I was able to find my friend Pat right away at the April 19th demonstration in Clackamas County. It wasn’t as crowded as the downtown Portland protests, for one thing, and also she said she was right in front of the Chick-fil-A. Something about holding up lefty signs in front of the Chick-fil-A felt just right. I shouldered my sign and strode up.
Then I noticed the two women just next to us. They looked to be maybe in their baby-forties. Hell, I can’t tell anymore. They were grinning at us. I smiled back.
“I am so inspired,” one of them began, “by seeing so many of you…you know, you”—she waggled her hand toward Pat and me, suddenly uncomfortable, and I saw where she was struggling.
“You mean us old farts?” I laughed.
That was exactly what she meant. But she jumped in with “elders.” Not sure that helped.
“I mean, I’m looking around, and most of the people here are…you know…”
I do know. Bless her heart, she did not want to offend us. We’re not offendable, but I guess she can’t assume that. The weird thing is, when I first saw her and her friend, earnest, fresh-faced, and carrying signs, I thought we were peers. It rarely occurs to me that I look as old as I do.
And I totally do. That stuff comes down on you hard and fast, at a certain age. Most mornings I get up and dress and wash my face and run a brush through my hair (just the once, for all day), and only then put my glasses on, but the other day I had my glasses on first, then went into the bathroom and looked into the mirror, with the morning sun coming in from the side, full on. It cast shadows on my face. Regular wrinkles looked like canyons. A riparian topo map, complete with delta below the chin. Tiny jackrabbits jumped the arroyos.
I’m very nearsighted. Without my glasses I have God’s own photo filter on my face and everything seems on the up and up.
But I will be go to hell if my Great-Aunt Gertrude wasn’t in that mirror. Last I saw Great-Aunt Gertrude she was 102 years old and didn’t look a day over 110.
Basically I have no realistic idea what I look like and have to rely on the view from inside my face, and that view hasn’t changed in 71 years. The fact that a well-meaning stranger has my old ass pegged from the get-go comes as a surprise. I did look around, and she was right: there was a serious over-representation from the boomer generation on that thoroughfare. I look at them, the gray-haired women in sneakers, the gray-bearded men with pencil-sized ponytails and hand-painted signs, and I think: Hey! Long time no see! Want to grab a pizza and some Quaaludes and play hacky-sack on the quad later?
And I see the middle-aged ones like our new friends and I relate to them too: Good for you, you up for beer and barbecue later?
I can’t even tell how old anyone is anymore. Thing is, at this point, I’ve been almost all of the ages. Of course I can relate.
This protest was a new one for me. I’m accustomed to going downtown to the big crowds. The friendly crowds. The crowds where you figure you can ask for a book recommendation or advice about native plants from the next person you bump into. But here we were edging into red territory. And sure enough, as we lined both sides of Sunnyside Road (without hindering traffic), we saw some middle fingers. We heard some profanities. We blew kisses when black smoke belched at us from some big toddler’s truck, a lib-baiting practice called “rolling coal.” That little vehicular alteration can cost up to $5,000.
That could buy lot of eggs.
But they were way outnumbered by the honks of approval. This thing is turning around, people.
I’m proud to have made the acquaintance of the two young-er-ish women who were so inspired by our boomer presence. My first demonstration was the Moratorium March on Washington DC in 1969, against the Vietnam War, I told them. My dad and I went together. And she—I pointed to Pat—chained herself to whaling ship harpoons when she was sailing on the Rainbow Warrior, I said.
Our new friends stared at Pat, awestruck. Properly so.
Yeah. We’ve been doing this a long time. Seems like we should have gotten things fixed by now, but oh well. We carry on.
I took my 88 year old mom out to dinner last night. I dropped her at the door while I went in search of parking. When I got back, Mom was nowhere in sight. The hostess saw me looking and after some explanation she said, “Oh, I already seated your wife.”
That was both funny and mortifying. I’m 62. I was always told I looked young for my age until suddenly I didn’t.
Thanks, Murr for the information about the “rolling coal” modification. I’ve seen that in use and wondered how it was done. Never thought someone would actually make an engine modification that might harm the engine.
