In a Romance Language

I’m 90 years old. My husband, the father to my children, went to the grave thinking that for the rest of my life, I was well provided for, but my ex-son-in-law ruined everything and squandered my resources. My house is strong, but in bad shape. Everything my son-in-law touched became a mess, like the screen door that he took out and was going to replace but never did. He tried to repair the driveway, but now it has huge bumps and is a hazard to drive over. My ex-son-in-law is gone now, but my daughter has control of my finances. I have had brain surgery, shingles, COVID-19 (twice), and I’m told I don’t eat enough, but I’m still sharp. Two reasons why I don’t eat much are first, that my teeth are weak and I don’t want to lose them, and second, I’m afraid if I cook, I’ll forget and leave the stove or oven on.

It’s a hand held rectangle, not very thick. The face is a glass screen – black when off, like a color television when it is on. But everyone has a smartphone now. It seems like a magical thing to me. Any question, almost, can be answered in a matter of seconds. It is good for nearly all kinds of games. It can be better than the video arcades my kids used to go to when they were in high school. My favorite game, my only game of choice, is French lessons. There is a free app that turns learning a language into a game. I can hear native French speakers and do my best to imitate them. It can hear me and grade whether my pronunciation is close or not. I can type in English translations of French and French translations of English. Another app I have records me imitating a French speaker and I can play the recording back. It is hard to believe all this is done on a hand held device that was originally meant to be a phone. There are so many things to learn, but my language learning app makes learning French the most immediate. It’s teaching me the inflections and emotional expressions that go with the words. It’s fun. I don’t write out tiresome grammar exercises. It does drill me in the language, but it doesn’t feel boring. I love the sound of the French language and with this way of learning it, I’m hearing it all the time. Spanish is another beautiful language, but I started with French, and when I tried to learn Spanish at the same time, the app only reminded me to do the French lessons, and two languages were too much. I didn’t know how I’d use my French language skills. I might listen to French language news broadcasts. Visits to France were only a dream.

Some time between first and third grades, my best friend and I pricked our hands so just a little blood came out and we rubbed the drops of blood on our hand together so that we were “blood sisters.” It was a native American tradition. It meant we were friends for life. When she and her family moved, we used our hands to write to each other for many years.

In grade school, my friends and I would take a circle of string, and with our hands, loop the string around our fingers, cross and uncross the string into knots, and make patterns. The one I remember is cat’s cradle. That was my favorite. It was like magic to me.

I used my hands for different crafts. Macrame is the first one I remember. Macrame, like becoming blood sisters, was a native American tradition. I was taught some macrame at a camp I went to just after third grade, when my best friend moved. My friends and I also used our hands for candle making.

All along, I used my hands for writing. I remember gripping thick pencils in my early years, and the scent of pencils when sharpening bring me back to elementary school classrooms. Later we used thinner pencils, and I was excited about moving on to blue inked ballpoint pens. The ink went on the page so smoothly and the writing seemed cleaner to me. There was a rule, though. Math was always to be done in pencil, so mistakes could be erased. I think we were told a quote from Benjamin Franklin about the eraser saving many from foolishness, but I don’t remember it exactly. Later I was taught touch typing, another way of using the hands. When reading, the hands only hold the book and turn the pages; the eyes work harder. When writing, the hands are important.

I knew I wanted a smart phone when one of the church ladies who help me by driving me to the store and to doctors’ appointments said you can learn anything on smart phones. Her name is Kate. I didn’t want to admit that was why I wanted one. I was 86 years old and everyone expected me to die any day. They were surprised I was still alive then.

I was a good student in high school, and when I graduated I wanted to go to college, but my father said, “No, that isn’t what proper ladies do,” so I got married and had children, two girls and two boys. My daughters did go to college, all the way through graduate school.

So when I was 86 years old, I knew I wanted to learn something well, but I didn’t want anyone to know. My oldest daughter, Diane, is legally in charge of my finances, even though she and her ex-husband squandered what I had – they sold the rental properties and the money evaporated – while I was in the hospital for brain surgery. Diane lives in another town, so I actually handle my bank account, anyway.

