I've always been told I have an old soul.
It's true that my 'Buelo was my best friend growing up. My great-uncle told the most amazing stories about things he did and places he lived that I'll never see. That my basketball coach was (and is) like a surrogate grandfather. Old things--people, places, things. I love them. I love old stories, and to hear about how things were for my grandparents when they were growing up. The struggle during the Great Depression. The Dust Bowl. The war stories. How my 'Buelo cowboyed back in his youth. How my Mimi didn't speak English until she was 10, and what a challenge it was to learn English in her very traditional Czech family. How her dad (who I never met) walked 20 miles to work every Sunday, lived on the jobsite until Friday, and then walked home on every weekend.
If loving those kinds of things make me an old soul, I guess I am.
It doesn't hurt that I enjoy hanging out with older generations more than with my peers. Or that it makes my heart swell when I see an older couple walking in the mall, hand-in-hand. I don't care that they're going slow and holding up traffic. If I'm blessed with a marriage that lasts long enough to make me a slow morning mall-walker, I'll consider myself lucky.
It's also no surprise that my YA WIP centers around the relationship between a nursing home-bound war veteran and a juvenile delinquent. Or that letters factor heavily into the story, because I can't imagine a time when people actually wrote out missives longhand, instead of sending a Wht r u doin text. (Is there anything more romantic than handwritten love letter? Not that I can think of.)
Anyway, at one time there was a point to this blog post. I think it was because this has been plastered all over my facebook wall.
They're adorable. And I bet they've got some great stories.
Currently Listening to: Meghan Tonjes' cover of Africa (by Toto)