aging | Thinking About It

“Banzai!”

“The days of our years are threescore years and ten.” Psalm 90:10

I think if my father had not become so obsessed with the Biblical threescore and ten that today’s birthday, my own seventieth, would have passed as not much more than another day. Oh, there would have been some fuss, simply because the passing decades always engender a bit of that. As we age, we tend to laugh a bit at those turning thirty and thinking themselves old, but there eventually comes a time when we can no longer deny the passing years. That said, I have to admit that I don’t really feel seventy today. In my mind I’m—oh, I don’t know forty or so—but I have but to vocalize that thought to have my body shout “In your dreams, pal!” Sixty was nothing, but I have now begun accumulating the aches and pains of the aged. Nothing major: just sore knees and a loss of flexibility. Beyond those very minor issues, I have been blessed with extraordinarily good health, which surely accounts for my looking so much younger than my age. I have never been hospitalized, never had a major ailment of any kind, which means, too, that I have not had to endure the debilitating pain that is the lot of so many. There are people who cannot move without screaming in pain, and that sort of thing will definitely create a few wrinkles in one’s face.

In thinking about this blog, I briefly considered sharing lessons gleaned over the years, but W. Somerset Maugham did that so much better with his “The Summing Up,” published when he turned sixty-five, that it would be an embarrassment to add anything of my own in that regard. I do think I’m a bit wiser than I was fifty years ago, but that’s so common an occurrence that it really merits little in the way of observation. For all my reticence on the subject, though, I don’t mind saying that I feel very blessed to have seen things that have now passed away.

I grew up in Helena, Montana, and because that city is so far off the beaten track, we still got radio comedies and dramas in the early 1950s. I can remember lying on the floor in front of the Philco in the second or third grade listening to “Sky King” and “Fibber McGee and Molly.” We got our first TV when I was eight years old, which means that my younger sisters (nine and eleven years younger) never knew a world without television. I did. And it was in Helena where the local radio station demonstrated stereophonic sound for the first time in our lives. We were instructed to set up two radios at opposite ends of the living room. When they finally played the sound of a freight train that seemed for all the world to actually be going through our living room, the Old Man was literally jumping up and down with excitement. “Can you hear it, kids, can you hear it!”

In September, 2007, AT&T announced that their Time-of-Day information service would be discontinued, an item I found particularly intriguing because I can remember how fascinated we all were when it started in Helena back in the 1950s. For a while we kids dialed the number with some frequency, still not yet able to get our arms around such a concept. AUTOMATED Time-of-Day on the telephone! What would they think of next? Well, as it turns out, we now have three computers, two cell phones, and a TV cable box that have filled that role quite nicely, to such an extent, really, that when AT&T pulled the plug on the Time-of-Day service, it no longer even mattered.

The Berlin Wall fell in 1989, but I saw it in person as a young soldier stationed in Berlin in 1965 and 1966. At that time the Soviet Union was such a behemoth that no one could foresee an end to it, yet alone its total collapse.

I remember the Soviet Union launching Sputnik I in 1957 and the rush for the USA to catch up, a race so intense in the beginning that they had a tendency to go off half-cocked, causing a number of rather spectacular missile failures in the early years. As a high school freshman I was part of a group that was putting together tiny missiles, none of which, if memory serves, did much more than fizzle almost immediately after launch.

The one thing I’ve seen that most resonates with me on this seventieth birthday is my parents’ example. I started this by saying the Old Man was obsessed with it, and he really was. It was thirty-four years ago (when I was just thirty-six!), and he kept remarking on how difficult he found it to be attaining the Biblical threescore and ten. I gave him the Banzai Tree that tops this blog along with a card that explained it. A bonsai plant, I told him, surely required more attention than he would be willing to give it in his “declining years,” but this creation of jade, copper wire, and petrified wood was a Banzai Tree from the Japanese for “live for ten thousand years.” When he finally passed to glory some eight years later, I inherited it, and it’s been in our home ever since. It feels more than passing strange to have finally attained the age that made this gift appropriate for the one we always called the Old Man.

But beyond his difficulty with the number seventy was Dad’s reaction to it. He enjoyed excellent health, but upon turning seventy he started to shuffle and did so until he died at age seventy-eight. My mother was twelve years younger than he and died just a week short of twelve years later (both of them in late December), also at age seventy-eight. She said at the onset that she was NOT going to be an old woman, and she never was. She was wise enough not to dress like a twenty-something, but she never looked frumpy, never wore house dresses, and never once shuffled.

At the moment I am still much too busy with my many woodworking projects to start shuffling, but even when that work is finished, and I can spend more time in the study with a stack of books, I will still not shuffle. Age really is just a number, not a physical condition.

Finally, saving the best for last, I am still having entirely too much fun with my wife of thirty-eight years to ever feel old. We’ve often said that we’re childless because we felt that as parents, there should be at least one adult in the house, and neither one of us wanted the job! All these years later we still cut up with each other, still tease each other mercilessly, still laugh about something every day, usually a LOT of somethings!

I met Christine where we worked, the Long Beach Press-Telegram, and I knew her some two years before we ever got together. At Christmas, 1975, when we were still just friends, I gave her a little book of poems by James Kavanaugh, not knowing that the following year and every year thereafter it would be on the nightstand on my side of our bed. The last stanza of the first poem sums things up quite nicely:

“There are men too gentle to live among wolves

Who toss them like a lost and wounded dove.

