The Nineties

This week I have had the privilege to have been in the company of two women in their nineties. A very memorable and special experience. When someone reaches the heady heights of 90+ they have my attention.

Grace is as bright as a button. I'd just arrived into a group of 40 or so people most of whom, including Grace, I had not met before. Being somewhat shy I'd grab my cup of tea and sat down in the corner of the lounge near a book shelf. As I was flicking through the pages of a book Grace confidently walked across the room with a big welcoming smile and sat down in the chair beside me immediately striking up a conversation. Within minutes she was telling me a story about when she was a nurse before the war and she would hitch-hike up to the Lake District from London. It would take her two whole days. And then she'd spend a few days walking the fells, some of which we could see through the window of Glenthorn House in Grasmere, before heading back down to London. Grace smiles at me and says I'm 90 you know. She must have seen the surprised look on my face. I would have never have guessed that this spritely diminuitive powerhouse was in her nineties, 75 maybe, but not 90. Grace looked down at the book in my hand. Noticing the name of the author Bede Griffiths she segued into another story of the time she spent in California studying with Matthew Fox. After many months of study she had become accustomed to the American intonation, one evening the guest lecturer stood up and to her amazement spoke in a cut-glass Oxford accent. When she enquired who was speaking it turned out to be none other than Bede Giffiths. In a few short minutes I felt like I'd gotten to know this incredible woman. Grace was such an open free spirit full of life. After our conversation, I saw a book of poems by Grace for sale on the Greenspirit bookstand. Was there no end to Grace's talents? Probably not ...

Phyllis is a vision of loveliness. Earlier in the day she had visited the hairdresser, a weekly appointment she kept along with other regular activities that formed part of her routine in the nursing home. When we arrived she was not in her chair in the lounge or in her bedroom. We sat waiting in the conservatory until one of the care assistants wheeled Phyllis in to meet us. Hello, she said with a beaming smile and a knowing look. The care assistant is telling Phyllis her daughter is here to visit. Where is she? Phyllis asks. I tell her, she'd just popped out the room and that she'd be back in a minute. Nan, I am Fiona your granddaughter. Her face lights up and she puts her hands up to her cheeks with excitement. You look so different. I remember you when you were a baby. I loved you. I love you now. My Nan points out the window, Granny Capron lives just down there on Waterloo Road. My Granny and Grandad live at the school, they clean it. Phyllis is talking to me as if her grandparents are still alive. In her mind she is in her childhood walking the streets of Burry Port in South Wales, looking after her youngest sisters Kathy and Margaret. Then she looks up, I'm in my nineties you know. Yes I say, your ninety three. I don't feel ninety. From when I was a little girl my Nan has always told me she feels 25. In her eighties she would say, Fiona my body aches I'm getting old but in my head I still feel like 25, it's just when I tell my body to do things it doesn't want to do them anymore.