Moving across the country wasn’t a hard decision for us when we made it. We were on course to outgrow our delightful home relatively quickly. While we loved our time in DC, we’d mutually decide that it ultimately didn’t provide the backdrop in which we wanted to raise our children. Most importantly, Katrina had just happened. There was a feeling of helplessness being so far away. Our mothers had settled in Texas and that would be our next chapter. The overwhelming thought being focused on our children and their proximity to their grands. Growing up, we didn’t know a life without our grandparents being a stone’s throw away. Along with having a backyard and a walkable community, for our kids, a close relationship with their grandparents would top our list of priorities.

It’s been a long time since I’ve had grandparents. I would only know one set in my lifetime. My paternal grandparents’ deaths would precede my birth by years. Washington “Sunny” Hardy and Ethel Hardy would fill in the gap; overflowing it with love, wisdom and protection. Sundays meant visits to their home. The screech of the iron gate to their front yard would serve as an announcement of our arrival. In the years that allowed, they’d appear from the screen door, anxiously enveloping me with hospitable warmth. In the living room sat a sofa, chair and television atop a stand. I would sit and they would flank me with the same intensity of the guards at Buckingham Palace. This was both comforting and daunting at the same time. I wouldn’t be allowed to move from that place. Their love for me would dictate keeping a close eye on me for the duration of our visit. I’d watch my cousin play freely through the storm door, longing to mirror his activity. But that wouldn’t be. To them, I was as precious as glass and they’d not allow the slightest opportunity for incident. It was in this time, however, that I would learn about them. In their loving attempt to keep me entertained, they would recall stories of their lives and upbringings. Unbeknownst to me, I was sitting in the midst of a real living museum. Hearing first hand accounts of events only presented within history books was enriching. My grandfather, an Amtrak employee and my grandmother, a homemaker, would raise seven children in the city of New Orleans. They would become homeowners, when such a thing was an anomaly for people of color. Their stories would seed my soil with dreams of such an accomplishment. Even at my tender age I could absorb the special nature found within these exchanges. I knew that they were one of a kind and limited. I accepted them, invited them and treasure them for all that they are worth. Priceless.

In my childhood, for a time I shared a room with Alberta. Affectionately known as Bert, she was my fraternal grandfather’s sister; making her my great aunt. But she was more like a grandmother. She lived with us and was a part of my daily life. She was my room mate, my alarm clock, my comforter and my sounding board. Born in 1897, Bert had sensibilities of yesteryear. She was a relic; being 80 years old when I was born. Bert was a walking history lesson. She’d seen and been through it all, but was never willing to speak of it. “You all are so stuck in the past,” she would quip. “Live in the moment. Take in what’s happening today. There is nothing in the past worth mentioning or dwelling on.” Understanding the span in history that she’d lived through, I didn’t agree completely, but respected her position. Bert was married twice and once divorced with no children. However, as a nanny Alberta raised three children to which she held dear. Those children grew and stayed close to Bert with regular visits and phone calls until her death. Dainty and cultured, she had a love of Vic Damone, variety shows, broaches, clutches and cardigans that she would pass along to me. When I left for Howard University, she gifted me one of her favorite sweaters that I still have and treasure today. I spoke to Bert by phone daily during my time in DC. We were never at a loss on topics to converse on. She was sensible and informed as she watched news and daytime talk religiously. She was viral and alert, regularly taking walks around the blocks. Alberta smoked for thirty plus years. One day she noticed her cigarette tasted different, perhaps a signaling that tobacco companies were changing the formulas to what we know now is deadly. She put her cigarette down and never picked it up again. She wasn’t on medication and needed no assistance in walking, trotting or dancing when appropriate (or not). So when I got the call that Bert had suddenly taken a turn for the worst, you can imagine my dismay. I went home for the Christmas holidays and spent two weeks at a hospice at Bert’s bedside. She was not speaking, but felt my presence. On her last night, I asked her if she wanted me to stay, as I’d done every night. On that night, she opened her eyes, looked at me and shook her head no. While my soul knew this was it, my heart had a ways to go. By the time I made it home, she had passed away. Alberta Genevieve Giles had made it three days into the new millineum. She was 103 years old. Her decline was sudden and departure was fast. Despite her advanced age, no one was ready. It’s been almost 18 years and there isn’t a day that I do not think of her. I often wonder what she’d think of me, my life and my choices. She touched so many lives in so many ways.

It has been many years since I’ve had grandparents. Over the years I’ve silently adopted others as my own; listening intently to their stories and pulling all I can from their wisdom. As I am aging, the landscape of our seniors are drastically changing. Our mothers and fathers are now within this realm. I am now counting our seniors as friends. They are more active, fashionable and about the world than ever before. Joe, a dear gym buddy, is the perfect example of the changing face of seniors. For years, I would watch him in passing. He has an incredible build to which he is dedicated to maintaining. With a face of determination and grit, he would be there faithfully, head down, working hard on his body. Unbeknownst to him, he served as an ultra light beam to a lot of us. I am one that believes when you see it, you should speak it. When I got a chance to say it to him, I did. Unbeknownst to me, it would change his viewpoint and spark an ongoing dialog between the two of us. He is endlessly interesting. Among many talents he is a baker by profession. He is artistic and creative, having experience in jewelry making and the lost art of Pointille, a decorative art involving thousands of punched dots. In sharing his life stories, history and perspectives I am finding the same nourishment once found among my lost loved ones. The facade is different. Joe is well conditioned, sprite and as familiar as any of my other contemporaries. The lessons are the same. Life has gifted him a wealth of experiences to pass along. I enjoy and delight in him and his energy. He is definitely one to look to for inspiration.

If you are blessed to have elders in your life, cherish them. Call them, take them to lunch and soak in all that they have to offer. There is much to be gained from advanced life experiences. The wisdom imparted is often time priceless. The senior population has doubled since the early 2000s, resulting in a huge impact on our world and society. We are all informed by our life experiences. Our grands, blood relatives or not, are gifts and should be honored as such.