Old People James L. Cowles (c) Copyright 2026 by James L. Cowles

Photo by Alena Darmel at Pexels.

Looking back over the years is one of the privileges of aging (Other than senior discounts, there are not many others). There are always regrets in life, and perhaps the biggest regret for me is not spending more time with people like me; those who have lived many years. Time with older people, or as my grandchildren might say, “The Ancient,” would be a bore to some, but finally I know different, and it may be too late to matter.

For example, when my mother moved to Louisville from Brownsville, Kentucky to marry my dad, she was employed by one of Louisville’s hotels as a maid. I'm not certain, but perhaps she got that job to help her new marriage get off on the right foot, or maybe she saw it as an opportunity to do something she as a country girl in the early 20^th century, had never done; actually, get a job with a paycheck. Anyway, I have become more inquisitive in my latter years, and I just would like to know more about her life. More about the maid, and more about my younger days. I know she wasn't a maid very long, because my three sisters begin coming along at the end of the nineteen-twenties, one right after the other. One thing of which I am certain, “Motherhood” came first with her. Kinda the story of my life; the last child is always left to wonder, and sometimes to wander as well. You see, I believe we tardy entrants find it easy to lose the family connection at times. Perhaps we all go through that awkward period, but people like me are more at risk. It’s not fun when you do not feel quite connected.

I came along in nineteen-forty-one, nine years after my youngest sister, which meant that much of the family life having transpired early in my parents’ marriage, was more likely to be known by my sisters than me. God may have had me somewhere in the mix, but I was still “tooling” around Heavenly hills at that time. Anyway, I won’t second guess Him, but unfortunately, I never asked anyone about those early years, and I suppose no one thought it was important to fill me in. I definitely think a parent should sit you down and tell the early stuff to us late ones. I missed an early stretch of important life, and I bet others in my situation feel the same.For example, my sister Gloria told me that when my mother moved to Louisville from Brownsville, Kentucky to marry my dad, she was employed by one of Louisville’s hotels as a maid. I'm not certain, but perhaps she got that job to help her new marriage get off on the right foot, or maybe she saw it as an opportunity to do something she as a country girl in the early 20^th century, had never done; actually get a job that paid her money. Anyway, I have become more inquisitive in my older years, and I just would like to know more that part of mom's life. More about the maid, and more about my mother's younger days. I know she wasn't a maid very long, because my three sisters begain coming along at the end of the nineteen-twenties, one right after the other. One thing of which I am certain, Motherhood came first to her.

I came along in nineteen-forty-one, nine years after my youngest sister, which meant that more than a little of life had transpired early in my parent’s marriage, and that part was more likely to be known by my sisters than me. Unfortunately, I never asked them, nor my mother, and I suppose no one thought it was important anyway. Here, is a good time say I didn't listen very well in my younger days, so if someone told me some of these things, well, I just didn't listen.

I know my dad also came from Brownsville, and went to work for the Louisville & Nashville Railroad where my grandfather also worked. I always assumed my Grandpa, Jesse, got him the job, or at least urged him to come to Louisville and apply for it. Again, I don't know that for certain, because I never asked, nor did anyone think to tell me. Perhaps neither of these things are important to anyone but me, or maybe they are just things people like me finally have time to wonder about. Again, I plead guilty on not being a good listener when I was young, but hey, I WAS young, after all. Somebody grab me by the face and yell, “Some day, you will want to know this. If you don't listen right now, you will go insane later. You will be looney, crazy, out of your mind.” I might have listened, then, don't you think? Uh, probably not.

Gloria also told me that Grandpa Jesse was quite the financier of his time. Anyway, he said that he owned several parcels of land in the young city of Highland Park, which was later annexed by Louisville. My family lived in three different houses in Highland Park, the third of which was built on property once owned by my Grandfather. My dad was frugal; I wonder if that trait was passed from my Grandfather (?). I know I tend to be the same way, so then, was that trait passed along to dad, and then to me? Hmm. Maybe so. I would bet that my Grandfather did not just give the land to dad, because I know dad would not give me such a gift. His thought, I am certain, was, it is better for a young person to stand on his own two feet. “That builds character,” I can hear my father say that as I write.saying that, just like it was yesterday. My belief is exactly the same, but I do wish my father had broken the chain now and then. I broke it; I wanted my two children to have a college education, so I paid the price myself. I'm glad I did. You can see for yourself, these things are of absolutely no interest to anyone but me. So perhaps, “Inquiring minds do NOT want to know,” but for some reason, I do. I believe that is because those early family years were lost to me.

I also know that we were the only house on our block to have four lots. In fact, we were the only house on our street to have such a large yard. Our house was small, but we had a big side yard, with two lots used as our yard, and two more, which were fenced and rented to a neighbor as a pasture for his horses. Maybe dad intended to add onto our house, but if so, it never happened. Before I arrived, they had only four rooms and a “path.” I know that only because the outhouse, though nailed shut, was still on our property when I was a boy. Thank goodness I didn’t have to deal with that.

