by Kerry Schafer
When did everybody get so old?
Obviously, I don’t mean me – I’m eternally young and plan to stay that way – but everybody else in my generation and above?
My resident Viking recently reported being startled by seeing a grizzled old man in the mirror, rather than the much younger face he was expecting. “When did this happen?” he asked, once he’d recovered from the shock and begun to accept the fact that the years are catching up to us.
In addition to everybody getting old (even my youngest son is making noises about getting “old,” at the advanced age of 30) an extraordinary number of people also seem to be dying. While my kids seem to be attending a never-ending series of weddings, my email and social media feeds are full of an alarming proliferation of death notices and funerals. Family members and classmates, former co-workers and bosses, and also iconic figures in music and show biz such as Betty White, Chuck Norris, Gloria Steinem, and most recently Dolly Parton, all passing out of this life into whatever comes next.
I had the shocking realization the other day, when something got complicated and I looked around for an older, wiser, mentor-type person to help me figure it all out, that the people who filled that role for me are all gone. My parents have been gone for years, and now so are most of their friends and their siblings, and a terrifying realization hit me right between the eyes: I’m it. I’m the old, not-nearly-wise-enough person in the room and there’s nobody else standing behind me to answer questions or give me advice.
If you’re of a certain age, you knoww what I mean.
I always hated the game of tag, especially being “it.” And now, it feels like I’m permanently “it,” until the day I die, because in this case I can’t run fast enough to tag another player. There’s also no option of leaving the game and running home for a lunch made by that older and wiser person known as Mom.
As if that’s not enough responsibility to hold me until my inevitable demise (because not only am I now “it,” I’m also “next”), I ran across a post on Instagram the day after Dolly Parton died that added a whole extra layer:
“I know it’s hard to watch all these beautiful things be carried away by time and see the wrong things growing in their place. But listen. Listen. We have to be the beautiful things now. It has to be us. It has to be us. Courage.” —Author Jonathan Edward Durham (@thisoneoverhere)
I found this to be equal parts inspirational and terrifying. Not only am I now “it” in the older and wiser department, I also need to try to fill the shoes of somebody like Dolly? Hang on a blessed minute.
Much as I’d like to not carry this responsibility, I think Durham is right.
Obviously, we’re not all going to be famous singers or movie stars. Most of us aren’t going to become household names, found huge charitable organizations, or give millions of books to kids. But maybe being a beautiful thing in the world can happen in smaller ways.
The reactions to Dolly’s passing reminded me of when my father died, far too young and a whole lot of years ago. I was in my late 20s, and it was my first major encounter with death. What really resonated for me during that time, besides the depth of my own grief, was the way our community reacted to his passing.
Dad wasn’t famous or a public figure, just the plant manager at a small-town lumber mill, and yet his life touched an amazing number of people in a positive way. When I accompanied my mother to the bank to deal with his finances, the bank teller dissolved into tears. So did the florist when we went to order flowers. The waitresses at the local restaurants Dad frequented sent cards and flowers. Prayers were said for this white Christian man at the local Sikh temple.
The thing about Dad was that he treated everybody with respect, and like they mattered. He knew how to listen so you felt seen and heard. He tipped well. He worked hard and he also played hard. He liked to laugh. People came away from an encounter with him feeling better.
We all know people like this. People who give us the gift of really seeing us or listening to us. People who know how to laugh. People who create music or art or books for the joy of creation. The barista who always gets your drink right. The woman at the checkout counter who asks if everything is okay if you miss your usual shopping day.
Take a minute to really think about who those people are to you, and then ask yourself, “How can I be that person? How can I be a beautiful thing in the world?”
Remember, it doesn’t have to be big things. Small things count. Maybe they count even more.
Colville resident Kerry Schafer (who also writes as Kerry Anne King) is the bestselling author of 15 novels, the co-host of The One Happy Thing Podcast, and a licensed mental health counselor. Find out more at www.allthingskerry.com
