Old Dogs
Is it inherent to associate the elderly with mothballs and bingo? Is it a natural occurrence in nature for the youth to regard their ancestors as merely artefacts of a generation long gone, remnants of a society brought up by different social values and morals. Where have those beliefs of decades ago gone, where the elderly were considered oracles of wisdom and knowledge? Has the Internet connected us so extensively to the point that we no longer need to know of our own history and heritage? I can say confidently now that I myself was one of those people, always hearing but never listening, never fully engaging myself amongst those history lessons during Christmas lunch, never wishing to learn, never wishing to fully grasp an understanding. …show more content…
A desire to understand the complexities of what makes people unique, that unique character that makes them different among each other, was sparked inside of me, and it began with my grandmother. My mother’s mother is unique to say the very least. Already I have known her for almost all of my life and throughout those almost eternal years of babysitting we have developed an eccentric bond of more or less a friendship in an eccentric, love/hate kind of way. From what I’ve heard she was quite the party girl in her youth, yet I still regard her as some kind of immobile relic, in the fondest way possible and it was always interesting to hear what people thought of as I told them that I lived with my grandmother. Those reactions made me reflect, was it truly odd? I’d never thought about it before, never needing to, it was merely something I had lived with, dealt with for mostly all of my life. Living with my grandmother truly and honestly has its own personal impact on my life. Her liberal views on politics and religion, although obnoxious to say the least, in turn have made myself realise the constantly conflicting sides to a story. Had it not been for those endless arguments, she wouldn’t have recommended I try for debating. She has always been there guiding as a second mother, and while we do have the occasional clash, we share that common respect for each other that I can now reciprocate. While I cannot say with full certainty I know who my grandmother is without reading her autobiography, I can say that I understand, to some extent, why all those stories are repeated time and time again. The stories they recount echo the lives they’ve lived, longing not to be lost or forgotten. It may be impossible for society to forget the commonly held stigma of elderly being liabilities; merely taking the time to understand their story, their life, can prevent
Is it inherent to associate the elderly with mothballs and bingo? Is it a natural occurrence in nature for the youth to regard their ancestors as merely artefacts of a generation long gone, remnants of a society brought up by different social values and morals. Where have those beliefs of decades ago gone, where the elderly were considered oracles of wisdom and knowledge? Has the Internet connected us so extensively to the point that we no longer need to know of our own history and heritage? I can say confidently now that I myself was one of those people, always hearing but never listening, never fully engaging myself amongst those history lessons during Christmas lunch, never wishing to learn, never wishing to fully grasp an understanding. …show more content…
A desire to understand the complexities of what makes people unique, that unique character that makes them different among each other, was sparked inside of me, and it began with my grandmother. My mother’s mother is unique to say the very least. Already I have known her for almost all of my life and throughout those almost eternal years of babysitting we have developed an eccentric bond of more or less a friendship in an eccentric, love/hate kind of way. From what I’ve heard she was quite the party girl in her youth, yet I still regard her as some kind of immobile relic, in the fondest way possible and it was always interesting to hear what people thought of as I told them that I lived with my grandmother. Those reactions made me reflect, was it truly odd? I’d never thought about it before, never needing to, it was merely something I had lived with, dealt with for mostly all of my life. Living with my grandmother truly and honestly has its own personal impact on my life. Her liberal views on politics and religion, although obnoxious to say the least, in turn have made myself realise the constantly conflicting sides to a story. Had it not been for those endless arguments, she wouldn’t have recommended I try for debating. She has always been there guiding as a second mother, and while we do have the occasional clash, we share that common respect for each other that I can now reciprocate. While I cannot say with full certainty I know who my grandmother is without reading her autobiography, I can say that I understand, to some extent, why all those stories are repeated time and time again. The stories they recount echo the lives they’ve lived, longing not to be lost or forgotten. It may be impossible for society to forget the commonly held stigma of elderly being liabilities; merely taking the time to understand their story, their life, can prevent