I celebrated my ninety-fifth birthday at Chautauqua nearly two weeks ago. Jonathan and Marsha Maddy drove up from Franklin to help us celebrate. We had a lovely dinner and a magnificent German chocolate cake. Elizabeth had reminded my friends of the significance of the occasion, and I was inundated with phone calls, emails, text messages, birthday cards, E-cards, and letters. I felt like the Rhinestone Cowboy. One of my favorites was a call from my barber, Ted Evangelista, who reported that he was interested in the mathematical equation necessary to fit ninety-five candles on a circular cake. All told, I must have heard from nearly one hundred persons, each one very much appreciated.
Back home a few days later it was my turn to host Book Club. Sure enough, Norm Cohen showed up with ice cream and another lovely cake, and I was serenaded by a quintet of mature male voices in a harmony that may be unique in musical history. I responded by reading aloud “Happy 95th”, a six-stanza limerick Don Colton composed for my birthday using the six different ways “ough” can be pronounced. Art McAuley asked me what it was like to be ninety-five; I responded that I would reserve that answer for a future column.
My first reaction is a combination of guilt and puzzlement. According to the Federal actuarial tables, when I was born my life expectancy was about sixty-seven years. Conventional wisdom said that my life span should be three score and ten (even then we were optimistic). Current data suggests that about nine percent of the males born in 1931 made it to 2026; how can I be that fortunate? I do know that four of the thirty boys in my high school graduating class (1949) are still alive. Why us? Why not Bob Baldwin, Leonard Styche, and Dick Rothermund, my three best friends? Each of them richly deserved a longer life. And what about a dozen or so of other young men who were my “best friend” at different stages of my life? And my beloved wife? Why have I hung on long after they were gone? To quote the King of Siam, “Is a puzzlement”.
My next, and over-riding, reaction is one of gratitude. When Lou Gehrig was honored shortly before he died, he remarked “I am the luckiest man on earth”. I can relate to that. I have been blessed by being part of two wonderful families. My parents and their extended families and my brother Joe provided an ideal environment for me when I was growing up. And then my wife Nancy and I started our own family, which eventually included three special children and their spouses (spice?) and five beloved grandchildren. I am grateful for the way they have cared for me, especially these last ten years since Nan is gone.
I am grateful for my small circle of friends, neighbors, and acquaintances. I continue to wonder how a world populated by such special people can be so chaotic. Some are folks I see regularly – the Book Club gang, my dwindling Bridgeville High School buddies brunch group, my Dravo friends. I interface with others on a more random basis. The mailing list for this column is an intriguing collection of such people, each special to me. In addition to family and very close friends, it includes numerous people whom I haven’t seen for years. Nothing pleases me more than hearing from such folks when something in one of the columns “rings a bell” with them.
I am grateful for good health and am graciously accepting the limitations that my declining mobility have imposed upon me. Fortunately, my mind is not deteriorating as rapidly as the rest of my body. Two traits that I cherish are my focus on observing simple things closely and my intellectual curiosity about them. Our world is full of seemingly insignificant wonders that most of us are too busy to notice – a hummingbird visiting a honeysuckle blossom; a pile of golden and red maple leaves in the Autumn, a blooming trillium – miracles that deserve our attention.
I am grateful for routine and familiarity; the older I get, the more important they become. The center of my universe is my easy chair in my living room (which I am occupying while I compose this column). Everything within my vision drips with familiarity – the pictures on the walls, the clock on the mantle over the fireplace, the books on the shelves flanking my desk – and enhances a very warm feeling of comfort. Sometimes I am tempted to terminate all my other activities and spend my days here reading and listening to music. Nonetheless I also am grateful for adventures, whether they be simple ones like lunch with my friends or ambitious ones like a week at Chautauqua. I hope they can continue for at least a little bit longer.
The best I can offer as wisdom from a nonagenarian is to consider perspective. One of the Chautauqua speakers reported that “Z Generation” young adults are so pessimistic about the future that they do not plan to have children, convinced that our current world is so bad that it would be a crime to subject future generations to life in it. When my generation was that age, we had personally experienced the Great Depression, World War II, and confrontation with an ideology whose Premier promised to bury us. That certainly did not inspire us to refrain from bringing children into the world. Regardless of how good or bad things appear to be, they do tend to even out.
In summary, I am grateful for living this long, while lamenting the fact that so many special people in my life were not granted that privilege. I am grateful for all the tangible comforts of my existence and for the non-tangible ones provided by my network of friends, especially the readers of this column.