunday night, we heard a commercial for an upcoming concert by Willie Nelson.
The 12-year-old frowned and said, “Who’s that? I never heard of him.”
I was aghast. She’d never heard of Willie Nelson? She had no clue about one of the seminal influences on country outlaw rock?
“Old guy, long white hair, bandana,” I suggested.
“Nope.” She shook her head.
So I started naming songs. Nothing rang a bell — not “Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain,” not “On the Road Again,” not “Whiskey River.”
So there it was, confirmation of what I’ve dreaded for so long. I am not the cool grandmother I hoped to be. Despite my indulgences in MTV and the Disney Channel, in spite of reading the entire “Twilight” vampire series, despite my scoping out the fashion trends for fall, I am not with it.
Heck, I probably shouldn’t even use that phrase if I want to connect with the grandkids. There’s probably some new slang I’ll never know because I’m too decrepit to learn the lingo.
Now that I'm resigning myself to my decline into old fogeyism, I may as well give up texting, start wearing orthopedic shoes and trade in my jeans for those double-knit slacks with the seam down the front of the leg.
And instead of doing my own yardwork, I’ll hobble up to the grandgirls’ house, stick my head in the door and in my best old-lady voice warble, “I’ve got a shiny quarter for anyone who wants to pull weeds!”
And probably receive a counter-offer of ten bucks on a prepaid debit card to do the work.
CATHIE SHAFFER can be reached at cathieshaffer@zoominternet.net
