Several months ago, a former student asked me, “So how old are you now, anyway?” Liz had been been a challenge for me when I was her teacher in middle school. When I told her of this milestone birthday, she continued, “So, how does it “feel” to be seventy?”
(I dunno — “like shit,” — “happy to be alive,” — “more opinionated than when I turned 40,” — “about the same as when I turned 69″) — I didn’t have an answer for Liz.
As a student at Carlile, I was invited to several classmates’ birthday parties – the first of which was John Thatcher’s in kindergarten or first grade. Birthdays were never big in our household. In seventh grade we moved to the “new” house on Acero and my birthday was celebrated with a few of classmates. A small black and white photo captured myself with Rusanna, Joann, Kaye Ann, Sandy, Sharron, Susan, and Norma June. I’m happy I have that picture and realize that two of those friends have been gone for quite a while.
Single when I turned forty, my kids “planned” a birthday celebration for me in cahoots with some of my girlfriends. Mother surprised me by coming to Oregon from Pueblo for the event expecting, I guess, a lovely dinner at a nice restaurant. She was quite surprised when she was delivered and dumped at Helevetia Tavern, a popular watering hole in farmland outside of Portland. “I won’t use my camera here,” Mom told everyone loudly, “because I’d be too embarrassed to show my friends in Pueblo where my daughter celebrated her birthday.” But, a friend took a photo that night; I’m glad I have that picture because Mom is seated next to me. She looks “so-so” happy at Helevetia.
My fiftieth was a non-event, probably because it was the first chaotic week of school. Perhaps my memory is already failing me, but I don’t remember my sixtieth being special either.
But, this seventieth birthday has been a burr in my butt since the beginning of the year when my children announced they were going to do something “special” for me — maybe because I’m still alive and/or able to get around. Kind enough to ask for my opinion regarding the celebration activities, (but not necessarily receptive to my suggestions) we agreed upon a dinner at the Cowboy Dinner Tree on Oregon’s high desert (worth a Google), a midnight canoe ride across Elk Lake to view our dark and starry, summer heavens, and finally — a gathering for a family portrait. Of course, the dress code for the pics was dictated, but simple: white shirts and jeans and nice smiles regardless of whether or not all of the siblings and grandkids were getting along that day.
As I viewed the eleven family members about to gather into cars for the photo site, I looked at our three tall, beautiful grandkids, one soon to leave for college. I felt good inside. I then heard one of my daughters say to the other in a nearby room, “Were you able to do something with mom’s hair?”
The photographer gathered us around a rustic bench, and the sting of realizing I was now the matriarch hit me. Not too long ago, my mom sat in the middle where I was placed this night. I’m sure as time passes, the family will be happy to have the portrait.
I did get a special birthday gift. My new puppy, Tucker, awakes and reminds me early each morning that it’s time for our ritualistic walk. I try telling myself the exercise will keep me from aging so quickly. I don’t know who I’m kidding: I’ve already had an implant here, and an replacement there. I’m no stranger at airport security.
Many things I’ve said in my life. Some I’ve been happy I’ve said, and some I haven’t. Funny, however, I never could have pictured myself saying, “I’m seventy.”.
And, I’m lucky.
Laurine Myers Mitchell
September 8, 2011 at 1:20 am |
Happy B’day, dear classmate and “old” friend! Welcome to the 70′s. I had a life threatening scare 3 days after my 70th & I asked God why he would take away my life when I had already made such grandiose plans for the 70th decade it seemed He had promised. After much thought, he put me in touch with a skilled cardiologist who has agreed I’ve got a 19 1/2 year warranty on his work on my arteries. I’m humbled to think I actually am still alive. I rejoice at the promise of continued exploration and fun. I am grief stricken at the thought of so many squandered years. I am embarrassed by my riches. Welcome to our 70th. May we be worthy of this decade!
You have realized you’ve become your mother in many ways. I see my mother many mornings in my mirror. May we rise above the failings they had and may our children rise above our failings.
Here’s a toast to good years yet to come! Salud!!
September 8, 2011 at 9:34 pm |
“How terribly strange to be 70.” That’s a line from the song, Old Friends, written by Paul Simon, recorded by Simon and Garfunkel in 1968.
Strange indeed. 70. Like they say, it beats the alternative. Probably 20% or more of our classmates are in the alternative category. Paul Simon will turn 70 on October 13. When he wrote the song, when he and most of us were 27, did he, like us, ever think that birthday would come?
“The days of wine and roses, laugh and run away, like a child at play…” I loved that Henry Mancini and Johnny Mercer song the first time I heard it, when I was 21. I remember thinking about the lyrics then, and thinking that they were probably right. Those days were not going to last long and I should have as much fun as I could. I’m not sure if I followed through on that. Real life got in the way.
The song, Old Friends, tells about old men sitting on a park bench, “Lost in their overcoats, waiting for the sunset.” I don’t know whether any of us are sitting on a park bench waiting for the sunset. I know some of us have serious medical conditions and are in wheelchairs or home bound, but probably most of us feel pretty vital. Some run, or walk, or ride bicycles, or do much more adventurous things. Quite a lot of golf is played, fishing, some sailing. But many or most of us have been damaged in some way. Knee and hip replacements seem as common as root canals. We’ve had (like Pat and me) cardiac surgery, or we have had (like me) prostate or some other cancer. We have terrible diseases, more common in the “elderly,” and I think we finally have to admit that is what we are. We’re old. 70 is ten years from 80, and 80 is damned old. Hell, our kids are middle-age! So other than the realization that death, the word we shy from, is obviously nearer, what does old mean? It means that the body and mind are breaking down. There will be more problems. We ignore that thought, pretending that things in the future will be pretty much the same way they are now. Nope. Frequently I think about things that I used to do that I no longer can do, or that I know I shouldn’t do. Or am afraid to do. And will never do again.
