Age Is a Number

(Photo Credit: Google Image)

When I was little and my father was teaching me to count, he stopped at 100 and I thought 1 to 100 were all the numbers in the universe. 

Consequently, when I applied that misconception to human age, it seemed incredibly dubious that people could live past the astronomical age of 50. I was 4, and only had enough attention span and brain to count to 50. I was convinced that 50 human years were about as long as anyone should reasonably live. 

"Because past 50 you're gonna run out of numbers to live. It just gets too hard to keep track of all the years. You won't remember how old you are." The four-year-old me would want you to know. "If you can't remember how old you are, then you're like––dead." I would extend both of my hands, palms heavenward, and frown. 

Needless to say, when my grandmother celebrated her 50th birthday, I was petrified with fear that she might die anytime. I made sure to be extra good at her house, so not to ruin her last days. 

My grandmother passed away a few months ago at the glorious age of 91, busting my childhood myth. Ironically, it was her daughter––my mother––who passed away on her 50th birthday, and I don't wish my childhood myth to be confirmed by anyone ever again. 

Fifty is a young age. Holy cow, I'm almost 50! And the thing is, the older I get, the more I want to do––to accomplish, to achieve––in life. One of which has always been going back to school. 

School is not only for the young. It's for the young at heart, too. Last winter I was accepted into the MFA in Writing program at Vermont College of Fine Arts. On the fist day of school, I was in the new students orientation when the oldest classmate was introduced: 91-year-old John*––a retired physician. 

"I've always wanted to do this, to learn to write," he said. "I'm so thrilled I finally get to do it."

He has all the physical features of a 91-year-old man: gray, wrinkled, hunchbacked––all that, and the determination of a 19-year-old boy. Watching him walk to every classes with a backpack behind him, slowly, carefully on the slippery, wintery Vermont sidewalk, I thought, "Whoa! He definitely doesn't look like someone who should've already been dead. He's alive and thriving; well and kicking." And I knew I wanted to be like John when I grow up. 

It's been said that age is only a number. I know it's true, especially when it comes to chasing your dream. Your age shouldn't have any power to stop you from living the life you've always wanted. You have the power to stop age from stopping you. 

You. Are. The. Boss.

And so, go back to school if you've always wanted to. Learn a foreign language. Write a book. Challenge yourself and live your dream. Live it beautifully!

*Name has been changed for the privacy of the said person. 



Allison

Blog: Allison Hong-Merrill
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Twitter: @xieshou
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Leftovers

It's the last week of school at our house. We have moved from counting down weeks, to counting down days and now, almost hours. In honor of this week, here is an older essay about a last day of school from years gone past.

Leftovers 

There is a dissected sandwich on my kitchen chair, left over from lunch. The mayo side is firmly adhered to the seat, bologna and cheese spread like a fan with barely an indication of nibbles around the edges. The crust, of course, has been peeled off and left there as well. On top of the table is a plate of half-eaten, leftover manicotti next to a bowl of warmed up leftover macaroni and cheese, with hotdogs. Several cups are also present, all at a different phase of consumption; never been touched, half full, empty and full of baby backwash.

Scattered under and amongst the neglected lunch dishes is powdered sugar, still leftover from breakfast, who's dishes have now been moved to the sink. A couple of cold abelskeivers, one last swallow of orange julius and plates that have been licked clean of the afore-mentioned powdered sugar. Each dish is now piled so everything is touching something but nothing is in a stable stack. All a very delicate balance, left in the wake of kids rushing like a cresting wave out the front door for the last day of school.

As I look over my kitchen, in all its noon-time glory, I move the newspaper from the crowded counter to the messy table and sit down with my own leftover; half a hamburger from last night and some blue-ribbon quality, homemade potato salad. I fill my glass with chocolate milk—my all-time favorite, fiercely safe-guarded, beverage. I’ve stealthily hidden it in the fridge so nobody knows its there but me. And today, for lunch, I don't have to worry about sharing, because I am alone. Evidence of five children and a husband are all around me but for now, I have been deserted. And so I sit in my quiet house and reflect on my busy morning.

What is this spectacle called the “last day of school”? School started earlier today than any other day this year, ever, and we were home a short two hours later. I'll admit, tears welled up as I left the school with my children in tow and the principal locked the door behind me. These elementary school years are such a fun, formative time of life. We loved our teachers this year and the kids had a great time They are growing and developing and becoming and I’m so happy to be a part of that. I'm glad I had a day to say good-bye and honestly, I'm glad it didn't last longer than two hours.

