How Terribly Strange...?

The "round toes" of my "high shoes"

Old friends... sat on their park bench like bookends

A newspaper blown through the grass... falls on the round toes... of the high shoes

Of the old friends....

Can you imagine us years from today? Sharing a park bench quietly....

How terribly strange to be seventy....

(from "Old Friends," by Paul Simon)

Paul Simon was twenty-six years old when his song, “Old Friends,” was released on the Bookends album. I was fourteen. I played that vinyl record (a gift from my junior high boyfriend, Doug Olson) over and over and over that year and the next. To Simon, at age twenty-six, the thought of being seventy years old must have been unfathomable, as it was for me. Paul Simon is eighty-three now… and still doing music.

I am seventy. And I have to say, it has not been “terribly strange” at all. In fact, being seventy has been a lot like being sixty-nine or sixty-eight. Am I a bit more wrinkly? Well, sure. Does it bother me? Not a wit. Like the Velveteen Rabbit, I hope that with each passing year, I am becoming more “real” (although, just to be culturally current, I would use the term “authentic”).

At fourteen, though, I could not envision myself at fifty, much less seventy. By the time my grandmother was in her fifties, although she still had her sense of humor and an appreciation for the absurdity of life, she was diabetic, wore dentures, and had trouble getting around. I was already clinically depressed at fourteen, and I could not imagine finding joy in a life such as hers. “No,” I thought. “Just no.”

At fourteen, my vision of what my future would hold was darker than I can describe with words… and I do know some words.

Turns out, in my fifties, I wasn’t like my grandmother at all (though I loved her dearly). At fifty-two, I moved to a cabin in the wilderness where in winter I regularly shoveled my truck out of several feet of snow in order to get to work, hiked almost daily, stacked cords of firewood, and befriended young bears, raccoons, and the little fox that wanted the other half of my burrito.

At seventy, I still have my own teeth, in case you’re wondering. And I’m still hiking, though not daily, just once or twice a week, as I no longer live in the mountains. I’m walking three miles a day, though, and managing to climb over downed trees or up over boulders when I do hike. And, like Paul Simon, I'm still playing my guitar and singing. Who knew seventy would be this much fun?

Honestly, I’m feeling pretty blessed after seventy turns around the sun.

That includes experiencing the miracles of Nature through 280 seasons.

And let's see, at an average of two cups a day, that’s approximately 38,690 cups of black tea I've enjoyed (given I began drinking the stuff at age eighteen). Ahhhhh… that morning comfort!

I’ve been owned by eleven cats (13 if you count childhood family cats).

Nineteen dogs have blessed my various homes. (Some were short timers, like my beloved June. All were adored.)

I’ve rescued and held a hummingbird twice.

I’ve rescued and held (with leather gloves) a baby opossum, returning it to its anxious mama.

I’ve felt the muzzle of a yearling bear as it snuffled my bare hand.

I’ve written and published eight books, and I’ve seen my byline in numerous national periodicals, including a published poem or two.

I literally laughed and sang my way through a career teaching teenagers what to love and what not to love about literature, as they taught me what music I should listen to and how to stay socially current.

I’ve lived to see all four of my children fledge, struggle, find their wings, and fly to responsible adulthood. (My biggest blessing to date.)

I’ve lived to see five of my six grandchildren do the same. (Jordan is still a teen.)

I’ve lived to hold two magnificent great-grandchildren in my arms.

So, I’m just saying, seventy does not seem strange at all. Seventy feels warm and comfortable, like flannel sheets in winter and a cup of hot chocolate with Irish cream and a good book.

Despite the current political climate (don’t get me started), seventy feels hopeful. Yes, it’s awful right now, but the young people coming up are brighter and cooler than ever, and as much as some might try to hide diversity from them, it’s right there in their social media feed, so yeah, they will be the champions of inclusion. Trust me. Just wait.

July 1 begins my birthday month. I’ll be seventy-one next week. Here’s my prediction, based on waking up above ground with open eyes and an open heart for the past 25,909 days: Seventy-one will feel a lot like seventy. Only just a bit more wrinkly.

A Gift by Special Delivery

 

We live in a magical time of consumerism, don’t we? I mean, make a wish—“I’d really like a pair of flannel pajama pants with dogs on them”—and here’s a pair for you in The Big Shopping Warehouse of Rocketman Jeff.

Can you imagine this for someone in the late 1800’s? “Oh no! The paddle on your butter churn broke! It’s gonna take Grandpa a day or so in the barn to make one. Oh, wait—we can order a new paddle. Better yet, let me just order you some Kerrygold butter from Whole Foods. Yeah, the milk comes straight from Irish cows so you know it’s good….”

Ah, it’s lovely, isn’t it? And weirdly, part of the charm is getting that brown box at the door—especially when we didn’t order anything. I love opening my front door to find something a friend or family member has sent. “Hey, kids!” (Of course I mean Maya, Maudie, and Jenny.) “Look what someone sent us! Let’s see what it is!”

Exactly one year ago this month, I received an unexpected gift. But it didn’t come in a brown box, and it wasn’t left on my front door. It definitely came from a friend, though, and it was left in my back yard, more specifically, in the planter. You can see a photo of it here; Nature gifted me with that young cottonwood tree you see at the top of this post.

Quite a beauty, isn’t she? Of course, she didn’t start out that way. She started out like this:

Can you believe it? A tiny seed like that! There are cottonwoods that grow in the nearby ravine (aka “Coyote Gulch”), and they slough off their seeds in the spring breezes like Californians shed sweaters. The air is filled with these floating puffs of seed pods, reminiscent of the Who Horton heard.

One of those puffs blew into my yard, and one single seed—somehow—took root. Sometime in September, when I was weeding that section of the planter, I discovered a tiny baby tree. My first thought was, “Oh, honey, you can’t grow up here. There won’t be enough water, and your roots will eventually wreak havoc on the block wall.” That’s me. Always leading with the pragmatic aspect of my being.

My next response was this: Thank you, Nature, for gifting me with this tree, a place for the little finches to rest in the heat of the day and perhaps even nest one day when the branches are tall enough and strong enough (instead of inside my aluminum patio cover). Thank you for offering a place for Jenny and Maudie to find shade where there was none before. They love to lie up there in the tall grass, but by summer it has dried to a crisp brown in the heat. In seasons ahead, they will have shade. And so will I, on that side of the house.

I know, I know, you don’t have to tell me; cottonwoods spring up quickly and fall down easily and break branches in strong winds and ask me if I care. I don’t. I wanted to worry about all those things, but you know what? I already have so many things to worry about—the health of my aging cat, the health of my aging friends, hell, the health of my beloved country—this one tree can do what it’s going to do. Nature offered it. Nature must care for it. I’ll just stand back and enjoy the benefits.

And maybe, from time to time, I’ll climb up there and give that tree a hug. Because that’s just who I am. Thanks, Nature. I love you!