Often, a child identifies more strongly with one parent. This may be reinforced by comments: “You are just like your father.” said in a not necessarily friendly tone. Or “You remind me of my Grandma Marie.” (the one who had nineteen children). By the way, my Grandfather Max was her last child born today in 1842. Wow.
I definitely identified with my father. I had his nose and his memory and his sense of self-pity. He was an older father (44 when I was born) and had grey/white hair always. I learned that his marvelous abundant mane turned grey in his early twenties. I was certain that I would grey early. Suddenly, I was 55 years old with dark hair and I realized that I was too old to grey young.
In a few months I will turn 73 years old, and my hair does have some grey strands and even a few white hairs, but I find it unnecessary and boring to think of coloring my still dark hair. In this genetic trait, I definitely inherited from my mother’s long-lived family.
Last year, a number of my friends passed on, leaving me with a less loving and colorful world. I look at the Obituary Column in our local paper. Browsing, I think, “She (someone with a friendly face who I never met) was born in 1949. She was so young to die.”
Maybe, Claire it is time to accept that I am now too old to die young. Not that I ever thought I would, but time is running away from me.
Am I too old to do important (even just to me) artwork?
Too old to find a loving partner?
Too old to ski?
Forget about it.
If I so strongly take after my mother’s family – then how long should I expect to live? Averaging the life span of my six closest female relatives, I calculate 88.5 years. The same number I came up with using all kinds of insurance tables and scientific formulas. Well.
Maybe, I am not too old, yet.