I Am Now an Old Woman

Last week, Denny asked if I wanted to ride along 

while he dropped something off for a friend.

“You bet!” I said. 

I grabbed a coat and ball cap 

and was glancing in the mirror

when it struck me:

I am now an old woman.

Not because of my grey hairs

or the wrinkles around my eyes

and lips

and chin.

Not because my neck could flap in the breeze 

like a bassett hound leaning out of a truck window.

Not because, due to my age, 63, 

I am considered high risk for COVID-19,

but because of what I was wearing:

a purple coat and a red hat.

Jenny Joseph’s “Warning” 

has been duct taped to a cabinet

in the basement for years, 

a reminder to embrace a life 

of serendipity

of adventure.

It begins 

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple

With a red hat which doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me.

Exactly what I saw in the mirror.

Except that red ball cap does suit me.

The brim gives shade and holds sunglasses,

the color is a bright spot on dark days,

the printing “Dead Horse Point”

reminds me of austere Utah beauty

(though it was sad about those horses). 

It covers my hair on bad hair days, 

heck, on good hair days too. 

I love my red ball cap.

The purple coat  

my friend Leslie and I found 

on a weekly trip to Goodwill.

It was long 

and washable

and cozy

and it fit me,

characteristics I admire in a garment. 

But it was purple—

I have never liked purple

except in sunsets 

and violets

and the lips of small children 

who insist on swimming 

at Parker Dam before August.

It also had a small burn mark on the sleeve. 

Leslie suggested that I could sew a button over the burn.

Hmmmm. 

And it was only 79c.

I renamed the purple “indigo," 

bought the coat,

and got out Grandma Maud’s button jar.

One lone button on a sleeve 

would look a bit strange,

but many buttons would be an Artistic Statement. 

I sewed a colorful chorus line of buttons up the damaged sleeve,

then added natural shell buttons,

number buttons,

armadillo buttons,

buttons marching in patterns

and buttons running amok,

with star buttons exploring the hem.

My purple coat won first place in “Button Craft”

at the Pennsylvania Farm Show,

the winnings paid the purchase price ten times over,

and now I have a cool prize ribbon 

living in the pocket.

Jenny’s poem continues

And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves

And satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter.

I shall sit down on the pavement when I’m tired

And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells

And run my stick along the public railings

And make up for the sobriety of my youth.

I shall go out in my slippers in the rain

And pick the flowers in other people’s gardens

And learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat

And eat three pounds of sausages at a go

Or only bread and pickle for a week

And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry

And pay our rent and not swear in the street

And set a good example for the children.

We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practise a little now?

So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised

When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

I noticed that many other lines were now applicable as well.

And I shall spend my pension...

Being recently retired, 

I now get a pension,

but I buy grapefruit juice 

and garden gloves

and Croc sandals

and butter because butter makes everything better,

Julia Child said so.

and press alarm bells...

Did you know that 

if you place your fingers just so 

that you can ring six doorbells at once in Lowes? 

Truth.

and make up for the sobriety of my youth...

Pretty sober! 

Baptist till eighth grade,

then Christian and Missionary Alliance,

then Wesleyan.

None of them smiled on alcohol or dancing 

and I had dancing in my bones,

skills itching to be developed.

In subsequent years,

the kitchen has seen some pretty creative moves,

and were it not for coronavirus

I’d be taking a clogging class.

And pick the flowers in other people’s gardens

And learn to spit. 

I have done both with the grandgirls.

You can wear terrible shirts 

and grow more fat

And eat three pounds of sausages at a go

or a whole container of dark chocolate almonds

And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes

and bird nests

and snake skins

and pottery bowls

and theater programs

and Hallmark reindeer that look like moose.

But maybe I ought to practise a little now?

So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised

When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

The only person surprised was me.

You may enjoy watching Jenny Joseph read “Warning” here.