Such gentle men are lonely in a merchant’s world,

Unless they have a gentle one to love.”

I did find that gentle one to love, and that, more than anything else, has made “the Biblical threescore and ten” just another birthday. Or as Maya Angelou famously put it, “wouldn’t take nothing for my journey now.”

Joseph

Soggy, Soggy Night 1

“Soggy, Soggy Night”

Soggy, Soggy Night 2 Last Saturday we had one of the damnedest evenings I believe we’ve ever had, but for all the emotions of the evening, it had a most innocuous beginning. That afternoon I had brought home a newly repaired CD player, and we wanted to put it through its paces, to see if the repairs were worth the expense.

I’ve written quite a bit about my ongoing love affair with Christine. I sometimes talk about how we came together in that first, long-ago date in April of 1976 and the whirlwind courtship that followed, if that’s the term for such a thing. Really, to me, a courtship is when the male pursues the female, and I’m not at all sure that truly describes what happened that summer, which is not to say that I was not madly in love with her. But for me then—and even now—what I wanted was a mutual, freely-arrived-at decision, which completely let out any thought of my sweet-talking her into it. We did talk love sometimes and certainly… aw, you know! But for me it was just a patient waiting. I made my decision that first night; I was simply waiting for her to catch up to me.

Elsewhere, I have talked about that first evening, and I won’t repeat it here except to say she invited me to her place for a birthday dinner. The moment I walked into her apartment on April 3, 1976, it was as if someone had flipped on a light. Thirty-seven years later it still blazes. But here’s the sad thing about life. Life. It gets in the way because there’s a living to be made and all the things that go into that living. Job interviews, job demands, job emergencies, job, job, job. It never stops, and it permeates every facet of one’s life at times. Even so, whenever we can, to the extent that we can, we block out a bit of time for ourselves. But, man, it wasn’t like that at all during that summer

Consult any reference book and you’ll be told that the Summer of Love was in 1967. Personally, I have long felt that they’ve mistakenly transposed the last two digits. The Summer of Love was 1976.

But to bring this back to where I started, Saturday I came home with a newly repaired CD player while she was running some other errands. We’d both been out of town all last week, so there was much to be done. That night I wanted to show off how good it sounded, which, believe it or not, was better than it did when we purchased it. I honestly don’t remember it ever sounding that good, although the CD I decided to audition for her may have had something to do with that. It was a compilation of Neil Diamond songs from 1968 to 1972, a great many of which we listened to during the Summer of Love. At that time it was vinyl records and wine and candles and each other, only each other, eternally each other. Decades later we got the CD in question, but we haven’t listened to it for years, and when we got to the opening chords of “Glory Road,” my eyes filled with tears. I felt like someone had just waved a magic wand, and I was again in her tiny little one-bedroom apartment where we spent so many deliriously happy hours that enchanted summer. .

Soggy, Soggy Night 3

Then she heard “I Am, I Said,” which is my brother’s favorite Diamond song, and that, in turn reminded her of what he’d done for us on his east coast radio show about a year-and-a-half ago. His show features biographies on various rock and roll artists. I asked if he’d do us the favor of making a mention when he did the Neil Diamond Show. I didn’t tell Christine what I’d done, and I had no idea myself what Mike would say or do. Thanks to the Internet we were able to listen to his show live when it aired. Mike does wonderful, in-depth biographies on these people, taking their career in chronological order. This is what he said at the key point:

“The next release off the LP ‘Mood’ was a song that would be claimed by many lovers as their song. It would be the first dance song at many weddings, and so it was for a man who had spent his entire life listening to Bach, Brahms and Mozart. He and the woman of his dreams chose this to be their song. Joe and Christine live in San Diego, California and have been in completely devoted love for over 35 years. This is Neil Diamond and ‘Play Me.’”

She burst into tears when she heard that introduction that night and did so again Saturday night when Mike’s favorite Diamond song took her back to that moment. By the time we got to “Play Me” on our CD we were both sobbing pretty much and teasing each other, trying to make each other laugh so we wouldn’t sop up so many Kleenexes. We kept asking each other, “Why are we crying like this?” But neither of us would say.

Soggy, Soggy Night 5 It’s because life is finite. In the abstract, assuming man is not stupid enough to blow up the planet, it is infinite because one life breeds another, but this solitary life and your solitary life and all those many other solitary lives are finite. All of us know that, and all of us deny it until we’re in the final throes of life. And sometimes even then we will deny the inevitable. But, still, we know. Our lives are finite. One day one of us will end, and when that happens, so ends the relationship. What made us so very sad Saturday night was reflecting on the fact that it has now been over 37 years since that one perfect summer. Both of us continue to be blessed with good health, but for all the blessings we have had in that regard, the clock continues to tick. We have already shared considerably more years together than we have yet to give to each other.

We cried because that CD has so many wonderful memories, but mostly, I think, we cried because it will end one day. The sad, sad thing about loving so intensely for so many years is that you eventually come to the realization that you have already loved more years than you have left to love, that what started out as infinite, an entire lifetime ahead, is now somewhat truncated. And I say that believing—or at least hoping—that we’re still good for another twenty or thirty years but even it if it’s the latter, it will still be less than what we have already enjoyed. So that, as they say, is the bad news.

The good news is that true love is like wine. It really does improve with age. And if we have less to consume now than we did almost four decades ago, it matters only a little because the Golden Years await, when we shall have world enough and time.

Joseph

Tag: aging

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