Lunch with the nonagenarian

So my friend Jean is a very special woman. Famous around these parts and beyond for being a feminist and social activist for decades before either of those terms were invented. Known for rabble-rousing and getting things done. The self-published author of an autobiography that drained her savings account but that she had printed because she had a story to tell about determination, suffering, grit, and survival, and was compelled to share it in print (this was at the age of 92 or so). Honorary degree holder from the University of the Fraser Valley.

We share the same birthday week. This week I turned "halfway to 90" and she's hitting 99 on Thursday. I got to know Jean when she was 89 because she phoned the university demanding to know what we were going to do to mark Person's Day, the day honoring when the Supreme Court of Canada recognized that women were persons under the law in the 1920s. Jean is so old that she actually met some of the Famous Five activists that brought the person's case forward (or at least she talks about them like she did). One of her proudest honours was receiving the federal Person's Day medal from the governor general in 1990 for her activist work.

So back in 2001 I was a busy working mum but I figured, "hey, I can invest some time in this friendship because Jean's pretty cool, and she's almost 90, and she won't likely be around much longer anyway, and I could learn a lot from her."

Ten years later, here we still are, meeting regularly for lunch, going as dates to university functions and the theatre. She's become a treasured elder in our family, and loves nothing more than being invited to share dinner around our table. (Did I mention she loves food in all forms and has a robust appetite?)

Our relationship has evolved so that I'll correct her when she's wrong or chide her for claiming to have reached a new age two or three months before her actual birthday.

I've watched her move from her own mobile home to an old folks home in Langley. She then used a Chilliwack newspaper I casually brought by to plot her "prison break" from that home and find herself an apartment back in Chilliwack again. (My apologies to her family: I had no idea she was going to use the Chilliwack Times that way!) I've then followed her to her current old folks home in Chilliwack, where she remains a rabble rouser, advocating for seniors' rights, better food, and more reasonable rates. She sometimes feels trapped in a corporate environment in this chain-owned living arrangement.

I was very proud to help her stage a reading of her autobiography in 2005, recruiting my seven- and 10-year-old daughters, and women of every age decade up to 70, to read parts in her voice. She flirts with my husband, engages my kids in lengthy and detailed conversations, and remembers the names of all my cats. We're both famous for our sharp memories, which makes our conversations all the more lively.

Anyway, with my busy work schedule and her busy social life we've been having a hard time getting together recently. I'll be working at the other campus, or unable to take breaks, and then call her when I'm available, but she'll be busy shopping, or going to the doctor, or off to another luncheon engagement.

This week was a key one to get together, but the only time I had free was 11 am this morning. I arranged to pick her up for a "lunchy brunch" and drove to the old folks home, a couple minutes late as usual, and was somewhat alarmed that she wasn't waiting at the door for me.

I buzzed her, but there was no answer. I went upstairs, found her door unlocked, and called in, but she didn't call back. I opened the door and went in, thinking things were probably okay, but what if they weren't? I held my concern at bay, because I don't tend to worry until there's actually something to worry about!

I turned the corner in her tiny apartment and found her busy in the kitchen.

"Oh, you're here! Sit down. Lunch is almost ready! Didn't you get my message? I'm cooking for you today! The baked potatoes are almost ready!"

Now Jean has cooked for me before, and loves to make her own soup, but I'd gotten past expecting such treatment now that she's one year shy of 100.

But since it was my birthday week as well as hers, she wanted to make today about me. She'd made her own soup again. "Almost vegetarian! Just a little bone in there with the most delicious marrow! Lots of spices too!"

And she insisted on opening a bottle of very good wine that someone had got her. Now a glass of wine at 11:20 am on a workday goes against just about all my rules, but who's going to argue with the nonagenarian?

We talked local news, provincial politics (she likes Adrian Dix, I'm more a Mike Farnworth fan), and she crowed a bit (as she is wont to) about the birthday letters she received from the governor general, the lieutenant governor, the premier, and an MP. I had the odd honour of bringing the letter signed by Canadian prime minister Stephen Harper up to her room -- as an old socialist he's not her favourite politician!

Jean is almost blind and quite deaf, so things weren't quite perfect. She almost scooped the soup out onto my baked potato before I pointed out that we didn't have bowls. And I had to remind her that we needed knives and forks.

But I was touched beyond words that my old, old, old, friend had taken the time and effort to turn "our" birthday lunch into a special treat for me.

Happy birthday, Jean. It's been quite a decade knowing you!