The Gero-Punk Project

Part four in a series of essays by Guest Gero-Punk

Velda Metelmann

Cars

      The county road was graveled but a plume of dust followed every car. When we heard a horn blowing from the blind curve at the far edge of our property we always knew it was Daddy.  Most of the fruit farmers along the Walla Walla River had some sort of motor transport but they used horses to pull farm machinery.  Not everybody in the family had cars – Grandpa and Grandma Saunders didn’t buy one until after we moved to town.  Grandma took lessons and learned to drive and thereafter drove Grandpa to his Baker County Commission meetings and wherever else they wanted to go. The kind of a car one drove was somewhat of a status symbol even then, as the first of our cars I remember was a Chevrolet with an open top.  It ranked low though it had been sporty for a young man.   Mama thought it was dangerous for children and maybe it was on those rough roads with the top folded down.  Seatbelts had not been invented.  Grandma and Grandpa Gray’s car at that time was a Model T Ford, considerably nicer than ours; Uncle Elmer’s was nicer yet as he used his car to deliver mail.  Mama’s oldest sister Mabel was married to Uncle Chester Frazier and their kids Jo Anne and Janette were our closest cousins.  Their grandfather, Henry Frazier had crossed the plains in a covered wagon as a young man.  He was one of Milton City’s prominent bankers and owned a big Chrysler with shiny spokes on the wheels.  Uncle Chester had a dark blue Dodge, not as nice as his father’s car.  None of the cars I rode in had effective heaters; we expected to be cold in the winter and hot in summer and we were.  After harvest in 1929, both sets of Grays bought new cars: ours a basic black Model A Ford but Grandpa and Grandma’s Ford was a smart olive green, effete with cut glass vases for flowers and braided silk tassels to hold on-to on rough roads.  Daddy hauled farm produce and supplies in the Model T Truck and once he let me drive it through a barbed wire gate that was too hard for me to open.  Oh, that was a thrill!  I was eight years old.  The upholstery in farm cars suffered from being used in a pinch to transport feed sacks and the luxury of Grandpa and Grandma’s green velour interior was eventually grayed with dust and smelled of chicken feed. 

Gossip

      One family on the River was the only one still using a horse and buggy.  Grandma Gray would not permit anyone to mention the idiosyncrasies of that lady because during the Influenza Pandemic of 1918 (while Daddy and his brother still lived at home) she had come and nursed our family when everybody was sick with the flu and pulled everybody through.  Grandma honored her for that.  Her peculiarities were entertaining, however, and were mentioned behind Grandma’s back.  We knew that the lady kept her eggs until the price was right no matter how old they became, that a brand-new Model A Ford was jacked up in the barn because she wouldn’t let her husband drive it, and that her husband and daughters did not dare have a mind of their own.  Years later, after her death, the car, still new, was sold to the Fuller Brush man and he drove it in the Pea Festival Parades.

Grandfathers

     My grandfathers were the last generation in the family to wield the absolute power of male superiority.  Their opinions were respected and nobody expressed a contrary view.   This was demonstrated after my first child was born.  He was standing in his playpen, rocking back and forth.  Grandpa Saunders said, “That baby wants to sit down.”  Four of us: mother, grandmother, grandaunt, and cousin of the child in question, were on our feet at once to help the infant plant his well-padded bottom on the floor.   Since these men had such power, it was lucky for our family that they were both good men.

     Grandfather’s word was law, however quietly given, and almost always obeyed.   Once, though. I didn’t do what Grandpa Gray ordered.  I had a calico kitten, very young, that hadn’t made it out-of-doors (litter boxes hadn’t been heard of in our family) and made a smelly mess on the enclosed porch.  Grandma told me to clean it up.  I approached it and realized that any closer contact with those odorous excreta would make me throw up.  Grandma asked again me to clean it up but I told her I couldn’t – it would make me sick.  Grandpa turned his head and said, “Velda, you heard what your grandmother said.”  I offered the same explanation to him; he shuffled his newspaper, cleared his throat, and went back to reading.  Grandma did the clean-up, gagging while she did it.

Politics

     I asked Daddy what was the difference between Democrats and Republicans.  He explained that the Republicans stood for high tariffs so that manufactured products would not be imported and that Democrats stood for Free Trade.  I could tell from his tone of voice that he thought the Democrats were right.  Grandpa Saunders was a Democrat.  He said he always voted for the man and not the party but the man he voted for turned out to be a Democrat ten times out of ten.  Grandpa delivered his opinions quietly but so firmly that everyone always knew what he thought and nobody in the family dared to disagree.  Daddy changed his views later in life and didn’t vote for FDR for his third term.  I don’t remember whether Daddy supported Al Smith when he ran against Herbert Hoover but Al Smith was Catholic and that could have made a difference to Daddy.  Politics were not important enough in our family for me to remember Warren G Harding who was President when I was born.  One night after I had started school, our family went to a political gathering on the grounds of Forks School where there was a roaring bonfire with free hot dogs.  The smiling politician shook hands even with children, and the overall good feeling generated made me wish I were old enough to vote for that nice man who wanted to continue to be our representative to Congress.  

