Aging and Childhood Memories

I resented having to read and dissect Margaret Atwood's writing in the past because the topics were too chunky, foreign and alien for a young teenager to grasp. As the years go by, her writing begins to resonate a lot more, to the point where it has become chilling in a certain dystopian feel. 

Had to read Margaret Atwood's 'Old Babes in the Wood' published in The New Yorker's on April 19, 2021. The writer's father was a field biologist and the family spent a lot of time living in a cabin in the northern boreal forests. She decided to have this place as the "prism through which to look back on these women's lives".

In this story, two elderly sisters Nell and Lizzie spend some time at a family cottage by the lake. They have an older brother Robbie, who isn't with them now, and will visit another time. It's a place where they have been visiting since they were children, and they know every inch of the property. They make a list of repairs that have to be done at some point. 

The story already opens with social definitions of what's age-appropriate, how older folks really shouldn't be climbing up and down slippery docks, and if clothing and other items will outlast them. It's a story of aging, and how siblings cope with that, if they're lucky to still have one another. 

Having tea though, is an issue by itself. There're no water pipes sending water at the turn of a tap. To have water, they would have to bring a pail down the hill, crank the hand pump and hope the flow of water is sufficient to fill up the pail, and then haul it back up the hill to the house.

They make it in through the screen door of the cabin, spilling only a little of the water. “We need to do something about the front steps,” Lizzie says. “They’re too high. Not to mention the back steps. We’ve got to get a railing. I don’t know what he was thinking.”

“He didn’t intend to get old,” Nell says.

“Yeah, that was a fucking surprise,” Lizzie says.

They all helped build the cabin, once upon a time. Their father did most of the work, naturally, but it was a family project, involving child labor. Now they’re more or less stuck with it.

Other people don’t live like this, Nell thinks. Other people’s cottages have generators. They have running water. They have gas barbecues. Why are we trapped in some kind of historical-reënactment TV show?  

“Remember when we could do two pails?” Lizzie says. “Each?” That wasn’t so very long ago.

The story continues on with the mundane everyday, lighting a wood stove, discussions about mousetraps, having salted almond chocolate squares so that Nell could soothe her heartbreak over her husband's death. They did some packing and organization around the house, and found traces of Nell's husband too. Before long, it was time for the sisters head back to the city. And hopefully, Nell finds her answers and some comfort from this short sojourn. 

Nell and Lizzie obviously share a strong relationship, and seem to be close to their older brother Robbie too. There're so many childhood memories they hold dear in this cabin by the lake. We get a sense of how the grandchildren might not be so keen on visiting the cottage as these older women and Robbie do, or perhaps when they do, it's for arrange for repairs or sort out the sale of the house eventually when they pass.

Readers are left wondering, how many more summers will the sisters have to spend at this cottage by the lake? We also wonder, how many memories will surround us as we age, provided we're lucky enough to be physically able and retain our mental state instead of succumbing to some form of dementia. Will we have company? Will we be alone? How will we cope? 

The days of Tig. Over now.

High up on the wall, above the woodstove, hangs the flat oblong griddle that Nell and Tig bought at a farm auction forty-odd years ago, and on which jovial sourdough pancake fryings often took place, Tig doing the flipping, back when largesse and riotous living and growing children had been the order of the day. Coming up! Who’s next? She can’t look directly at this griddle—she glances up at it, then glances away—but she always knows it’s there.

My heart is broken, Nell thinks. But in our family we don’t say, “My heart is broken.” We say, “Are there any cookies?” One must eat. One must keep busy. One must distract oneself. But why? What for? For whom?

“Are there any cookies?” she manages to croak out.

“No,” Lizzie says. “But there’s chocolate. Let’s have some.” She knows that Nell’s heart is broken; she doesn’t need to be told.