Seniors Week

December 23, 2024

The affair was the Senior Holiday Potluck at the local Y. The “member experience director,” Brent, sent an email spelling out the details: bring a favorite dish or a donation of $5.00, and a $10.00 gift to exchange after the lunch.

Our local YMCA puts on lots of activities for old folks. It supports Medicare’s Silver Sneakers fitness program, which enables seniors to use the gym and pool and participate in fitness classes. The Y sponsors an Active Senior Adults group, which holds monthly potlucks with bingo. The past year the group took bus trips to the casino in Cherokee in western North Carolina, the Biltmore estate in Ashville, and Lake Lure. 

Despite the marketing, we understand Christmas isn’t just for kids. The Season that for Christians commemorates the birth of Christ is for everyone, including the white-haired set. They were once kids, after all. But it doesn’t play out that way. The stacks of toys and video games at the malls are pitched at anxious parents playing Santa. Everything else: the clothes, the electronics, the pickup trucks are aimed at middle-agers earning paychecks. You don’t see ads targeting folks on Social Security.

Sandy and I attended the Seniors event two years ago. A rousing crowd of oldsters showed up, the Y hired a seniors’ jazz band to play old Christmas favorites (Crosby, Perry Como and so on). Feet tapped to the music, you could survey the room and see tears. We missed last year, it shot by us somehow. But the years now go by in a blur.

Sandy is a regular at the monthly Seniors potlucks, run by a dynamic lady, Cheryl, who’s younger than most of the crowd. She greets everyone, makes a few announcements, then steers the group to the potluck line, then bingo, a quarter a card. Usually 12 or 15 women attend who know each other from the Silver Sneakers programs. Maybe three men show up. I went a few times, then pulled back.

We started Seniors Week by driving 50 miles to Brevard, a touristy place a few miles north of the S.C.-N.C. state line, nestled in the wide Pisgah National Forest. The plan was to get a one-day change of scenery that might help confront family sadness. Somehow, the blur of passing forest, the sharp curves of mountain roads, the ghostly haze rising from Blue Ridge peaks, works. Brevard gets us all that.

We parked off Main Street near Rocky’s Grill, a breakfast place done up with a 1950s look—the bright green and red paneling of the lunch counter, the red leather booth seats, the prints of Babe Ruth and Marilyn Monroe, Elvis crooning in the background. We got eggs and coffee. We talked about old times, family, and loss.

But it’s Christmas, after all. We browsed at a few shops, picked up some things, looked north at the Pisgah peaks that seemed to begin at the end of the block. Turning onto Main, we noticed the Veterans Museum of the Carolinas next to the courthouse, open, admission free.

We stepped through the door. A docent, a slim, elderly gent who looked like a veteran, rose from behind a desk. “Welcome. I’m Joe. U.S. Army. Thanks for stopping in. Just follow the yellow arrows on the floor. There’s a room for each service branch and war starting with World War I. I’m here if you have any questions.”

We strolled through, the place was packed with military artifacts, uniforms, gear, insignia, photos of Carolina veterans going back decades, but also enemy stuff: mannequins of German and Japanese soldiers, fully equipped. I wondered about the collection of German Army propaganda photos. The place was heavy with infantry weapons, rifles, automatic weapons, rocket launchers, handguns. Par for the Carolinas.

A few other visitors, oldsters like us, wandered through. All the staff people were in their 70s and above, like me; old-timer veterans, also like me. Doing something they enjoy, something they fell important and worthwhile. Good for them, I thought. Seniors at work.

We moved forward to the next day’s Holiday Potluck. The Y staff had set up tables in the gym, decorating each with Santa-gnome centerpieces. Folks trickled in, some in bright red, some moving slowly, a lady with a walker, another in a wheelchair. They left their potluck casseroles, salads, and desserts on a table. Cheryl, in charge, announced, “Who’s got a December birthday? They get to eat first.”

We filled our plates and attempted small talk. I saw only a couple of familiar faces. The couple across from me seemed to speak only Polish, I think it was Polish. I glanced around. Down the table, ladies chatted about the food, grandchildren, health problems. I talked with one guy about road conditions since the hurricane. Things like that. A few folks rose and went back for seconds.

The attendance was smaller by half than at the previous Holiday Potluck. No band or caroling to summon the Christmas Spirit. A lady at the end of our table sat stiffly, staring forward, saying nothing.

Cheryl, in full leadership mode, roused the group to play quiz games. I won one of the Santa gnomes by scoring highest on the “Christmas music” quiz (which classic Christmas movie featured the debut of “White Christmas?” Answer: Holiday Inn). We did the “White Elephant,” each person picking a wrapped gift. I drew a sign saying “hope you like dog hair,” no doubt dredged from someone’s attic. Fortunately another guest who owns a dog took it off my hands.

The chatter picked up a bit as folks inspected their gifts. But it seemed we all were shifting in our seats, as if ready to return to the challenges that aren’t lifted by the Christmas Season. Some of the guests are dealing with complicated problems, health, family, finances, widowhood, the burden of living alone. For sure, all wondered whether they’ll be around for next year’s party.

Cheryl sensed the moment and thanked all for coming.  A few applauded, the applause spread. We pulled on our coats. I thanked Cheryl, as did a few others. “Thanks, hope you’ll come back and join us,” she said with a smile. “Have a wonderful Christmas.”