It is true.
I found many other things to do today other than quilting, It rather surprised me to do my usual wrap of the day to discover this fact.
SPOILER ALERT: We went to see Mr. Holmes with Ian McKellen. I laughed while listening to the two older women chatting behind me before the movie started. Each took turns bemoaning the young people of the day, having unprotected sex and getting pregnant. They took turns telling their personal favorite saviour story. And when they commented that Ian is British, I had all I could do to keep from turning around to tell them he lives in San Francisco and is gay. It rarely surprises me how people of their faith can rattle on.
And the movie, while it was slow, made me not want to see this version where he has lost everyone who ever meant anything to him as well as his mental facilities. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock, who is bright beyond even the Sun should never have been reduced to dementia.
And set in the background for his retirement home are, of course, the White Cliffs of Dover, right off the post card I just got from Great Britain. He looked old. This Sherlock, this McKellen, and sounded so much like Gandolf in Lord of the Rings whenever he turned his back. He wrote his notes to self on his shirt cuffs.
And before the movie ended, I was crying. I want to watch the old Hollywood and new Hollywood movies, where Sherlock Holmes is a smart ass, rude, young, and solves cases because he thinks better than anyone on the planet. I don't want to know that he outlived Watson and Mycroft.
I don't want to see him fall out of bed and get hurt hitting the floor only inches from the mattress. Mother falls out of bed. She cannot remember people or what happened a few hours ago, or if she ate. Not Sherlock Holmes. Not even Ian McKellen. They are out of Hollywood where every story is make believe. Not real stuff. Not aging. Not dementia. Not being the last to go.