When I was seven or eight, dad sold the “pasture,” and soon we had a new house being built next door to us. The Howerton’s, Lilly Mae and Tommy,moved in, and were a great addition to our neighborhood. But these are things I experienced first-hand, things known to me; I am more interested in knowing more about my older relatives, including my parents.

My mother had two sisters and two brothers, and one step sister. I knew all but one, my Uncle Max. I only know that he fought and died in WWII, and I remember weeping at his Military funeral. His body was returned several years after his death, when I was about four or five years old. It was my very first funeral, and the distant sound of Taps in a country cemetery, standing next to my mother, had a profound effect on me. Maybe it was seeing my mother cry, I don't remember, but there is quite a difference in crying and weeping, at least I think so. Crying is a a few tears on our cheeks, mostly under control. There is no , or little noise, when you cry; it is a silent sorrow. On the other hand, “weeping” is a full flow of tears, with stereo. I do not mean to make light of it, not at all. I heard others weeping, and I wept. Uncle Max was obviously loved; there was a crowd the size of which I had never seen in my young life, and with mom also weeping, it contributed to my great sorrow. I would rather cry than weep, but sometimes we cannot control the process.

I wish I had asked mom to tell me more about Uncle Max. What was he like; was he musical like his father; did he join the army, or was he drafted; what was it like having a younger brother? Did he and Uncle Buddy play together? What did they do to pass the time? How about her mother, who passed away when mom was young; was she also musical like her husband? What was family life like growing up? Was her dad a farmer? Did people gather to play and sing at times? When did my grandfather re-marry? Tell me more about him. When did your stepmother get polio? So much more I would like to know.

I never knew my grandparents, which may be why I enjoyed talking with my friend Ronnie Minyard’s grandfather. I remember sitting for hours in Ronnie’s yard on Mohawk Avenue, talking with him beneath a shade tree. He lived with the family and spent summer days talking with Ronnie and me, the neighbors, or anyone willing to linger. I sensed he was lonely, and because he was so likable, sitting with him came easily. One day, while I was telling a story I can no longer remember, he repeatedly said a word I had never heard: “pshaw.” I think I asked Dad what it meant. He replied, “Jimmy, where did you hear that word?” At first, I worried it might be improper, though Ronnie’s grandfather would never have used a bad word. When I explained, Dad laughed and asked, “Were you telling Mr. Minyard one of your stories?” I certainly was. Whenever conversation stalled, I tended to fill the silence. Dad explained that “pshaw” meant my story was hard to believe—what some might call “a bunch of bull.” He probably used different words, but I understood the gist. After that, I was more willing to let the silence linger. I was only seven years old; what did anyone expect. Kids do stretch the truth now and then, and for me, it was a lesson learned.

I think a child normally avoids talking with an adult, and it impresses adults when they see one having a conversation with an older person. I'm sure that most of us have seen a child talking with an older person, and hearing someone say, “Look at that little man talking with his grandfather; isn't he cute?” That was me, see; I enjoyed talking with those who had gray, or white hair. The parent types, I avoided. One I recall, whom I liked very much, was.Mr. Thompson, who lived across the alley from us. He was someone interesting to talk with. His hair was solid white, and he had an inviting smile. He worked a pretty good size garden in his side yard, but when I strolled across the alley to his fence, he stopped what he was doing to chat with me. He would often ask if I had heard him “doing my bird calls last night?” He could whistle like every bird from these parts, and he had a mockingbird in one of his trees which he must have driven nuts every summer evening. I enjoyed listening to the “Whistle off” many nights. Mr. Thompson would whistle, and the Mockingbird would answer, and if the Mockingbird whistled a familiar call, Mr. Thompson would answer quickly. The contest would go on until you couldn't tell one from the other, that's how good Mr. Thompson was. He also had an affinity for science, and would often appear at Junior and Senior high schools throughout the area to perform several scientific demonstrations. We were fortunate to have such a good neighbor.

My Great Uncle Syl was also someone I remember well. He was Grandfather Jesse's brother, and he lived with his son's family, just a few blocks from us. He apparently was somewhat of A character. Dad told me that Uncle Syl was the first person in Edmonson County to own an automobile, and his idea of fun was to wait until the courthouse had a lot of horse and buggy traffic; court might be in session, or people had come to town to conduct business. Once the square was full, he would come driving in, honking his horn, and of course, making motor car noises that scared all of the horses and most of the people. He might drive several times around the courthouse, until he got the crowd upset, then speed off, laughing his head off. Unfortunately, I never really got to know him. He had a disease which today is called Alzheimer’s, but back then was referred to as, “hardening of the arteries.” There were times when Uncle Syl would visit us, and his poor son, Chris, dad’s cousin, would not know where he was. The family was constantly worried he would wander off and get lost, but he always knew how to get to our house, and that’s where he would head. We didn't have a phone, so dad would either go next door to call his cousin on Tommy's phone, or simply walk Uncle Syl back home.

Some of you are still wondering why I didn’t ask my parents more questions when I had the chance, You know, when I was young! That is a fair question that deserves a serious answer. So… Here it is; Please don’t be ridiculous. If I had done that, I would not be wrIting this stoey, now, would I?