Because two hours later, I’m back in the kitchen where I began. The kids came home, ate only half of what was offered and left. They just left. School is over and they are off to begin their summer adventures. Girlfriends, talking, giggling, scheming, guy-pals, xbox, wii, bikes, otter-pops, exploring, chasing, water guns, pools, swinging, lots of laughing, big loud boy noises, sunburns, sunscreen, BBQs and homemade ice cream.

And now the house is empty and I am alone. A left over of sorts.  But as long as the children return this evening, and every summer evening, with leftovers of their own adventures to share with me, I’m OK with that. 

I’m convinced that someday it will be the leftovers that I cherish. One day I will miss the smell of sweaty, little boys. One day, I will miss the slamming of the screen door, who’s spring was gone the week it was installed. One day, I will miss having to holler “DINNER” from my front porch for the whole neighborhood to hear. One day, I will miss the dirty, bare-foot, prints left on my freshly mopped floor. I will miss the popsicle sticks left all over the yard, and the chalk on the driveway, and the pile up of dishes in the sink on lazy summer afternoons. One day, I will miss all of these leftovers.  I will miss them and I will treasure them, for they are reminders and evidence that love and fun and happiness were to be found in our family. So yes, today, I’m OK with being a leftover.

"Wanna see my nose flute?" (A Lesson in Dialogue)

In a couple months, I will have completed my MFA in Creative Non-fiction from Cedar Crest College's Pan-European Program. (The school is in PA, but the 2-week annual residencies are in various cities in Europe.) I started in Barcelona in 2014, then Vienna/Bratislava last summer, and the big finish will be in Ireland in July.

The Magic Fountain of Montjuïc. It lights up at night like the Bellagio.

At the residency weeks in Barcelona, our days were divided up by classes, workshops, and tutorials, whereas during the year, my mentor-ship classes were be completed online. We had monthly writing deadlines, webinars, reading-assignments and critical essays, and professional feedback and line-edits (etc.).

Palau Ramon Berenguer el Gran

In Spain, I met Jake Lamar. Now, he is my thesis adviser.
The first word that comes to mind is happy. The man is genuinely happy. A pleasant, positive, smiling fellow--putting to rest all the rumors that real writers are depressed recluses. Picture the opposite of Edgar Allen Poe.

"How did you get started as a writer?" My friend Kathy and I asked after cajoling with him for almost two weeks. And he told us about working for TIME, writing a memoir, and moving to Paris on a grant, and never leaving. Some prodding wrenched out the details:

He's Bronx born, Harvard educated, and Jake's debut book, a memoir about his absent father called Bourgeois Blues, earned him the Lyndhurst Foundation Prize, awarded to, oh, you know, people like Toni Morrison and Cormac McCarthy! What. The. What. I love this program.

The Cathedral in Gothic Square, BCN

One of my favorite classes was the one Jake taught on dialogue.

Here are my take-aways:

• Be aware of the weird music of how people speak. 
• Every character is a composite. 
• Date everything you write. Revisions too. 
• Write a story off of a voicemail. (Guess who is now self-conscious of her voicemails? This girl.)
• The details are never as important as the overall feel. 
• Kill the darlings, as they say. 
• Writing exercise: begin a story with the line, "I love you, but..." (My sentence read, "I love you, but I draw the line with at-home enemas.")
• From Jake's memoir and something his dad once said: "I'm an escapee from a garbage can."

Getting fresh with Gaudi at the Parq Guell Museum

Here are bits of dialogue I heard or recalled after his lesson:

• "Wanna see my nose flute?"
• "You don't want to be sued by the Village People."
• "Teens have the proclivity to...and the hormones to..."
• A Spanish man strums an air guitar, says, "tacka tacka tacka". 
• "Language is archaeology." 
• "I am telling my son how to build the Guggenheim, but I am not telling anyone's son." --Cesar Martinell
• "The only Sting that comes to mind is 'do-do do, da-da da da dad'." --Aleksander Hemon
• "Once upon a time" is the promise of something extraordinary.
• Pauses are ok, but story needs fuel. 
• "I was sitting next to you last night at dinner and you had a...loaf of meat?" Fred asked.
• "It was more of a log." 
• "But you liked it."
• "For newspapers [in Spain], der is an agreement not to speak about suicides." --Ramon Olle
• "Unfortunately dey pendulum is swinging from Christ to none." --Ramon Olle
• "But how will I know what everything is?"

Oh, yeah. And we got to do readings of our WIPs. 

My writing challenge to you: Listen to strangers on the train, in the store, at church and jot down the pieces of dialogue that stand out. Sometimes little nuggets like that can spur larger narratives. 

Happy writing. 

Rena

Blog: prose-spective.blogspot.com

Twitter and Instagram: @renasprose