I had the reverse of that happen to me. Paul was 7 years younger than me. Both of us kept up our appearances (Thank you, L’Oreal!) We went on a day trip to Manayunk one day. It was damp and my hair got frizzy, so maybe that was it. Paul had all his hair, and it was long and curly, so the damp weather actually suited HIM. We were browsing in a furniture store that was going out of business. As we went in separate directions, the clerk asked me where my son got off to. 😠
The second time this happened (Oh, yes. There was a second time. You’d think that clerks would know the fuck better. Do they automatically assume a younger woman is a man’s daughter?), Paul and I were in a liquor store. I knew what I wanted, paid, and was standing by the register waiting for him. I rolled my eyes and said to the clerk, “It takes him so long to make up his mind.” I can’t remember exactly what his response was, but it involved him referring to Paul as my son. 😭
For the record, I do not look old! People usually think that I’m younger than my age. That’s my story, and I’m stickin’ to it.
When I was working as a field biologist I had a student assistant who was twenty years younger and a Mexican expat. We walked into a mall for lunch one day and I heard two girls running their mouths about my girlfriend being young enough to be my hija (daughter) in Spanish of course.
Holy moly, Bruce, your WIFE? Gaah. Mimi, I have no idea if I look my age or not, because the view is the same from inside my face. I did once have a time when someone mistook my sister Margaret for my mother, and she was scandalized by that, but I pointed out she actually WAS old enough to be my mother…sixteen years older. She was not mollified.
Great photo, great piece (as always); but I just saw a news story the other day claiming the majority of protesters were over 50! I wonder if that’s really true? Anyway Murr, I know we’re our own harshest critics and all that, but ever since I saw those earlier photos of you from 50 plus years ago, that’s who I picture in my noggin when I hear the name Murr Brewster; I do the same thing with Linda Ronstadt. :^)
That was in my local paper, too. One speculation is that retired people have more time to go to a march on a Saturday, plus they are worried about Medicare and Social Security. Younger people are usually working or studying. Another is that younger people are afraid to protest.
We were wondering if it was just our imagination. Huh! And BTW WHAT pictures from fifty years ago? Not that I mind. Mimi, I wonder about that too. I would say most of the signs were not about Social Security. I wonder if we’ve just got protesting in our DNA by now, and younger people network a different way?
Er… I don’t have a private collection or anything, you’ve just shared some random snapshots of yourself from the late 1960s early 70s on here from time to time 🤓
Er…okay! Cracks me up that most of us (women anyway) never thought we looked good, and then we look back at our old photos and think WHAT THE HELL DID I THINK WAS WRONG WITH THAT?
Same for me.
I am so glad you had a great experience. That is how is going for me too (3 protests in, May 1 is next). The comradery is wonderful. We have lots of old faces (I am shocked when I see mine matches theirs) and are starting to gain in the 40 and under group, too.
We have noticed the wackies are greatly outnumbered by the thumbs up and honking of support. We have begun to answer the finger signal with chants of “We are number 1” or peace signs. Someone tried an L on their forehead so we shout “Liberty”. And lucky for us and unlucky for him, one idiot who blew the black smoke did not see the sheriff stationed across the street in a parking lot. Ticket for him!
I am not a look in the mirror person. When I ordered my bedroom set from the Amish, they deleted the dresser mirror from my order. I just pretend I look younger, thinner, taller. I don’t have to look at me anyway.
It also helps to not be on the market.
That, at least, is good news. All that work to get our air clean and breathable, and the thought that it was now socially acceptable to dirty it up again–it was too depressing to consider. I’m glad to hear those abominations are as illegal as they should be!
Flip side: glad to know the term “rolling coal” when I see it now (and I have seen it–I live in Texas).
It is a lyrical phrase, I will give it that. Well done. In the lexicon sense only.
I didn’t think we would still have to do this, but I can see that I was wrong. Not nearly as wrong as the current regime, though.
I hardly ever look in a mirror anymore. I have to wait until someone tells me I have toothpaste on my chin.
And I’d have to ask them “Which chin?”
