May 30, 2006

• Candles

      Puddin’ celebrated her 100th birthday this past Sunday.  She received her many guests seated in a wing back chair at a very upscale home for senior citizens.  Until just recently, she had her own 3-room apartment there, but on Sunday she confided to us that she is unable to care for herself any longer and must stay in a semiprivate room now.  “It’s a nice enough room,” she conceded,  “but the woman who shares it is just plain old and senile, so I have requested a new roommate -- someone who still has all her faculties, for goodness sake!”

      Smiles and laughter ensued.  But we were laughing with her, not at her.  I doubt if anyone has ever laughed at Puddin’.   Not in a hundred years.

      Because although she must rely on a walker to get around now, Puddin’ still manages to radiate regalilty.  The utmost in dignity and grace, she is always dressed fashionably in tasteful (and no doubt expensive) clothes, her nails manicured and every lovely white hair in place.  Photographs tell the story best -- she hasn’t looked a day over 65 since she was 90.

      I congratulated Puddin’ on a long life, well-lived.  She smiled and asked me to write in her “Memory Book.”  I wrote about how honored I was the first time I met her 6 years ago and recalled what she said at the time:  “My given name is Elizabeth, but my father always called me Puddin’.  And I like you, so you may call me that, too.”

       "And I like you, too, Puddin', " I concluded.

      Puddin’ is my sweet mother-in-law’s cousin -- they are daughters of two Clausen brothers, Richard and Fritz, whose German parents came to America and settled here in Kentucky.  The girls grew up together -- Helen living with her parents & siblings in the house where I live now, and Puddin’ living with her family on a farm down the road a-piece.  Helen is much younger -- a mere 83 this past April.  She had memories for Puddin’s book, too -- but her gentle hands are gnarled with “arthur-itis” and not easily coaxed into holding a pen. She asked if I would write what she told me, and so I did:

      “Puddin’, remember the time I came to visit you and your sisters when I was just a little girl and you had to feed and water the turkeys?  I loved watching you do that, but I never saw so many turkeys in one place before!   I began to count those turkeys and when I got to 30 I was just sure that y’all must be rich to have so many!”

      Puddin’ is happy to be 100, and so I am happy for her.  She's lived an amazing life, first as a young farm girl, later as the wife of one of Kentucky's (infamous) horse trainers and mother of a son who died at age 6.  She's traveled extensively, entertained dignitaries, and made thousands of friends.  At age 100, her memory is perfectly intact.  To describe her as "remarkable" seems understated to me, but I can't seem to come up with a better descriptor.

      You know whut, though?  One hundred years would be far too many to suit me.  I do not have even the teeniest desire to live that long and shall remain unwaveringly hopeful that since I am not nearly so remarkable, I will not be required to do so!

  • 4:03 pm
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