Remembering

I’m old.

How old, you may ask. Well, I’m so old, they won’t sell me life insurance. Forget guarantees. Of any sort. At my age, they are a “ha ha hee hee.”

Being “up in years,” I am allowed certain liberties. Like, to be lame and carry a cane. When the meniscus on my right knee got messed up, I hobbled from one place to another. I didn’t even know I had a meniscus. Talk about pain.

Just got it working again and ripped the hamstring on the same leg. Go figure. There are walking sticks in place all around the house. Two in the car.

Being this old, I am more forgetful. I have always had trouble remembering names. I might recall that your first cousin twice removed is from Alaska, that you married three times -twice to the same woman and are allergic to onions, but I couldn’t remember your name if you hit me on the head with a stick.

The worst possible thing ever about being of this age has nothing to do with remembering. It is that I am no longer allowed a chilled, wave-the-bottle of Noilly Prat dry vermouth over the glass of a 5 PM cocktail hour vodka martini. Minus an olive, of course.

Somehow, an icy flute of non-alcoholic ginger beer doesn’t equate.

But, getting back to this remembering thing. Am I whining? Not really.

Well, maybe.

There is an advantage to being an old lady: that image in the mirror. Trust me, that is not the person inside, the one unseen by the reflection, the one who sees into the past and can remember all the good times. The bad ones too.

There was dancing. Oh, how we loved to dance.

On sultry summer nights over at Bailey’s Pavilion on the Okatie River, we danced the slow lazy shag Lowcountry style with those Ridgeland boys. Not to forget, there was a bit of slow dancing, cheek to cheek, the Continental, the Dip. On Fridays, the jukebox played music from the Dorsey Brothers, Glenn Miller, Johnny Mercer, Duke Ellington, and on Saturdays, we had a three-piece live band that made that old shack of a building shake.

When school began in the fall, and we left Bluffton for Savannah, there was a different sort of dancing. Then, we conquered the Conga and the Rumba and the Box Step at Ebba Olsen Thomson’s Dance Studio on Saturday nights while Ebba banged her cane on the floor in time to the music that Ms. Johnson played on her tinny upright piano.

We remember before Women’s Lib, which was both a blessing and a curse.

There was a modesty, a politeness, a courtesy in everyday life.

Barbershops might have Esquire magazines with photographs of pin-up girls wearing a daring two-piece bathing suit, but mothers taking their sons to have a haircut didn’t even presume to pick up a copy of “that” magazine.

As for being polite, saying, “yes ma’am,” and, “no sir,” showed respect.

Men gave up their seats on the bus, on the train and never sat while women stood. They opened doors for women, doffed their hat in greeting, offered an arm in assistance. It might have been centuries since men carried a sword, but they still walked on the curbside of the sidewalk, keeping their sword arm free to protect their female companion. And not just for old ladies like me.

I remember when we went out on dates. When you waited for the telephone to ring, hoping that your latest “crush” was going to call. You went out, but never on school nights, only on the weekends. And you double-dated with whoever had access to a car.

A recent survey showed there are only 1 percent of my age still kicking up their heels on this side of the grass.
We should get together. And remember.

Annelore Harrell’s journey is a tapestry woven with fascinating experiences and extraordinary accomplishments. Even at 92, Annelore’s energy and zest for life continue to inspire.