a terrible metaphor.”
I nodded. “I agree. But then I’m not back here to be the metaphor king.”
“Time to eat,” Jenny said, and we transferred our hungry selves to the dining room table.
Later, Jenny and I lay in bed with the lights out. “Really, how bad is it?” she asked. I couldn’t see what she was doing, but I was staring intently at the dark ceiling. The evening’s conversation had deteriorated into platitudes, broad assurances, and a visit to Google Maps so the kids could see exactly where Indonesia was.
I sighed dramatically to make up for the fact that she couldn’t see my face. “It’s not good, honey, not good. We’ve got our traditional American workers, who are relatively expensive and relatively unproductive, a union that has become very powerful and doesn’t seem to recognize how bad things are, a management group that hates the union and blames it for all the problems, and an economy that isn’t keen on buying anything we make. We’re kind of screwed on every front.”
Jenny was silent for so long I thought maybe she had gone to sleep. Finally she said, “I don’t really want to move to Indonesia, honey.” A few minutes after that, I could tell from her breathing she was asleep. Me, I lay awake for most of the night, thinking about how much I didn’t want to move, either.
THREE
The Return of Martha
I DON’T NEED people’s company these days, and I don’t much enjoy it, either. I’ve spent lots of time with people in my life, and when you get to my stage of the game, you don’t want to waste any of the time you have left. I’ve still got plenty going on in this wrinkled old head, plenty to sort out, and that means the person I want to spend most of my time with is me.
Most people oblige me by not dropping by for a casual chat, and I help them feel better about their decision by playing the part of the grumpy old lady when they do come to see me. It’s a situation that works well for all of us. But there are exceptions, and birthdays bring out people’s tendency to invade my private space in the worst way. Granted, it’s a big deal to have someone in the family pass the hundred-year mark, and this year I turned 102. But really, am I all that different than I was at 101? Or even when I was a spring chicken of 81? I like to think not, though try and tell that to my daughters. Or grandkids. Or, well, all of the relatives out there, of which I seem to have accumulated many. They seem to think I’m some kind of good luck charm. And if they come to pay me homage, maybe it’ll remind God that we’re related, that they’re treating me right, and so they should live a long time too.
Or maybe they just want my money, though there’s less of that around than there used to be. Who expects to live past a hundred years? I got good value for my dough, though. I saw a lot of this planet before the thought of another four-hour delay at LAX, or any other airport, became too painful relative to the fun of whatever destination was waiting for me.
Maybe I’m just a cynical old biddy. I know my great-grandkids use a different word. At least the ones who have anything worthwhile going on do. But like I said, I’m good with that. The only thing that worries me is boredom. The stuff going on in my head isn’t quite so interesting to me any more. The frightening fact is that nothing seems all that interesting lately. Which was why I was particularly grumpy at my birthday party. I wasn’t putting on a show so I could be alone with my thoughts. I was scared I was done. Done with people, done with thinking, done living. I supposed the fact that the idea scared me was a good sign, even if it made me ornery.
But life has a way of surprising you, even at my age. It was at my birthday party that something completely out of the blue happened to turn things around: I found a problem I could help someone solve.
The someone in this case was my granddaughter Jenny’s husband, Will. He and I have a bit of history together. A number of years ago, he had the good sense to come to me with a problem, and I helped him get some perspective on it. Our conversations were great fun too, because I was able to play the grumpy old lady to maximum effect, and poor Will didn’t have any choice but to put up with it because he needed my advice. I know I shouldn’t enjoy that, but I’ve always been a big tease, and I think he’d agree we both got something out of the experience.
I hadn’t seen a lot of Will since that time. I knew he’d been off flying around the country, trying to make things better at his company, and suffering the joy and pain that goes with that kind of job. I’d see him at family holidays and get-togethers, and occasionally we’d chat about various things work-related, but not in depth.
Which is why I was both surprised and pleased when he sidled up to me at the birthday party and said, “Can we talk?”
“Why, Willie, nice to see you, too,” I said. He hates it when I call him Willie. “What’s up?”
“It’s a long story,” he said.
“Willie,” I said, “in case you haven’t noticed, we’re celebrating my 102nd birthday here. Time is not something I have much of. Can you make it quick?”
He got a pained look on his face. “I’ll try. Remember about fifteen years ago, when I was coming to you with questions about change and project management?”
“Willie, I may be old, but I’m not senile yet,” I chided. “Of course I remember that. Although it seems like you got less interested in talking to me once your problem was solved.” His pained look worsened and I felt a little guilty pleasure at scoring a hit to his guilt center.
“You know how busy things can get,” he said lamely. Then showed a bit of the fire that I like. “I don’t have to bother you with more of that kind of thing if you’re not interested . . .” His voice trailed off.
Too quickly I said, “No, no, that’s all right. I can always listen. See if I have a few ideas.” The bugger: I could tell by a slight movement at the corners of his mouth that he knew I wanted to hear about his problem. I didn’t want him to start feeling comfortable, though, so I said, “Figured out that project management isn’t the solution to everything, have you? Come up against some issues you don’t think a dependency chart is going to solve?”
He sighed. “Well, yes and no. I mean, I always knew there are lots more tools out there. I’ve spent the last ten years or so learning about them and putting them into practice all over the place.”
“Yes,” I said. “You may recall we’ve talked about this once or twice.” Like I said, Will and I had had a few chats over the years about management techniques and the latest management fads, but they never approached the intensity of our explorations around project management. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t more than a little disappointed that he hadn’t come to talk to me more often.
“Yes, of course I remember,” he said. “I always appreciate your insight into that kind of stuff.” His voice trailed off as we took in the general mayhem around us. Great-grandchildren were laughing as they played with plastic toys and cell phones. Grandchildren, looking older to me than grandchildren have any right to, sat drinking coffee and catching up. My remaining children, wrinkled and bent, looked slightly bewildered by the scene, as people whose hearing, sight, and general mental acuity have started to diminish are wont to do. Why I was still around to see all of this, I had no idea. For a moment I craved my pipe more than anything. For several years now a single puff on the thing would send me into coughing spasms. There were still days when I thought the pain might be worth it, but to my descendants’ relief, I’d given it up.
“Willie, let’s take this conversation
