We just returned last night from a visit to southern Illinois to visit Hubby's 98-year-old grandmother.
She's taken a decline recently and needs an in-home caregiver 7 days a week. What she lacks mentally she makes up for physically. She's as healthy as ever, even with broken ribs from osteoporosis, and she's quite feisty and independent--as she's always been. Granny only lost her driver's license last year, and still lives in the same house she bought as a new bride.
Hubby asked, "Can you imagine buying a 30-year-old house and then living in it for 75 years?" Hard to contemplate these days as we pass by brand new mini-mansions popping up like weeds from freshly leveled earth. Homes have almost become disposable commodities. Don't bother remodeling, just upgrade!
Granny (and God) gave Hubby the gift of one really good day during our visit. She was alert and knew Hubby as her grandson, and she could sort of piece together who the others were: that blonde sitting on the couch and the two rambunctious rascals dancing in her living room.
"They are so full of life," said Granny, watching our kids jump, dance, kick box and generally create mayhem out of stillness.
It was a generational juxtaposition, our children bobbing about on the seventies shag carpet in front of her, and Granny stoically melded to her recliner enjoying their show.
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