My younger brother and I were what used to be called “change of life babies”– our parents were well into their 40’s when we were born. Our parents were always way older than the parents of our friends and, in some cases, not a whole lot younger than our friends’ grandparents.
Having older parents had some real benefits, not the least of which was that because they had already raised 4 kids, by the time we came along they were exhausted and not prone to excitability over the daily events that seemed tragic to younger, less experienced parents. On the other hand, they were both inclined to a wry fatalism that could be frightening to young kids.
The first time I really remember this was when my parents decided to plant a couple of black olive trees in the front yard and they were debating on what size to buy. Mom wanted to purchase a couple of tall, very thin saplings but Dad wanted larger specimens. As they were debating, the owner of the nursery mentioned that if they bought the small size they should be prepared to wait a good ten years before the trees would cast significant shadows. They chose the bigger trees.
“We don’t have 10 years,” Dad said with a laugh. “Are there any bigger ones?” my mom asked with mock anxiety. And while they had a good laugh, I was suddenly filled with an overwhelming, nameless dread.
What I perceived as my parents’ embrace of their own mortality always bothered me, and it never ended. When the house needed a new roof, I remember them having a serious debate about if they could wait a few more years to replace it. “They claim the new roof should last 30 years,” said my dad while Mom did the arithmetic. “Well, this new roof needs to outlast us,” she said. “I don’t want to be putting a new roof on again when I’m 85.”
I innocently suggested that maybe they would sell the house and move elsewhere at some point. “No way,” said Dad. “This is my last house.”
Mom nodded. “We’re leaving here feet-first,” she said casually, and they decided to wait on the new roof. “You kids can deal with the leaky roof after we’re gone.”
And then Dad got sick, in his mid-50’s, and their dire predictions suddenly seemed closer, and darker. “Mother and I are going to do some traveling,” he said casually one day at dinner. “I don’t have much time left, so we better do it while I still can.” Then, when they got back from a 6-week trip, they bought a huge console color TV, a major extravagance. “It’s the last one I’ll ever watch,” said Dad, “so I want a good one.” And then he was gone.
Mom lived for another 40 years but in her mind the Grim Reaper was never far away. “I hope I outlive Rose and Doris,” she said one day, referring to her sisters. And another day, when I asked what she wanted for Christmas she laughed. “I could be dead by Christmas,” she said. “At my age I could buy the farm any time.”
Now she’s gone too, and to my middle-aged mind my parents’ fatalism not only makes perfect sense, it is no longer frightening to me. So last week when my partner read an article on climate change which predicted that our house would be under water by 2060 we both looked at each other and shrugged.
“Not our problem,” said my partner.
“We’ll be long gone,” I said.