Mama Cat has moved on. It's been weeks and weeks since we've seen her or her kittens and the squirrels now feast on the catfood we set out. It's a classic reminder to me that life goes on.
I'm preoccupied with age lately as my birthday is so near. I recently spent an afternoon at a collective birthday party for a graduating class of 1955 - everyone in the room was 70 or more - and they were a lively, happy, and enthusiastic crowd. They hugged and cried, made the rounds of all the tables, catching up and passing on news of children and grandchildren, exchanging gossip and stories of old times, remembering high school and what it had meant to them. They were generous with praise of each other, genuinely concerned about each other's losses and hard times, joyful to be alive and singing the old high school song. When the names of classmates who were not there was read, there was a respectful silence, a moment of remembrance and sweet sadness.
They ate, some with teeth, some without, and drank modestly, some popping down medication in between water and iced tea. There were canes and oxygen containers and a wheelchair or two but mostly there were smiles and a huge amount of laughter. This was a class who had grown up together, dated, partied, kept in touch and remained friends. They had been there for each other in 1955 and they still were. There were 1500 in my graduating class of 1968. Close friendships were rare, most of us didn't even know everyone in the class and I've long since lost touch with the reunion committee. I have no curiosity about what's happened to who and no desire to go back. I'm not bitter about high school, just disinterested. It was a highly non-memorable time. In a small town, it's very different and I was glad to be a part of the celebration.
I'm preoccupied with age lately as my birthday is so near. I recently spent an afternoon at a collective birthday party for a graduating class of 1955 - everyone in the room was 70 or more - and they were a lively, happy, and enthusiastic crowd. They hugged and cried, made the rounds of all the tables, catching up and passing on news of children and grandchildren, exchanging gossip and stories of old times, remembering high school and what it had meant to them. They were generous with praise of each other, genuinely concerned about each other's losses and hard times, joyful to be alive and singing the old high school song. When the names of classmates who were not there was read, there was a respectful silence, a moment of remembrance and sweet sadness.
They ate, some with teeth, some without, and drank modestly, some popping down medication in between water and iced tea. There were canes and oxygen containers and a wheelchair or two but mostly there were smiles and a huge amount of laughter. This was a class who had grown up together, dated, partied, kept in touch and remained friends. They had been there for each other in 1955 and they still were. There were 1500 in my graduating class of 1968. Close friendships were rare, most of us didn't even know everyone in the class and I've long since lost touch with the reunion committee. I have no curiosity about what's happened to who and no desire to go back. I'm not bitter about high school, just disinterested. It was a highly non-memorable time. In a small town, it's very different and I was glad to be a part of the celebration.
Apart from it's inevitability, the other side of aging is doing it with grace and gratitude. There is a great deal of both in the Class of '55.
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