Penny’s Two Cents by Penny Orloff

 

When I was a child, my mother’s family was five generations deep, five generations alive at the same time. Some of those people lived well over a hundred years. They were living history. Their stories and the stories they told of their ancestors’ ancestors were part of a six-thousand-year-old oral tradition.

By the time I was seven, I was consciously collecting stories that had been in the family for generations. I became a reliquary. I would guard and preserve these treasures for the generations to come. And when I grew up, I would be one of those Old Storytellers. 

I soaked up random memories from my grandma’s childhood in Russia, my dad’s memories of his long years at the orphanage, my great-grandmother's tale of her youngest child, my grandma’s little brother Georgie, running off to be a gangster—which I later realized was how my mom and dad eventually met each other.

At the family table, it was understood that nobody under the minimum age of 40 had anything to say of any imaginable interest or importance. Shah, shtil! Shut up and listen—you’ll learn something. Those people had outlived the pogroms, the post-WWI influenza epidemic, the great depression, Hitler. They had survived to tell the tales. So would I.

Early on, I was aware of creating the Old Storyteller character I imagined I could be. I had lots of tribal elders as role models among my mother’s mishpochah: very old musicians who’d played forever (I still have the violin that belonged to my grandfather’s grandfather). Very old singers of songs from a hundred years past (I still have Russian and Yiddish songs that belonged to my grandmother’s Grandma Masha).

They had their way of doing Old Age. And some day, I would do that. I would be that.

Time has chipped away at the sharp corners, sanded down the jagged edges, smoothed out the rough and rocky terrain that was a younger Penny. I am “colorful” and “eccentric” now, instead of weird. I realize I haven’t been in a fistfight in over 20 years. PS: I always fought above my weight class. You don’t wanna mess with me…

Cinderella has become the Fairy Godmother. Sometimes, from here, I look back on a younger me, and I remind her who she’ll be when the scars are healed, when the back-against-the-wall fight to the death has ended in survival, when the foolish, forever life-altering choice has given the inevitable result.

More than any successes—and there have been great successes—I realize that, during every meaningful challenge, from time to time this Me I have become used to appear to the girl who was becoming, and said, “Hey, Pen, look who you get to be!”

I didn’t know all the strange details of the journey to that future Me, but I must say I’m about where I expected to be. This is Autumn. This is the Harvest. The wounds are healed. I like my scars. My heart has been broken. And broken again. And will break, again.

One of the great gifts of Age is permission to tell the truth. Another is independence from the good opinion of other people. At 75, although certainly mellower I still feel like the snarky little me I have been, all along. But, sometimes, when I catch an unexpected glimpse of myself in a mirror across the room, I’m astonished to see this old gal, this Old Storyteller I always imagined I would be.

If you’re going to tell people the truth, be funny or they’ll kill you.—Billy Wilder