I
am getting better, happier, and nicer as I grow older.
So
I would be terrific in a couple hundred years. —novelist Maeve Binchy
I’ve been
searching for a way to say this for a long time, and here Binchy does it so
gracefully in so few words. Perfect!
A friend and I
talked about similar feelings over dinner last night—miso soup and salad for
her, and a too-spicy beef bowl with broccoli and carrots for me. We touched on
the reactions of a mutual friend to a difficult situation and shook our heads
and tsk-tsked as only old ladies can do. “It reminds me of high school drama,”
I said, “but who knows? Forty years ago, I might have done the same thing.” She
agreed she might have too.
Then the subject
of friendship came up, along with my oft-quoted favorite line from Ann Lamott
about people who drop out of your life—their part in your story is over. We
carried it a little farther and jointly reached the conclusion that it was time
to re-examine the nature of those friendships now gone. Often, they aren’t the
friendships we’d choose today.
Finally, she said,
“I like my friends today better.” I agree, except that I’ve been so fortunate
in a few friends who have held tight over long years. It’s dangerous territory
to name them because I’ll inevitably hurt some feelings. But I am still close to
Barbara, who I got to know at church when we were both in elementary school. We
went to high school and college together and are still a part of each other’s
lives—and if I’ve gotten better and nicer, so has she, because we agree on
everything from families to cooking to faith. There’s Martha and Dick in Omaha—I’ve
known them since before I married, over fifty years ago. Once we hadn’t seen
each other for years and took a trip together to Santa Fe. I worried that it wouldn’t
be the same, but it was. And ever is. And Carole, whose visit to me a couple of
weeks ago was like speech after long silence. She is not, as I told her, a good
communicator, but we too picked right up where we left off. The ties that bound
us when she lived in Fort Worth are still there.
Yes, I make
different choices in friendship today, and I am fortunate with the friends I
have around me, several dating back at least forty years and others fairly new
in my life.
Maybe age is on my
mind. My brother had a birthday yesterday. My age is no secret, so it suffices to
say he is older by a few years. We’re both older than either of us thought we’d
ever be, and I think we’re both a bit in awe of that fact. What happened to the
high school kid who tried to teach me to dance (and yelled to our mother, “She stepped
on my feet!”) or the one who would take on any bully who bothered me. He was my
Bubby, my hero, my protector. These days we talk on the phone, maybe once a
week, but rarely see each other. Still we are bound by caring and family ties
and memories. Today we talked about all the cousins who have passed on. Except
for one girl in Florida—the granddaughter of a cousin, to whom he talks
occasionally—we are the last of what was once a large extended family.
But we are
building our own families—he has six grandchildren, and I have seven, and
praise be! They are all in Texas (except for one in college). It’s like
watching history cycle around you, a nice feeling that things are and will be
carried on. I like it that my niece is so pleased to have a set of Grandmother’s
china and that my nephew treasures Mom’s marble-top dressing table. He’s busy
restoring the finish.
One of the stereotypes
of literature is the crabby old person, and we all know they exist in real
life. We’ve probably known too many. Not
everyone gets happier and wiser, but I think those that turn unhappily inward
with age just don’t have a lifetime of happy memories behind them. Pray for
them. And happy birthday, John.
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