I’m 70 but would rather sit on the floor rather than a chair/couch. Have always been like this and I don’t see it ending anytime soon. At a recent gathering a baby forty yo friend of my daughters came rushing over with her chair after seeing me kneel next to the grand baby. In retrospect I should have politely accepted. But I was somewhat horrified (and didn’t want to sit in the damn chair anyway) and just pushed it back at her – thanks but no thanks. I try to remember this when dealing with my 97 yo very independent mom. Perspective.
I also don’t spend much time looking in the mirror (car mirrors are the worst) . If people are looking at all, I assume they see a 50 something woman who spent a little too much time in the sun (and maybe smoked also).
I used to tell people I was twenty years older than I am just so they’d tell me how good I look. Then when they just started saying “Oh,” I quit.
I met a woman on my lake walks who I became friendly with over time. Apparently if a man is friendly to a woman she assumes he only wants romance. In my case I’m mostly looking for a friend.
Anyway she invited me to go for a walk on the beach and I figured it was just a walk on the beach.
On the drive over she happened to say she was 69. I asked her if that was like people who say they’re 29 and 39 forever even when it’s obvious they are much older.
Yes, polite conversation and social conventions aren’t my strong suit, but she had white hair, a weathered face and her gait suggested someone in her seventies.
I also hadn’t learned not to piss off the driver when you’re ten miles from home! I almost got thrown out on the side of the road.
I compounded my error by saying that my 80 year old mom was constantly being mistaken as being in her 60s. I meant that to indicate I didn’t know what 69 looked like, but she assumed I meant she looked older than an 80 year old. That was what I meant, but her assumption was also true.
That was the end of the pleasant lakeside walks.
Great story Bruce!
OFFS, Bruce! This made me laugh so hard! Thank you for that! Perhaps the reason that you’re so funny is that you don’t observe social conventions.
And, yeah, at this point in my life, I’m only looking for friends, too. But sometimes people think you’re on the prowl. And I am — but only for people who want to come over for dinner and some laughs. I tend to tread lightly when making friends with a guy. Fortunately, most of them at this age seem to only want friendship anyway. Hopefully the younger ones don’t think I’m a cougar. I assess them more on their height and strength. (Can they screw in an overhead lightbulb for me as I can’t reach it? Can they help me lift something into or out of my truck? Do they have knowledge of cars?) Hey, if I’m making dinner, I can be a bit mercenary.
Mimi, that’s transactional–and reasonable.
Oh, Bruce. Bruce, Bruce, Bruce.
My first demonstration was in our fair city, 1970, just after the Kent St. murders. I was almost a year out of the military, and one of Portland’s VVAW.
We marched, ended up outside Terry Shrunk’s City hall, yelling at him and Frank Ivancie.
When Carter was elected, I thought…”Wow, we won.” Such are the delusions of youth.
I went to the first one in April here, couldn’t make the 2 mile march, but saw much of it. At 79, wish I could do more.
My two daughters are more effective, and it’s my job, to quote Warren Zevon, to send ‘lawyers, guns and money’.
Keep it up everyone, it’s a dark future otherwise.
Dave has lots of Frank Ivancie stories! Man, you could peg him just looking at him. And thanks for the Zevon earworm. A good one.
I am also looking older than I thought, but I don’t feel old so I guess that evens things out.
That makes it ALL worth it. Looking young and feeling like crap is not a good deal.
Word
The doctor thought I was my 91-year-old father’s wife, and that my sister, 2 years younger than me, was his granddaughter.
Anne Lamott writes a column on aging: “The end of the day is as lovely as the early morning. The fear of missing out has lessened greatly. In its place, we have the fear of being pressured into gatherings we don’t want to go to.”
A.L. generally nails it, huh?
There I was, toolin’ down the road, almost home, in my old ‘foreign’ truck. Guess I looked like a Democrat or an Obama voter and some asshole in a ginormous dually sped by, pulled in front of me and rolled coal. Total blackout. I slammed on my brakes and had to come to a complete stop in the middle of a two-lane highway. Scary. When I could see again, the asshole was too far ahead of me to catch him. Don’t know what I would have done if I caught him. Pissed me off.
I’m *pretty* sure this is why you’re supposed to carry a rifle in your car?