Welcome to The Feral Elder by Valerie Hershfield. Our purpose is to share experiences and thoughts from folks considered “older.” We wouldn’t think of designating what that age is. We hope this column makes you smile, ponder, or just slap your head and say, “Hey, that happened to me!” And, just maybe, share your own thoughts and experiences. email me at FeralElder.InDepthNH@gmail.com
Who is Valerie Hershfield?
A native Californian, I’ve lived in eight states in my 80 years, but the busiest were the 11 years in New Hampshire where I loved putting my journalism degree to work as a correspondent for the New Hampshire Union Leader. A correspondent covers every kind of news in his or her beat towns. I called it my “murder, mayhem and garden parties” job. At the same time, I juggled being an international tour director, a bartender, a stringer (case finder) for Judge Judy, and a volunteer EMT. I currently live in rural northeast Iowa with two cats and am a part-time docent for a local museum. Let’s share the ride!
By VALERIE HERSHFIELD, The Feral Elder
As we develop this column, for the first time, I’m constantly thinking about my age. It has made me wonder when did it start to make a difference?
Who remembers the first time they thought, “’I’m old?” I may say those words, but I don’t totally buy it. I think it’s mostly other people foisting it.
For the longest time I was the “youngest” — at school, at work, as a very young mother. Then, one day, I was not the youngest. But, still not old! Then at 39, I decided to go for my degree. The other freshmen were straight out of high school, and 39 was the proverbial over-the-hill. “Old” echoed in my brain, and possibly behind my back, that first year. Still, college was a fantastic experience. Maybe that was because in high school I was an average student; now I was a straight As “curve wrecker.” Why? Because I’d been alive longer than anyone else in class and just knew stuff.
Most of the time, I felt like just one of the kids. And then I’d get blindsided by reality. I was divorced and dating. The latter hadn’t changed all that much since my 20s; there was still awkwardness, heartbreak, weirdoes. I listened to the young women in “the caf” and before classes talk about life’s ups and downs. Although I was sitting right in their midst, I was keenly aware I wasn’t a genuine peer even though I was going through some of the exact experiences. I could have jumped in, but I feared, at best, I’d get a nod, and “uh huh.”
Between my junior and senior year, I did a semester at Boston University’s London campus. I was so excited as I arrived at U.K. Immigration at Heathrow Airport. I handed the agent my form which included my occupation — STUDENT. He looked at the form, looked at me, and said, “Do you think they’ll ever let you graduate?” Wah wah wah.
Yes, they did let me. With honors! All the students were cheered as they collected their diplomas. I was the only one who got a rousing “Go, mom!”
At 49 when I told my boss I was quitting my job as a hotel sales manager to join a cruise line, he rudely reminded me I was “no spring chicken.” As a member of the onboard cruise staff, the captain and senior officers were the only ones older than I, and that was only some of them. I dated one who had no compunction about telling me another staff member had asked why he was going out with “that old lady.” Wow, I wonder what he thought that flattery would get him. Whatever it was, he didn’t get It.
Despite those few times of hard reality, I was living an exciting life and felt like a 30-year-old most of the time.
The truth is, I didn’t even feel old when the first AARP invitation arrived, or when I was eligible for Medicare. Grateful? Absolutely! Old? Not really. By now I was a tour director for a company whose majority of clients were seniors. Yay! I was among the youngest again — for a while. On my 70th birthday, I was running down giant sand dunes with fellow travelers in Namibia with someone’s phone blasting Pharrell Williams’ “Happy.” Take that, “old!”
I’m 80, but other than a sore lower back and a shocking amount of wrinkles, not so much has changed about me. I’m not giving advice (because that’s what old people do). What I’m also not doing is worrying about dressing “age-appropriate,” getting home before dark, driving long distances, doing things alone or declining a dance. Tattoos and pink hair streaks are sounding better all the time.
Let us hear what your revelations are as the years go on.