The inevitability of birthdays

 

Birthday happy hour at the cottage
left to right, me, Pru, Victor, and Jordan
Photo by Mary Dulle
I thought I was off-camera, hence no big smile.

You know that old quip about growing older being better than the alternative? That’s kind of how I feel tonight. Friends and family seem determined to mark that I am about to begin yet another journey around the sun, and I am having a long, drawn-out birthday. A pre-celebration weekend at the lake was followed by a neighbors’ happy hour tonight where I was feted (love that word!) with a bountiful charcuterie, plenty of wine, crème brulee, and lots of good discussion. “The girls” as we call them turned our regular happy hour into a truly festive occasion—and Pru’s husband, Victor, joined us so we weren’t all gossipy girls.

This happy hour has a history. Several years ago—I’d say six, seven or eight—Mary Dulle and I used to go on Tuesday night to join several neighbors at the Old Neighborhood Grill. Mary’s husband played—and still does—tennis on Tuesdays. When Jacob was quite young, he joined us, and I have funny stories from those times: like the time I asked if he wanted fries with his grilled cheese and he said yes. But later when I asked if he was going to eat them, he said, “No, they’re bad for you.” Pause. “May I have a cupcake?” He was quite the hit of the table.

There was a regular group—the Alan Barrs, the Paul Harrals, Lyn Willis, and sometimes others drifted by. Of course, at the Grill, you always saw other neighbors you knew, and I was pleased that Tuesday was always meatloaf night. The staff knew and welcomed us, and we all visited. One big neighborhood family.

Somehow it fell apart—I’m not sure of the chronology. With severe hip pain, pre-surgery, it was increasingly difficult for me to get out; Peter sold the Grill; Jacob grew up. Mary and I fell into the habit of having happy hour at my cottage, either inside or, depending on the weather, on the patio. Two or three years ago (who keeps track of these things?), Prudence and her family moved down the block from Mary. There was some unpleasant controversy over a fence, zoning regulations, and flaring tempers. I reached out to Prudence to squelch the unpleasantness and welcome her and her family—four children—to the neighborhood. She came to happy hour one night, and boom! She was a regular. And Jordan began to join us.

Now we are a close-knit group, sharing joys, successes, worries, and more. During pandemic, the others shopped for each other—whoever found Lysol shared it with the group. We celebrate birthdays and other special occasions, but most Tuesday nights we just gather for an hour of talk about whatever. I like it best when we can sit on the patio, and truth be told, it’s cool enough these days, but some of the others are more sensitive—or attractive—to mosquitoes than I am. So tonight, we were indoors.

I am blessed and grateful to have these women as friends who care enough to celebrate with me.

And a good day in other ways: Jacob played in a high school golf tournament today and scored a 77. Pretty darn good for a fifteen-year-old, if you ask me who knows nothing about golf. But even he, who is reluctant to ever say he had a good day on the course, acknowledged it was pretty good and looked pleased when we congratulated him.

And I worked hard this morning and early afternoon, getting my neighborhood newsletter almost done—now waiting on articles and reports from others—and got my Lone Star Literary Life column for August drafted. A lot of detail, intensified by several people who called with last-minute changes or corrections to their contributions. Answering emails kept me busy much of the day. Tomorrow will be a catch-up day as I finish details on the newsletter and edit the column. Plus a bit of cooking.

Life is good, and I am grateful to be growing yet another year older, because, yes, it is much better than the alternative. For the record, the birthday is Thursday, and I will be 83. I am so comforted by Wally Funk who rode Jeff Bezos’ rocket into space today—she’s 82. Of course, she had a lifelong ambition to travel to space, something that is the farthest thing from my mind. Different strokes for different folks.

When Time Flies

My family, almost ten years ago

Babies and young adults

Things have changed

Facebooks “Memories” showed me a picture of five-year-old Jacob. Even in a baseball uniform, there was still a bit of baby about him. Today he’s ten, and the man he will be is showing. How did that happen?

My children are all in their forties, easing into middle age, and one is crowding fifty. Yesterday, you understand, they were carefree teenagers, and the day before that, youngsters noisily playing outside. Today they’re responsible citizens with good careers and families, raising their children much in the same mode as their childhood.

And the grandchildren? They’re still babies, except that one of those babies is going off to college in the fall and the youngest will be nine in a couple of weeks. The cuddly baby days are gone, and much as I love today’s grands, I miss those earlier days.

My brother is eighty-five, and I am edging up on eighty, the little old lady in a walker. Not at all how I picture myself even today. They say each of us has an age which is perpetually where we are mentally and emotionally. Mine is mid-thirties, with young children, even toddlers—the happiest days of my life except maybe for now. Once I told my youngest son I didn’t feel any different than the coeds on the TCU campus. It sent him into wild hysterics, and he immediately quoted me to his siblings.

Some days and weeks, when work is hard, seem to go so slowly they’ll never end. I’m a clock watcher, and of a morning I’ll look at the clock and think, “Only ten. Two hours until lunch. Why is time crawling?” And yet as we all know, time doesn’t crawl—it flies. To quote Andrew Marvell, “But at my back I always hear/Times winged chariot hurrying near.”

Marvell’s poetry also emphasized the philosophy of carpe diem. I’m taking that as my mantra—“Seize the day!” Too much of my life has been wished away, watching the clock, anticipating the next big event. I’m trying these days to savor each moment…and appreciate each stage in the life of loved ones, to soak in their love and return it fully.

This morning I had another lesson walking with a cane. Very deliberately, I slowed down my usual fast pace. Guess what? I did much better, and I wasn’t nearly as afraid. For the first time I could see that I can conquer this too. Believe it or not, it’s all related to carpe diem.

And a p.s. to Amy Russell: thanks for the lecture. It made a difference. If you think I can do it, so do I.