By Susan Read
In 1991, when I received a copy of this article written by my mom for an English-language publication in Mexico, I was in my mid-50s and aging was not on my front burner. That was then. My mother lived in Mexico and was a regular contributor to the publication in San Miguel de Allende. Like most women of the time, she did not attend college but worked to get her two brothers through school. Nevertheless, she took advantage of travel and especially loved life in Mexico. She passed at age 96 in Kilmarnock. This is now. Approaching the big NINE OH, I have a far different view of the article and the woman who wrote it. Mom could easily fit into RWC and recognize our life here today. I’m glad I saved her take on aging.
Marjorie J. Smith
Sept. 13, 1991
200 Burnham Road
Lake Oswego, OR
Just About Things
And this is about growing old. To this point, I have shied around the word, OLD. I have chosen to say, “as we grow older.” That seemed more acceptable. After all, everyone is growing older, even those glamorous, g-stringed (strung?) 20-year-old lovelies we see on magazine covers or sprinkled carelessly over our beaches.
But now I must face facts. I am old. Everyone over 70, well, let’s make it 75, is old. And you know something? It isn’t all that bad. Fortunately, very fortunately, I’m in excellent health. I can still walk two miles a day, and do, although not quite as fast as I did when climbing the hills of San Miguel.
Now, I am walking a path along the river, and I stop to pick up a bouquet of wild sweet peas or to listen to the music of a small waterfall, taking a short cut down the ferny hillside. I’m not in a hurry and I find the sweet peas and the waterfall as therapeutic as the brisk strides I used to take.
I donate some time to a thrift shop (Bodega experience) for a “cause.” I see old friends and make some new ones, not many, but a few. The responsibility of one’s own life, keeping it interesting, is heavier than when just keeping abreast of it was an accomplishment, but assuming that responsibility is a source of satisfaction.
I travel, which I love, sometimes to places with strange sounding names and sometimes to familiar places, to see family, or deal old Friends. I enjoy the reunions, the catching-up talk, rolling off our tongues at incredible sped. I enjoy the different ambience, the change.
And then, it’s good to be come. I’ve picked up some ideas. I’ll have a chair recovered, or buy a new lamp, perhaps plant begonias on my terrace. Most of these pleasures I didn’t have when I was young. I was busy then raising children, taking care of a husband, a house, a family’s life. Happy in a very different kind of way.
I think that what I am trying to say is that being a widow, living alone and yes, being old, doesn’t have to mean, “a lonely old widow.” Not at all!
Of course, if I could have my companero back I’d chose that in a minute, but in the meantime, life can be good, even for an “older woman.”
Reprinted with permission from “Our Neighborhoods” Summer 2025 edition.