Baptism

      The big irrigation ditch came in from the Walla Walla River at the back of our place and ran along the boundary between our farm and that of Grandpa Hopkins, passing alongside the apple orchards, chuckling behind the chicken house and the calf barn and flowing through a little wood that made a private place for the more sacred aspects of our play.  We took turns baptizing each other in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost – at least Marjy and I did.  Donna was never mature enough to conduct a service but was willing to be baptized whenever we decided to.  Sometimes we sprinkled like the Methodists, sometimes we poured, and on summer days we immersed like the Baptists but Marjy eventually felt this was sacrilegious and we had to stop.  Marjy was always so good – so down-to-earth really good and I loved her so much that I didn’t resent her even when my parents held her up as an example and asked, “Why can’t you be more like Marjory?”  

Burial

     Marjy didn’t object, though, to funerals for cats, no matter how holy we made them.  I had bad luck with an orange kitten named Dandelion one summer.  The service we gave him was so enjoyable that we dug up that kitten three times one sunny afternoon improving our choice of memory verses, hymns, and solemn remarks as we went along.  We made the grave beautiful with flowers and little stones.  We were all regulars at church and Sunday school but none of us had attended a funeral and nobody we knew had died.  Death so far in our family had been long ago or far away: little Rankin and Great Grandma Cundiff had died.  Mama cried but that was far away.  

Velda Metelmann is a student in the Master of Arts in Interdisciplinary Studies program at Marylhurst University. She’ll be commencing  her thesis work on “a good old age” this fall.

An essay by guest Gero-Punk

Theodore (Teddy) Gajewski

When my dad started dating a woman half his age, I was concerned. Heather, my father’s new girlfriend, was twenty-seven years old, and my dad was fifty-four. She was closer to my age than to his. Don’t get me wrong. I was happy for him because my parents had been through a difficult divorce, but the age difference worried me. The thought crept into my mind that my father might end up marrying a gold digger. However, I dismissed the idea considering that my father is far from wealthy. He is a doctor but at a university, and he pays for two private schools, a house, and an apartment. In the end, I concluded Heather deserved a chance, and I decided to get to know her. At first, she was shy and quiet, but two months later we were good friends. To my surprise, I found her to be kind and caring. She listened patiently to my girl problems and even taught me how to ice skate. Later that year, my father told me that he and Heather were getting married.

My dad’s wedding was a mixture of young twenty-five year olds, who were friends of Heather, and fifty to sixty year olds, who were friends of my father. The wedding itself went off without a hitch, but the reception was a different matter. My uncle gave a toast to the happy couple, and it was truly awful, tactless, and crass. First of all, he was drunk, so drunk he could barely walk in a straight line. Secondly, he was reluctant to desert the wedding caterer, with whom he was flirting, in order to come to the podium. In his speech he jokingly talked about how he had had a bad feeling about my father’s first wedding, and that he didn’t feel good about this one either. After an uncomfortable pause, which seemed interminable, a few guests chuckled politely. His disjointed speech, rather than celebrating the union of two exceptional human beings, only served to undermine the occasion.  Once again, I looked around the room at the division between the guests of the bride and the groom and was struck by the extreme awkwardness of this event. I felt like I was at an after party for a football game, with the two teams not wanting to mingle with one another. My grey-haired father’s friends were seated at the circular tables located along the peripheries, while Heather’s young high-strung friends crowded around the long rectangular table in the center, where the cake was located. The subtle glances my father’s friends gave to the rambunctious group of young people partying and drinking gave me the impression that they did not approve of him marrying this young woman. I could only assume that Heather’s friends felt the same way about her marrying a much older man. I could understand the guests’ uneasiness about the marriage; I had once felt the same way.

My uncle’s terrible speech coupled with the guests’ apprehensiveness made it clear that what was needed was for grace and love to be given freely. These two people, my dad and step-mom, were making a commitment to each other and were asking for the blessing and well wishes of their friends and families. Although I had just started my freshmen year in high school, I knew it was up to me to salvage this celebration. Uninvited, I went up to the podium to offer my own impromptu toast. In my speech, I told everyone how I had always wanted my parents to get back together, but if my dad had to remarry anyone, then I was glad it was to Heather. The tension seemed to lessen because of my speech. People seemed to take my meaning that my father and Heather were two people in love, who wanted to spend the rest of their lives together. As I walked away from the podium, people applauded loudly and enthusiastically. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that Heather was moved to tears.