How terribly strange to be 70.
I still have 16 days of 69
Beautifully written, Laurine. You brought up the subject many of us try to evade. On second thought, maybe that isn’t such a bad idea.
I like your hair.
September 9, 2011 at 1:32 am |
Thanks for your comments on turning 70. I just realized I am in my last week of 69. Seventy always seemed so old, but now it seems like it may be OK. I go to the gym five times a week. I didn’t know I had gotten old until people I didn’t even know would come up to me and say things like, ” That’s pretty good. How old are you anyway?” I used to like gym days at school. Now I can go to the gym as often as I like and have discovered new gems like yoga, spinning, lift classes, pilates, zumba, and a new one, beyond the barre, that combines yoga, pilates, and ballet. I love having this be part of my life.
Three years ago I started taking piano lessons from an old friend who is a very good teacher. Although I had plenty of music in my young life, I always secretly admired those who had focused on piano and were so accomplished by the time they were in junior high… Rosanna Pedas is one I didn’t ever get to know well, but still remember. Now I practice two to three hours a day and am currently working on the original version of Chopin’s Minute Waltz. It is so much fun.
Life is good. Here is a quote from Jenkin Lloyd Jones that I hope you will enjoy.
Life is like an old time rail journey—
delays, side tracks, smoke,
dust, cinders, and jolts,
interpersed only occasionally
by beautiful vistas and
thrilling burst of speed.
The trick is to thank the Lord
for letting you have the ride.
May our ride as 70- year- olds be a great one!
Fran Ammons Peterson
September 9, 2011 at 1:44 pm |
Laurie,
You’ve struck a chord with our classmates, as I hoped you would.
I have a view of 70 now that I hadn’t quite put together until recently seeing the DVD of Roman Holiday with Audrey Hepburn. She was about 24 when the movie came out, and of course I fell in love with her, as Gregory Peck’s character did. Had I met her then, I would have been a helpless 12.
In the movie the Princess and reporter have a wonderful day in Rome together before being forced back into the reality of life. I’d like to have a day in the past when I didn’t need to be my 15 year-old self. I would like to look back now to brief period in my past when I was kind and not focused on myself, but others, including female classmates who were absolutely unknowable then simply because they were girls. (I admit that there’s still something unknowable, but in general I’ve gotten my wish.
The best I can do now is to try to understand why I did the many dumb things I did and try to do better. Life is still fun, without most of the confusion and emotional pain.
Jeff Arnold
September 9, 2011 at 3:45 pm |
It’s fun to read these thoughts on our common condition of turning seventy. Thanks for starting the ball rolling Laurie. I guess I feel like one of the lucky ones at this stage of life. I was born with some neonatal challenges from my Mother’s heavy smoking, had polio at age nine, and then managed to bang myself up considerably in car wrecks, ski accidents, rodeos, and fighting. In my teens I came to think it would be amazing if I reached the age of fifty. But, I earned a black belt in karate at that age. Now, like Fran I relish Pilates and keeping fit in a variety of ways. It is fun to challenge my young grandchildren with some balancing poses while we wait in lines or for the next phase of the day. When she was five Dylan admonished me, “No exercising here. No exercising Grampa,” when she thought it was an inappropriate time and place–probably coached in this by her mother. A little questionnaire sponsored by North West Mutual indicated I03 as my projected life span. I may be in denial of the physical realities of aging, but it feels today like I might live that long with some gusto.
Six years ago I broke my pelvis in three places and severed my femoral artery on a horse. They glued my artery closed and bolted my pelvis together and I was back at work in six weeks. A quick recovery I credit to Pilates. I seem to be wholly healed from that. Although I have some weak points in my spine and shoulders that occasionally nag at me, I am more flexible (physically and mentally), am stronger overall, have better balance, and more stamina than when I was much younger. A young Lakota man volunteered to coach me in rock climbing this summer and I overcame a lifelong fear of heights and went over the edge on the rope with his support and encouragement. It was fun.
I keep an old gelding up in the Black Hills fifteen miles from Rapid City to ride a few times each month and for the grand children to enjoy. My son thinks we should join in developing a horse facility and I could train and board horses and give lessons. In the eighteen years he spent under my roof I was lucky enough to have forty acres and a couple of mares that provided plenty of colts to train, play with, and sell to the area ranchers. Now, I am not sure I want all the ancillary work that goes with having a facility and more responsibilities. But, it’s nice he has good memories of my horsing around and wants to help me get back at it. In thinking through his interest in my horse life I realized he has more experience with horses and large numbers of horses than I ever did–something I was surprised to realize. Fresh out of high school he worked on a large ranch in the Sand Hills of Nebraska where he rode with a crew everyday working cattle, and later he was a wrangler for more than twenty horses in Estes Park and then for a hunting lodge in the Big Horns out of Sheridan. But, he relishes life in bigger cities and has foresworn the country bumpkin life for now. I guess he wants to live the horse life vicariously through me–an interesting switch of roles. Meanwhile, instead of horse training I supplement my social security by teaching an occasional graduate class for Oglala Lakota College.
Reading this over, I sound like I have it all together like Fran but I don’t. My guitar sits over there un-played along with several books and CD’s on how to play in five easy lessons. I want to ride my bike a hundred miles down the Michelson Trail but have only made it for thirty five for another summer. My retirement fund was not built with the idea of me living another thirty three years even if my optimistic appraisal of my body and mind hold true. Whether it’s one more year or thirty three it has been a wonderful ride and I feel very lucky to have been on board.