The Ladies Page


| November/December 1962



Country Echoes

By MAE BABER R.D.2, Brandon, Wisconsin

THE SUPREME FAMILY MAN

It is a startling thing in life to face the fact that one will soon be fifty years of age and then to realize that time will keep on creeping up on us and there is not one thing we can do about it. Suddenly we are aware that youth is gone. Our vigor has decreased to some extent and will keep on decreasing. We realize that with no dignity can we attempt to hold onto youth. Those who try to put it on the outside resemble silly clowns.

But here it is. What are we to do with it? We can pretend that fifty doesn't exist, but, nevertheless here it is. Now that we have more time for ourselves we can expend it on ourselves and become smugly miserable. It will only make our sagging muscles less elastic.

On the other hand, we can, with some thought give of our experience to others. We can meditate more fully on deep thoughts. We have time to strengthen neglected faith. We can reach out a hand to the needy, and we can carry on family traditions which make life meaningful.

How much there is to pass on to our children! By this time we should have taught them to take over where we are slowing down. We can let it be known that we hope they will carry on certain of our traditions as they raise families of their own. Often these have become so dear to them that we need not remind them. I can not bring back my Grandmother's quilt, patched together of pieces of my little girl dresses and various family aprons under which my sister and I snuggled on cold winter mornings. I can still see the paths we traced from dress to dress and apron to apron amidst girlish giggles. I can, however take my new automatic sewing machine and turn out miracles in their eyes. Why do we sometimes become almost maudlin in our memories of childhood and fail to recognize the memory material right at our own fingertips.

Our gleaming white kitchens, or our softly colored ones are attractive enough for them to cherish. I can't say I miss the coal bucket being tipped over by the baby.