I’m one of 40 or so elders – I could say seniors – equally nice sounding, but without the gravitas - or mature– nah, that’s for movie ratings – or, more scornfully, geezers, or wickedly demeaning – old farts. I guess you could say all-of-the-above. After decades of achievements and societal contributions, and professional accomplishments (and being a bit of a pompous ass ) with a smidgen of pride, I prefer the politically correct, solemn, and dignified first word choice - who reside in an Assisted Living Facility (ALF.).
I’m old enough to remember the vast wasteland before it was memorialized as the “vast wasteland.” (For those of you too young to remember, the “vast wasteland” was the sobriquet pronounced upon the fledgling soporific medium called TV by Newton Minnow, the man President John Kennedy appointed Chairman of the Federal Communication Commission -FCC.)
I’m awakened by a continuous rumbling. As I sleepily struggle to forge a remembrance, foggy thoughts ruminate in my somnolent mind, and slowly cohere in recognition: it’s a huge motor idling. Clarity penetrates my torpid mind: I ask myself, why do I hear that sound outside my window? I slowly lift my head and glance at the ceiling – pools of color pulse rhythmically as the motor rumbles on.
What do we do with dear old dad? Or sweet old mom? Or both? So muse the adult children of parents who are septuagenarians , or octogenarians, or nonagenarians, or centenarians, or, .. . God forbid - supercentenarians?
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