You're Never Too Old

Sometime in the summer of 2015, I was lucky. I met a man named Al, and at 104, he was about to teach me a big lesson. 

I had been running all over Louisville leading Feet to the Fire Writers’ Workshops? groups for people in senior living communities. Though I had taught writing my entire adult life, I began to see how writing could stretch across all age levels. From teaching in Higher Ed to Continuing Studies to 5th graders in a private school to what would be my True North – working with older people – it had become my most rewarding pursuit. I approached my first “class” in senior living with a nervousness of sorts. It was like I forgot all my instincts, my ability to inspire, guide, encourage, teach. I naively thought that because I was sitting before people years older than me that I had to do it differently. Boy, was I wrong. 

And it’s in being wrong that we learn our greatest lessons. Thank goodness for misgivings. Mistakes. Misjudgments. 

Al came into my writers’ group with the bluest eyes and a teasing demeanor. He had a good rapport with his pals and at times I felt the joke was on me. This group knew each other well – they’d lived together in the same senior living community for a number of years. But here he was -he basically told me he thought he wouldn’t likely write a single story! I wondered why he had come to the group. “Nobody is twisting your arm,” I might’ve told him, laughing. At 104, he was, at that point, my oldest “student”. I use that word very differently now, for it was I who was learning. Something told me not to push him – he seemed a bit reticent to try his hand at penning his stories. There is the usual litany: “my handwriting is terrible, I’ve never done this before, I don’t think anyone really wants to read these stories,” and his, the best yet, “I don’t have any stories.” At 104! Yet there he was, leaning forward in his chair. His body language said, “I’m ready to begin.” He was as full of life as anybody I’d known.

And begin he did. He showed up each week with a carefully handwritten story. He’d arrive with his walker and fish some loose papers out of the little built-in basket. Sometimes his stories were scribbled on what looked like the back of an envelope, other times in a notebook. Always in his particular authentic handwriting. He read each piece with a sense of pleasure, a twinkle in his eyes as he looked up at the group, for effect. Was that funny part falling right? Did we understand his emotion in that line? Were we listening? Quiet questions floated around him and I do believe he got what he needed – acceptance, understanding, acknowledgement. And THAT is why he wound up doing what he said he wouldn’t do – write his stories down. 

I learned he tucked them away in his room. His children found them later. 

What happened for Al happens for lots of people who join a group to learn something new, or in this case, try something new. There is an invisible thread that weaves us together in a communion of sorts when we’re working toward a similar goal. It was exactly, I believe, what Al needed at the time: self-expression, a willing audience, inclusion, community. 

Why did I think that being 104 would make any difference in what we need? My 5th graders needed it. My college freshman needed it. The many people of all ages who’d shown up in my living room when I started Feet to the Fire needed it. Belonging. A purpose. 

What I learned – what Al taught me – is that learning never stops, no matter your age. And the need to belong is evergreen. It’s the human connection that binds us, validates us, and ultimately keeps us curious and close. 

Though he’s since passed, he remains in my mind. He taught me what it meant to be surprised, to be candid, to be willing, to be present. 

And he taught me that life is a journey that’s sometimes scrawled down in bits, on the back of an envelope. It was everything I needed to know.