My mother’s boyfriend has many plans. He would like to start a furniture restoration business (restoring antique chairs is one of his hobbies), start a business for flawless bee honey (he has a few hives of bee colonies), run an equestrian center (he always had horses of his own), maintain a huge organic vegetable garden ( he already has a decent piece of land with berries and kale), breeds a herd of highlanders and possibly slaughters himself (he already has a few, and just two calves), refurbishing old Volvos (there’s a blood-red Amazon gathering dust in them the barn).
He is eighty years old.
You can realize that not everything is possible anymore. After all, life is finite. But you can also ignore that finiteness. And live as if you have eternal life.
He does.
It is an attractive way of aging – suitable for all ages. Do not focus all attention on what is no longer possible or which is no longer possible. You often see that type of pessimism. I certainly don’t want to trivialize physical ailments, it’s less easy to get around behind a rollator than on a racing bike. I’m all about the vibe†
I also see that with the mother-in-law of a good friend. Her kids suggested it might be a good idea to thin out that huge library. Because what should you do with it when you’re over eighty? She said, “I can’t, because I’m going to reread them all.” That is kind to: “Mind your own business. I live until I die.”
It’s a style of living. It’s casual living. Don’t lose heart quickly. Don’t be guided by the expectations of others. Do not determine in advance what is no longer possible, but see it. And also trust that there will always be someone who can help.
So when we went to clear out the huge shed behind my mother’s boyfriend’s house because it had woodworm in it that had to be exterminated, almost nothing was allowed to go into the dumpster. Or, well, I didn’t like it much.
Wooden wheelbarrows, a dozen Mercedes bumpers, antique chairs with bulging seats, engines, doors, windows, cupboards and cabinets, saddles, an antique scale, car tires, boxes full of tools. He kept a close eye on it from under his woolen cap. A lot was lovingly stored again. Because you could do all kinds of things with it “later”. Or there must have been another “enthusiast” for it.
What’s missing, I told him, is a new car. A Tesla or something. It’s a joke.
“I just bought it,” he said. “A blue one.”
Sheila Kamerman ([email protected]) replaces this week Gemma Venhuizen†
A version of this article also appeared in NRC in the morning of April 13, 2022
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