To Live a Century

Today, I got to spend about an hour chatting with a guy who's hit the big 100. It's amazing how sharp he still is at that age. Sure, he forgets things sometimes, but don't we all? With a hundred years' worth of memories, I think he deserves a break. During our talk, he got emotional a few times. He said he hadn't shared these stories with anyone else because nobody really listens. When I first showed up, he said I reminded him of someone he used to know, in looks and personality. He's still walking on his own, though a bit shaky, but he's determined to stay independent as long as he can. He takes daily walks, sometimes with a walker.

He was super chatty right from the start. When I asked his name, he remembered it perfectly. He has two daughters and a son, and he spoke so highly of them. It was obvious how much he loves his kids and how proud he is of them. He told me his dad died in the war when he was just 10, and his mom worked as a cleaning lady at a hotel, making a dollar per room. He remembered helping her clean floors and understood what being poor meant. He worked different jobs and was good at all of them before settling into carpentry, like building houses and doing additions—just like his dad before the war. He worked his way up to foreman at his company, known for being reliable. He heard coworkers complain about people who promised to pay but didn’t, leaving them in a bind. He said he only worked for people he could trust.

He talked a lot about his two daughters: his eldest, who's sweet and caring, and his youngest, a determined go-getter with her own fierce way of loving. He decided to make his youngest daughter responsible for him in his old age because he saw something special in her when she was young. He’s from another state, where his other kids, grandkids, and friends live. He mentioned that if he were still there, he’d have plenty of company. Instead, he spends most days alone in a small room, with just the residents, visitors, and his daughter for company. His loneliness was clear. I asked if he ever shared his feelings with his daughter. He said no, as they never had those kinds of talks. Maybe he didn’t know how to start or didn’t have the courage to tell her. I suggested he open up to her. They go out to lunch every day; she picks him up, they grab a sandwich to go, get coffee at WaWa, and then drive around for a couple of hours, sometimes talking, sometimes just enjoying each other's company. I encouraged him to share his feelings with her today. He was hesitant at first, but by the end of our visit, with tears in his eyes, he said he thought today was the day he'd tell her how he felt, how homesick he was, and how it affected him inside. I told him I was glad to be the person he practiced on. At the end, I noticed a few tears fall, though he tried to hide them. He doesn’t know how observant I am.

Can you imagine the stories he has? I'd love to dive into his mind about so many things. There's never enough time, but I was grateful to be the one he trusted to confide in and show emotion. I could tell he's a strong and proud man from the way he spoke and the things he shared. Can you imagine living to be 100 and still remembering so much?