In the early Star Trek years (I was a real fan), I would think of the year 2000 and beyond, and think of how old I would be then. I was in my 20s at the time. Looking at least 40 years ahead, I didn’t believe I’d ever get there, or if I did, I’d be decrepit and frail, or, in my dreams, the revered matriarch of a very large extended family who gathered once a year to celebrate my birthday on the farm. (Didn’t happen)
I had a birthday this past week. A milestone of sorts, although as one of my friends pointed out (tongue in cheek, I hope), “All birthdays are milestones these years.” So I’ve spent some time lately considering the ways we count the milestones of growing old. Talking to my friends, it seems everyone uses the same measures, just maybe not in the same order: Creaking joints; bottles of pills; great-grandkids; being called ma’am; friends who go to bed at 9 p.m. instead of bar hopping; how many times in a day you say “When I was a kid…”; not sitting on the floor because you can’t get up. It goes on.
Twenty-five years ago, I didn’t believe I was getting old. Both of my parents were still alive, as was my grandmother. (So much for ME being the matriarch) At 104, she had slowed down a little, but was always glad to see me, and eager to hear about the granddaughters. At that time, the youngest of them were toddlers and the oldest were just tasting adulthood and we also had two greats (also toddlers), making the family six generations. Grandma loved that, as none of her friends had accomplished it. The Greats lived in Texas, so we didn’t see them often, but were able to get them to Idaho one summer to meet her and get a six generation picture she could show her friends. (And maybe gloat a little.) When you have two active older generations as a buffer, you can’t be getting old, great-grandkids or not.
And 25 years ago we still traveled as often and as far as we wanted to. Not giving much thought to crowded airports or bumpy roads or upset schedules and meals here and there. Not sure when that changed, but having to go to Soldotna these days is more of a chore than it’s worth sometimes. And driving to Anchorage and back has become a weeklong marathon.
It was another 10 years or more before I conceded that I may be getting older. The two buffer generations were gone, and my brother was teasing me about being the oldest in the family. The granddaughters were grown up, our getaways were mostly in-state except for the annual Idaho foray and our longtime friends were becoming fewer and fewer. I had a couple of creaking joints and seemed to collect a new pill bottle every time I turned around. I heard “ma’am” more often that my name, and hadn’t been to a bar for several years. Definitely hints that times they were a-changing.
And so this year, I may concede I’m definitely close to being old. We’ve acquired a new great-grandson this year with another on the way soon. That will make seven. Probably won’t get to the sixth generation but I’m glad to leave that honor to my Grandma.
The “real Barbara Walters” and I share the date. That was the first thing #1 Son told us when we met her “Mom, this is Barb. Guess when her birthday is!” We have never celebrated it together. In the early days we were both teachers, in different places, busy with our classrooms and planning the year. During the Bush years, we’d rely on telepathy, hoping the other knew we were thinking of them or we’d get a card in the mail a few days late because of the way the mail was. These days one of us makes a phone call or sends an email. We have never lived in the same community so getting together for cake just doesn’t happen. And we’ve done that for over 40 years, watching each other pass many milestones. She’s got a couple creaking joints, I’ve noticed, but I am way ahead. She has great-grandkids to look forward to and not traveling much. She hasn’t ever called me ‘ma’am’, and I’ve never heard her say, yet, “When I was a kid”
But we know it’s the best day of the year: we’re still able to wish each other Happy Birthday! Who’s counting?
