Don’t Shoot the Grandma!

“Don’t shoot the grandma!” the kid yells.

A few blocks into my evening walk, I’m paused uncertainly on the edge of a Nerf-gun battle that spans the sidewalk. Some kids are sprawled on the ground, apparently wounded. Or dead. But the rest are shooting and dodging and yelling.

“A grandma!” the kid yells again.

And it’s a cease fire. They skid to a stop and point their guns to the ground. They stand silent, peering at me from behind their goggles as I step over Nerf darts and around the dead and wounded. As I clear the battlefield, some call out to me.

“Have a good day,” they say.

And I do.

There’s something real nice about being my age. I’m in the phase of aging called the young-old. Coming next, around age 75, is the middle-old. And then comes the old-old, which describes my parents.

It could be that for me, this young-old stage is the best of life. No longer getting on the treadmill at 4:30 in the morning, I sleep more each night. After fending off school-room germs for so many years, I have fewer garden-variety ailments. I worry less about other people’s opinions, juggle fewer inescapable obligations, and enjoy senior discounts at restaurants. I have stories to tell and more time to chase my dreams.

But perhaps the most satisfying perk is that when I’m out and about, I keep running into kindness. People open doors and carry my groceries. They stop their cars and motion me across the street. They help me with technology. They smile and call me ma’am.

And now I’ve discovered that they even stop battles by yelling, “Don’t shoot the grandma!”