My grandparents are 90.
They live independently. They still have each other. They have health issues, but are in remarkably good health.
Their neighbor is in his 80’s. His truck was stolen out of his driveway last week, causing such distress that he had a mini stroke, then once he was hospitalized, they realized he needed a pacemaker…and on and on it went.
Once he got home, my grandmother decided to cook him a meal. She doesn’t cook much anymore.
It’s a lot of work. She gets tired. Her back is bad. It’s just the two of them.
But she knew he needed “a home cooked meal.”
So she made her staple comfort food, a Sunday dinner special - brisket, cheesy potatoes, green beans, buttered rolls and a pan of brownies. She loaded it on a giant tray they have for occasions like this and then both she and my grandfather had a realization - the tray was too heavy to lift.
I knew he couldn’t lift it.
I knew I couldn’t help him.
I realized we were going to have to call next door to have them send some people over to get it.
Their 80-something neighbor had three grown kids who had driven in from all over Texas to be there. And one of them came over to lift the tray with the meal my grandmother prepared. He had to help them help them.
What a flash of sobriety to realize your arms are too weak, your legs too wobbly, your eyesight too dimmed to walk next door with a tray full of food. My grandparents could have had an excuse if they wanted one.
They’re 90.
They’ve got issues of their own.
But hospitality doesn’t have an age limit, doesn’t have a disability clause.
I’m proud of my grandparents, reminded that they won’t always be here, shocked by the realization that they’ve gotten old, really old.