Little old lady passing by
Catching everybody’s eye . . .
And a smile on your face
You’re a perfect picture
In your lavender and lace . . .
— Hoagy Carmichael
Oh my goodness! Imogene Jones — Imy to her friends — just turned 108! I’ve never known anyone that old before. Imy is bedfast and suffers the decline one would expect of her years. I saw pictures of her when she was a young woman, and she was stunning. A widow, when she was in her seventies she dated gentlemen who were younger than she until she married again. She wasn’t a “lavender-and-lace” woman. She had an individual sense of style and got away with unique combinations of clothes.
An excellent wordsmith, Imy wrote a weekly column for the Eastside Herald and owned a little import shop in Irvington. Imy was very social and full of fun. One year Vicki invited teenage friends to a Halloween party in our attic. Disguised as a Gypsy fortune teller, Imy arrived before the guests. Afterwards, Vicki and her friends said, “Ohmygod! I can’t believe the things she knew! It’s kinda’ spooky.” Imy told me, “Before the party started, I listened very carefully to them talking to each other!”
Then there’s Vivian Forst, the mother of one of my Knightstown high school friends. Now 103, she drove until she was 95 and played cards several times a week. She had to give up driving and cards, but her mind remains as sharp as ever. An avid sports fan, she has the latest in hearing aids to listen to games, and she listens to Talking Books from the Indiana State Library.
Now that I’ve grown older myself, she has become my cherished friend rather than just the mother of a friend. Sometimes she becomes a little down and says, “What in the world am I good for? Why am I still here?” “Vivian,” I wrote in a note, “Your being here is a comfort to those who love you. Live on, Vivian, live on!”
Recently Bill and I went to a chili supper at the Irvington church where he is a member. He pointed out that the majority of the people there were women. Many of them had gray or white hair.
Several women whom the French would call “ladies of a certain age” and obviously friends, sat at a table near us. Rather than lavender and lace dresses, they wore pants. I watched them enjoying being with each other and their pleasure in listening to music after dinner and fondly watching a little toddler boy who had been set free to dance and run around. I found myself wondering what their lives have been like, what joys and tragedies they’ve encountered, whether their husbands were alive, how they cope with the inevitable changes that come with aging.
My eyes mist over when I think about Imy and Vivian. I have come to the realization that I am a not-so-little old lady. Actually, I much prefer the Beach Boys’ image to that of Hoagy Carmichael:
It’s a little old lady from Pasadena
Go granny, go granny, go granny go
Has a pretty little flower bed of white gardenias
Go granny, go granny, go granny go
But parked in her rickety old garage
Is a brand new shiny red super stock Dodge
And everybody’s saying that there’s nobody meaner
Than the little old lady from Pasadena
She drives real fast and she drives real hard
She’s a terror out on Colorado Boulevard
I’m a rotten gardener and a timid driver, but that’s the kind of old lady I’d like to be — vroom! vroom! Parked in our garage is my sensible, stodgy, gray 1993 Ford Tempo — a hand-me-down from Bill. I intend to drive it till its wheels fall off, but I do like to imagine myself in something fire-engine red and sporty. Won’t happen in this lifetime! Oh well . . . wclarke@comcast.net