It was time.
My husband’s work car had been idle for 2 months and was in desperate need of a good washing and some TLC. I arrived home from work at the farmers market with energy to spare and wanted to do something productive.
“Want me to wash your truck?” I asked.
“Well, the White Car (she’s so old & reliable she deserves caps when referring to her) needs it badly.”
I looked over by the garage & saw what he meant–the grass was higher around her tires and instead of white, she now looked like a mottled grey. I was ashamed of my neglect.
“Oh yes, I’m washing the Grand Am.”
Husband started her right up & drove her into the bottom driveway while I retrieved the bucket, soap, scrub brush, and every other apparatus I thought I may need in her transformation. The music was playing on my blue tooth speaker, the sun was shining, and I was ready to get it done.
I’m going to add a side note here: I love washing cars. I love clean cars. I love cars. No, my husband isn’t horrible for “letting me” do it instead of him doing it. In truth, he never has an option. I wash the cars in the family. And I love it. Few things bring me as much satisfaction as seeing a car so clean and tires so black and knowing I did that.
But I digress.
I begin washing, husband sits on his tractor observing. Three minutes in to it I realize I’m going to have to use a toothbrush to clean around the trim, emblems, reflectors, and front & back glass before I do a full-body wash. Yeah, she was that dirty. <hangs head in shame>
Without saying anything, I go inside to get my detailing toothbrush. When I come back outside, husband says, “Aww…the car doesn’t need all that.”
“OF COURSE SHE DOES! What? Because it’s 20 years old and a “work car”, does that mean I shouldn’t show her as much care and attention as I would my Lincoln? Of course not! She deserves just as much—if not more—attention and care! She’s older! She’s weathered! She’d earned it!”
And I carried on.
Husband laughed & shook his head because he realized to whom he was speaking.
Attention to Detail
As Van Morrison played in the background, and the toothbrush flicked out all those bits of grime & dirt that my car wash mitt wouldn’t get, the thought occurred to me—isn’t that how some of the elderly in our society are treated?
Those who are older–those who have “more miles” on them so to speak–whose bodies are starting to rust a bit–do we look at them and think, “They don’t need that much attention—they’re old”?
Are they not as valuable?
Not as revered?
Not as appreciated?
I think that’s why I love seeing a 95-year young lady with red fingernails and learning that the activities director at her assisted living home painted them for her. Even better is learning that her great gran-daughter did it. Or seeing her with pretty pink lipstick and a touch of rouge (that’s what ladies over 70 always call it!)
My Mom and I smile as we share stories of “elderly encounters”. It seems inevitably she and I are asked for assistance while we’re out in public. Perhaps to reach a peanut butter jar. Or to read an expiration date on a package of bacon. Or carry an umbrella while they traverse across the parking lot with their walker.
Sometimes they just want to talk—and at length. I made two good friends through chance encounters at Fresh Market in Roanoke—one was a beautiful Italian lady who passed away fewer than a year after we met, the other a stylish, retired teacher who said I reminded her of her daughter who’d passed away a few years before. We became pen pals with the occasional phone call. She’s 93 now.
I remember combing my Pop-Aw’s hair for him about a year before he passed away. He couldn’t lift his arms enough to comb his hair as neatly as he liked, so I offered to do it. I even ran the electric shaver over his face and neck to help prepare him for his day. He always liked to look his best—no matter what the occasion. When I was done, I handed him the mirror to make sure he approved. He did.
I recall the October day I rubbed my Mom-Aw’s knees with Icy Hot. She was riddled with cancer, and it had moved to the bone. Her knees hurt. Mine didn’t. So I knelt, and rubbed her knees, lingering as we talked. I could tell she didn’t want me to stop, and honestly, I didn’t either. I wanted to extend that moment as long as I could, bringing relief to her in the only way possible, while talking about things that would make her belly laugh & throw her head back. That old, familiar laugh…..
She passed 3 months later.
While my car is just an inanimate object, I realized something out there in the heat of the sun while washing it. Attention to detail—it matters. Those “little” things. The toothbrush on the trim reminded me of combing Pop-Aw’s hair and rubbing Mom-Aw’s hurting knees. The little time it takes, but the difference it makes. Yes, I will take care of the older things in my possession, but I’ll take even greater care of the older souls in my life. Because here’s the thing–things can be replaced. Loved ones cannot.
Regardless of whether it’s an aged parent, or grandparent, or friend, or even stranger in the supermarket, take the time to notice. Be available. Listen to them. Smile. Be interested. Show them they’re just as important and valued and needed as they always were—or perhaps even more so.
May I always be conscientious of the details that need attention, and may I never be too busy to tend to them.