I knew Diane wouldn’t want me to get unlimited everything on the smartphone. We argued about it over the phone (the landline). I said my television hardly got any channels anymore and I wanted to get the news and to play video games. Diane insisted I didn’t need all of that. I had a church lady, Kate, take me to a cell phone shop and the salesman set up the phone and showed me how to use it. I got the unlimited plan, and didn’t talk about it anymore with Diane.

The salesman showed me how to ask questions with the phone. When I was at home alone with the cell phone, I put in “How do I learn French for free?” I had taken French in high school and thought being able to speak and write French would make me feel less like I missed out by not going to college. I found a free app that made learning French like a game. It took me a while to get used to typing on the phone, but I was determined. I told people that I was spending my time playing Scrabble on the phone.

I have arthritis in my hips and knees. I can no longer drive, and my old car was stolen. I think it was stolen by my ex-son-in-law. I suspect he pushed me when I had the fall down the stairs that led to brain surgery. When I got home, all the furniture was gone and I knew I wasn’t expected to live. Now that was over a decade ago.

So I can hardly walk. I need my walker, and it is still hard to get around. I take strong prescription painkillers. The kind that are sold on the street. My former son-in-law once stole them from me, so I had to hide them. My hands are fine, though. A lady from church, Alice, gave me colored pencils a few years ago, and I drew women in flowing dresses. I could have been a clothes designer if I had tried. Now I’m on my smartphone most of the time. It really is like magic. I often forget that it is also a phone and not just a computer.

When I got through most of the French lessons on my app, I felt pretty good about what I had learned. I wanted to use my French language skills, so I searched for a pen-pal who spoke and wrote French. I got a letter from a 92 year old widower a few towns away from me. He had been a diplomat in Belgium. We wrote to each other through the Post Office. I explained that I’m not so good with technology, but he was patient and gave me directions on how to have a video call on my cell phone, the directions all in French. It took several months before we finally managed a video call. We then had video calls once a week and still wrote paper letters to each other, but on my 90^th birthday he wanted to meet me in person. My children didn’t want to see me, and sometimes on days like my birthday they didn’t even call me. This man, Robert, still drove. He still had profitable rental properties and a good pension. He said his children were respectful and warm toward him. I admired him.

When Robert arrived, he brought sparkling apple cider, which we drank on my terrace, chatting in French. He presented me with an engagement ring and asked me to marry him. I mean. It was the last thing I expected. I immediately realized I was in love with him, but I couldn’t accept the proposal.

“I can’t afford a wedding.”

Robert smiled. “Then we can elope. The engagement could be for just a few hours.”

“Don’t you think we’re too old?”

“We’re never too old for love. I want to die happy.”

I cried with happiness and Robert put the ring on my finger. He called his son.

“The elopement is on. We need witnesses.”

We did get legally married and his children were apparently happy for us. We took our vows in English, but we always talk to each other in French. His house is more comfortable than my house had been. It’s a brick ranch house, easy to get around, with three bedrooms and two baths. It is so nice to sleep in the arms of a loving man. I don’t need as much of the pain killers now.

The church ladies were as surprised as anyone when I told them I eloped with a pen-pal and am now happily married. They told the minister, who is a nice young man. After a Bible study, I told the minister that I hate my ex-son-in-law, and can never forgive him. The minister put a hand on my arm and said, “That’s okay.” Now the minister called me and asked why we had a civil ceremony instead of a religious one.

“I couldn’t afford a wedding, and my husband arranged the elopement.”

“I’ll do the ceremony free of charge. I want your marriage to be sanctified. Kate and Alice could be the witnesses.”

I checked with Robert, and he was happy to oblige.

Within a few days, Robert had his lawyers notify Social Security that I was no longer eligible for spousal support, and then the lawyers worked to emancipate me financially.