Cool Little Old Ladies
By Mark S. Darrah

“Now she was a cool little old lady,” Bill Cosby once said, “you see, that’s the only way you get to be a little old lady -— by being a cool little old lady.”

Margaret’s only relatives lived in Maine and Indiana. They never called, never wrote. Margaret had no husband, no children and no living brothers and sisters.

Why leave one’s earthly belongings to people whose only connection to you are common ancestors, particularly when those same people can’t punch a few buttons on a telephone?

Margaret decided to give her estate to her friends and to her church.

If not properly signed and witnessed, a will may be successfully contested. Margaret’s relatives would certainly find the wherewithal to punch the buttons on a telephone to call an attorney if anything about Aunt Margaret’s will looked suspect, particularly if that meant hitting the jackpot and collecting from a deceased aunt’s estate.

Margaret had white hair that looked like spun silver. Every time she came to see her lawyer she wore a different navy suit, each the type one wears when one means business. She had been a young housewife when the Great Depression came. By the start of World War II, she had become a widow, never remarrying. When she laughed, you wanted to laugh with her.

Her attorney checked every word in her will twice. He lined up three people to witness her will, although only two are required. He very carefully led Margaret, the witnesses and the notary through the procedure Oklahoma law requires for the execution of a will.

After completing the ceremony, the attorney led Margaret from his conference room to his office to discuss where to keep her will, how to change it and to discuss any other questions Margaret may have had.

Margaret sat down and gasped, “I’m breathless!”

Had Margaret waited to die until just the moment her will was finished? Maybe she was just having a spell, but that might require the will to be signed and witnessed again. If she had a spell she never came out of, questions certainly would be raised about the will’s validity.

“What’s wrong?” her attorney asked. “Is there anything I can do?”

“My brassiere is just too tight,” Margaret said.

~~~

Leah lived life with a missionary’s zeal to help and protect those hurting and injured. She loved good food, a pleasant night on the town and company.

In the eighth decade of her life, Leah walked with a walker; each step, a stumble and a push. Leah and her husband, Hubert, invited my wife, Jackie, and I out to dinner at one of my city’s exclusive private clubs.

I was 32 years old.

Before the walker, before the arthritis, it might have taken Leah five minutes to get from her car to the front door of the nightclub. That evening, it took between 10 and 15.

As dinner with Hubert and Leah concluded and the dessert dishes were carried away, a dance band began to play. Hubert asked Jackie to dance, and they did. An 85-year-old man dancing with my wife!

Leah looked at them as they moved over the shining parquet floor. “Hubert loves to dance, but I can’t anymore,” Leah said. She took my hand. “Yesterday I was your age.”

~~~

Zoe was 81 years old when she moved from suburban Seattle to Oklahoma. She had never lived outside her native Northwest and felt like she had moved to Dodge City when she got to Tulsa. Her daughters lived here and wanted to be able to help her in her final years. Her son, a resident of Oklahoma’s Little Dixie, would have loved to have had her stay with him. Tulsa was a big enough adjustment.

When she was 89, Zoe discovered a lump in her breast, and she was hospitalized for a radical mastectomy. Surgery was performed, but the wrong breast excised. When she regained consciousness, her surgeon stood by her bed. He explained what had happened and apologized for his gross error.           

“Well, doctor,” Zoe said, “I guess my bikini wearing days are over.”

The stories shared here are true, although the names have been changed.

Mr. Darrah practices in Tulsa