Old Soul, Odd Bird

You've probably heard somebody remark about old souls before. Maybe somebody's told you that you are one because of some remark you made about black and white movies or a penchant for square dancing. Maybe not. And maybe if somebody did, you thought they were crazy.

Nobody's ever called me an old soul in so many words. The fifties-style apron I wear when I bake has been commented upon. My fondness for cleaning and knitting have been duly noted. I have happily chatted with fellow admirers of Cary Grant and Humphrey Bogart.

But as I look at my other opened browser tabs and spy one labeled "How to Clean Tile Grout," I have a niggling suspicion that maybe I'm not just an old soul, but old. The fact that I have been nicknamed "Wife" and "Mother" by various transients and co-inhabitants of my apartment perhaps confirms this. I am the old woman with smooth-backed hands. I go out dancing on Friday nights with a spatula in my kitchen, and we have a wild time. Then I vacuum the floor. Please tidy your room and bundle up warm before you go outside. Don't eat too much butter or you'll die.

This is the role I have adopted in my household, and I like it. Maybe it seems boring, but there's some comfort in being the pseudo-caregiver, the reliably sedentary roommate. There's comfort in curling up on the sofa with a book or knitting needles, dragon scales or yarn balls at my feet. There's a joy in seeing the smiles on my friends' faces after I've served them up something hot and delicious, a certain methodical calm in cleaning up the kitchen afterward.

I'm an old soul and an odd bird, and many other things, I know. I have quiet passions.

I hope, though, that you don't mind me sharing a slice of them with you.