When your mother starts watching The Simpsons and other seismic shifts
Me to Mom, annually or so, 1989 to 2019:
“You should try The Simpsons. I think you’d really find it funny. And insightful!”
Mom in response:
“I’m not wasting my time watching that - it’s STUPID. I’d sooner watch Coronation Street.”
Me in futile reply:
“But you might enjoy it….” Trailing off, knowing sometimes you can’t even lead a horse to a 38 year wide gulf much less make her sip, no matter how parched she is for entertainment.
***
Mom to me, several times a year, 2020 to present day:
“That Simpsons is really good you know. There’s nothing else on TV worth watching.”
And then she adds: “Except Coronation Street of course,” worrying, I suppose, that I will think I am no longer speaking to the same person.
Me to Mom in victorious response:
“Yes, I may have mentioned that you might like it,” smiling to myself. “Who’s your favourite character?” I ask, curious to know who might appeal to someone in their 90s.
“Maggie, but Marge too. All the women are smarter than the men.”
***
The Simpsons, of course, is not pitched to the nonagenarian. Indeed, some have written about the way it skirts the line on ageism, especially its portrayal of Grandpa Simpson as entirely useless as he awaits death. But perhaps that’s just a feature of the way the show delights in taking the mickey out of men. Mom seems to have turned a blind-eye to its age-related ribbing just as she does to some of the cultural references - they being pitched squarely to the GenX watcher. She does, however, appreciate its social commentary. How lucky for her too - she’s got decades of episodes to catch up on. I’m tempted to go on a binge for it myself, just to prepare for our phone chats.
I need to be clear about Mom - her views are not given to sudden u-turns. I recall her change-resistance regarding shortbread cookies. Christmas baking chez Chandler was not extensive but the offerings were strong, delicious ones: Christmas cake, Christmas pudding, and shortbread. The recipes for the first two were likely from the American Women’s Cookbook; the source of the shortbread recipe was the side of the cornstarch box. You see, my mother didn’t have her own kitchen until she married Dad in 1951, two years after she emigrated to Canada from England. Her cooking, therefore was not as stereotypically British as it might have been and her recipes, all sourced here. That side-of-the-box cookie recipe was failsafe and we munched their buttery goodness through every holiday. Then the unexpected - the cornstarch company changed their packaging! Fortunately, Mom was still working her way to the bottom of the old box, not being the kind of woman who would replace something after it had run out. Out came the scissors and tape and voila, the recipe covered up some nutritional information on the new packaging, thus restoring the world order.
I’ve previously shared Mom’s 70 year commitment to perming her hair (click here if you missed it). So yes, this Simpson thing - much, much bigger shift for her than it might have been for most.
It reminds me of a similar switcheroo my father made late in his life. Dad was not someone given to excessive time in front of the TV. His go-to shows included The Darling Buds of May and Heartland, Britain and Canada’s answer, respectively, to the saccharine US family dramas like The Waltons or Party of Five. He could watch them as he mulled over a problem with a stain on a double-bass or whether he was going to be able to get the sound-post set in place in time for a client to test out the latest cello.
Imagine my surprise when in the few years before he died in his late 70s, he became hooked on Canada’s Degrassi, a ground-breaking teen drama set in Toronto. Running from 1979 to 2017, the Degrassi series touched on serious issues of adolescence - teen parenting, drugs, alcohol, abortion, coming out - and included the first use of the word “fuck” on Canadian television. A real departure for Dad. “It’s quite good, isn’t it?” I could hear him say, the accent of his youth and the understatement characteristic of his people both still strong despite nearly 70 years in the country.
This weekend marks my mother’s 96th birthday and - on the same day - the 17th anniversary of my father’s death. I think of them and the ways their characteristics show up in me. I remember that with these shifts in viewing, they’ve shown me that with age comes the confidence to change an opinion and even admit being wrong. Or so I’m learning.
Happy birthday, Mom!
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