Story Saturday

I'm certain she was the old woman I had watched in the church.  I love when older adults begin conversations with me, but it is a rare occasion when I notice an older person before they notice me.  I was waiting for a bus in a small town, and there were no benches at the bus stop.  I was on vacation at the time, so I plopped down on a stone wall and began reading a book.  In Lviv, or somewhere where people knew me I would not sit on a dirty, cold surface - I have a reputation to keep - but out here in the village, it seemed less harmful.

 This grandmother clearly felt I was playing Russian roullete with my life by sitting directly on the cold stone.  Her general opinion of young people was on the low side - I think most older people who haunt emptier and emptier churches have a low estimation of young people.  I try and be nice.  She says that she has even seen young people wearing flip flops this fall.  I try to not convey by my facial expressions that I had been tempted to work on my toe tan today as well.

And then she asked the inevitable question.  "How old do you think I am?"

I've never been asked this question by an American, but in this corner of the world it's a fun game to liven up beet picking season.
 
I usually pick an age, divide by two and then add ten years.  She looked about 120 - so I guessed 70.  She was 78.  I use to just take 10 or 15 years off of my guess, but that's too risky.

And long after she had shuffled away, I crept back up to my seat on the stone wall.  Through my gloves, I looked at my knuckes which, even through the thick leather of my gloves, show the arthritis of someone much older than my years.  And I wonder how many more winters I'll survive here.  I can imagine going to my high school reunion in a decade and holding an ancient bell-horn to my wrinkled, fuzzy ear and asking my former classmates, "How old do you think I am?"