I went to Pasadena to assemble IKEA bookcases for my sister. She turned 75 this year, and 75 years is a lot of time to collect stuff. Additionally, she took lots of boxes of memorabilia to her home when Mom died. The bookcases were presents from her daughter and us to help her store stuff until she could look it over.
Mom would have chuckled at the notion that I was going anywhere to build something. My brother got the construction gene in the family. But, I can read IKEA instructions now that I have figured out how to interpret all those arrows. When you sell in multiple countries, arrows eliminate the need for words. But I miss them.
My assembling adventure began at the world’s most noticeable store now that Tower Records has folded. Bright blue and bright yellow behemoth buildings dwarf everything nearby. Inside is stuff beyond imagination, all waiting to be assembled. We found three Billy Bookcases. A friendly man, whose job seemed to be helping People of a Certain Age get their cartons of pressed board into their cars, loaded ours into my rented SUV at 12:30 p.m.
By 5:00 p.m., there were three new 6 ½ foot tall white bookcases in her second bedroom, and no stuff in boxes on the floor anymore. What did people do before IKEA, when they had to measure and drill and fasten on their own? Maybe fewer bookcases got built by amateurs like me. I felt like a pro. I think the founder of IKEA counted on that feeling.
Once before, I put together an IKEA bookcase for my sister. It was a learning experience. I had not rented a big car but the friendly IKEA man that day eased my anxiety because he knew the back seats of my rental folded down, and the 80” box could angle in. It was my first exposure to IKEA assembly arrows and the process took me nearly two hours.
This time, three done in two hours. Old dogs can learn new tricks I was disappointed that she hadn’t needed a fourth one.
The next day we went to see a movie to celebrate her birthday and to dinner afterwards. She wanted to see Lives Well Lived. The filmmaker had asked her 100-year old grandmother some questions like “What does it take to live a life well-lived?” And “What are your thoughts about mortality?” And “What would you want younger people to know about being older?”
A light bulb lit. She filmed forty people answering those and other questions and produced a 90-minute film for movie theaters. The youngest person filmed was 73, the oldest 103 when the film was done (her grandmother). The average age was probably 87.
We didn’t hear any new thoughts about aging. The old truths were on display: “The only thing in life you can control is your own attitude;” “Keep moving;” “The best things in life aren’t things.”
There were notable threads. Several people had come to the U.S. because of the Nazis and one Japanese American woman had been incarcerated in a relocation camp. When they die, there will be no one left to remind us, from personal experience, of the danger of scapegoating people. Who will warn us about seeing all (fill in the blank) as bad and all (fill in the blanks) as good, instead of seeing individual human beings?
Many in the film had gravitated toward some form of artistic expression in old age. One woman said she was able to express herself now more with paint than with words. Another man fell in love with sculpture. A third person danced.
One of my retired friends has taken up watercolors. Another square dances. Another is learning a musical instrument. Perhaps retirement has unmasked the notion that doing something arty is frivolous, something for which active movers and shakers cannot spare the time. Perhaps we are just drawn to try new things.
The people in the film reflected a different sense of time, too. Several were critical of how younger people always seemed to be too busy, never having “enough time.” Ironic, that people nearer death feel free to take the time to enjoy themselves, try new things, be in the world and attuned to it.
All those interviewed had active relationships with other people, often a spouse, sometimes not. Judy and I treasure these words from Wallace Stegner’s Spectator Bird that speak to this point.
“It is something—it can be everything—to have found a fellow bird with whom you can sit among the rafters while the drinking and boasting and reciting and fighting go on below; a fellow bird whom you can look after and find bugs and seeds for; one who will patch your bruises and straighten your ruffled feathers and mourn over your hurts when you accidentally fly into something you can’t handle.”
The folks in the movie would understand this. And my sister. And Mom and Dad, whose stuff now sits on newly assembled bookcases.
A life well lived. Some assembly required.
Daniel E. White
June 11, 2018