i have come to admire old people because they don't care what you think of them.

they know you think they are stupid . . .

they know that you are the stupid one.

they have fought their fights,

lived their lives,

and what has that given them?

stories.

and maybe if you are lucky—very lucky—they will share with you.

you can sit on your great aunt's lap and hear stories of life as a child in florida, traveling in greece, or teaching at a college in scotland.

you can listen to your grandfather tell stories of landing on a beach in normandy, wading through the jungles and swamps of korea or vietnam, or being the editor of a paper in atlanta.

and if you get really lucky, you will get cornered by a distantly related elderly lady at a family reunion and hear stories for hours of growing up in the hills of south carolina.

old people are willing to give you a window into another time and place, a look into their souls . . .

and all you have to do is ask.

old people are wisdom.

they have been through the poverty of the depression, the horror of a world war, and the fear and paranoia of the cold war.

they survived . . .

and they know that you will, too.

(no matter how bad life gets or how alone you feel.)

in a world of fading memories and weakening health, they have realized that all that really matters is the present.

will being 10 minutes late to work matter in 10 years?

will missing your child's first day of school?

old people know what is important. they know how to survive.

to remember.

to live.

i have come to admire old people because they are willing to share the secrets of life.

will you ask?