Three years after their wedding, my father and Heather are still happily married and they even have a daughter named Sarah. The marriage is not without problems, but it is clear they still love each other very much, and are committed to living a meaningful life. The experience taught me to let preconceived judgments go and give people a chance. I am grateful for the opportunity to expand my family and let Heather into my life. Most importantly, I learned that the key to my personal happiness is to choose love and acceptance.

Teddy Gajewski is a senior at Strake Jesuit College Preparatory in Houston, Texas. He enjoys acting in school plays and one day he hopes to be an attorney.

One year ago today I instigated the Gero-Punk Project (though truth be told, I’ve been gero-punking for quite some time).  Over the past twelve months I’ve published sixty-six Gero-Punk essays of various sorts, written by me and by several guests (including my mommy, my mentor, my best friend, my love, many dear current and former students and colleagues, not to mention new comrades of all life-course stages and ages).  As well, over the past year many new friends have visited the Gero-Punk Project, offering ideas, comments, and inspiration.

On this auspicious occasion,  please accept my gratitude for supporting the gerontological anarchy, exploration, and play that we’ve been engaging in together!

Every year on my birthday — December 23rd — I spend some time in a deep process of reflection and  review. I reconsider my personal manifesto, I contemplate what I’ve learned over the past year, and I make wishes and plans for the coming year.  As today is the Gero-Punk Project’s birthday, I thought it fitting to re-post and reflect upon (and revise? We’ll see what happens next…) the Gero-Punk Manifesto as it embodies the commitments that continue to inspire me as I travel through the life-course, doing what I do.

A Gero-Punk Manifesto

I am Jenny Sasser, a gero-punk (and a practitioner of Gerontological Anarchy).  What is a “gero-punk,” you ask?  Well, far be it from me to claim to have a definitive answer, but I will say this: to be a true punk of any sort is to live experimentally, to live in love with emergence, with the unexpected, the chaotic, the improvisatory, to live with your arms wide open to complexity, guided by your own star, fuelled by a good measure of playfulness and well-intentioned rebellion.

To be a gero-punk is to bravely and critically reflect upon, interrogate, and create new ways of thinking about and experiencing the aging journey.  A gero-punk resists normative aging ideology, and challenges others to do so as well, or at least to better understand the implications of normative aging ideology before they live by its rules. And as British gerontologist Simon Biggs entreats us, we resist “simple states of consciousness” about aging and later life, and choose, instead, to dwell in the messiness, the undeniable complexity, of deep human development and aging.

To be a gero-punk is to explore the art of time-travel, to learn how to be grounded simultaneously in the present while respecting (and learning from) the past and dreaming the future.

To be a gero-punk is to find one’s tribe – human and non-human members included– and to gather the tribe close so as to travel together through the life course, “with my will intact to go wherever I need to go, and every stone on the road precious to me” (to echo poet Stanley Kunitz).

To be a gero-punk is to possess the audacious belief that we are, all of us, legitimate makers of meaning, and so too are all other creatures. That our own precious lives provide the grounds from which understandings emerge. What this also means is that we acknowledge what we can’t possibly know prior to lived experience – For example, I may have been a gerontologist for more than half my life, but I’m yet to be an old gerontologist. I have no expertise on old age, so I best rely on the old experts themselves. But as a gero-punk, I can choose to try on different ways of moving through the world so as to develop empathy for and imagination about aging experiences I’ve yet to (or may never) experience.

As gero-punks, we place our attention and awareness upon odd, unexpected, flummoxing, and contradictory aging experiences; we accept our own experiences and those of others as sacred and real, if yet (or perhaps always) unexplainable. We celebrate the way human life always finds a way to spill over the edges of our attempts to simplify, categorize, and contain its wildness.

And, as gero-punks, we practice the seemingly contradictory spiritual discipline of asking questions about the meanings of all of this, of this wild and fantastic and unfolding aging journey, without always giving into the overwhelming need to engage in analysis, nor with attachment to finding answers to even our most pressing, persistent questions.  Rather, we rejoice in the spilling-forth of yet more questions, we let the questions carry us away.

Finally (well, at least for now), let me assert that gero-punks are committed to taking gerontological anarchy out to the streets, to engaging in meaningful, transformative learning for all humans, of all ages, outside of the academy, not only inside of it.

Post-script: Looking forward

What is on your mind? What is exciting you? Inciting you? Flummoxing you? Worrying  you? Inspiring you? What shall we think about together in the coming year? What would you like me to ponder and write about? What might  you like to  ponder and write about? Next year on August 14th as we look back on the second year of the Gero-Punk Project, what new questions might we like to have explored, what new experiences might we like to have engaged in? Life is short: Act now!