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Ralph
Latham
A
Personal Journal Reflecting On Aging
June 13 | June 14
June
13: Comparing Notes
Like so many wives and husbands who have been apart
for a full workday or a few days when one has to travel while
the other stays home, my wife and I had some fairly extensive
comparing of notes to do when she got back from Minneapolis
this afternoon.
After welcome-home greetings and hugs and kisses, followed
by my voluntary unloading of her travel gear from the car,
she asked first about my homefront activities, the mail, my
state of mind, etc., etc. Since my activities and state of
mind were just about what they normally are (except for some
extra bike riding to get to meetings and appointments), the
report was fairly short and quite routine.
She had more to tell me, though, about her trip. She got to
witness, on closed circuit TV, her sister's eye surgery. She
found it fascinating. And she did a lot of supporting visiting
to help her sister get through it all. Then, there was the
little adventure of getting a little bit confused about finding
the needed locations. It seems the "exit" from 494
we'd identified as the right one wasn't actually an exit at
all. So, the next available exit was the only logical choice.
But that led her right into a highway construction zone and
a poorly marked detour.
She found our friends Pete and Carol anyway, thanks to a helpful
young man at a handy restaurant. The brief visit to our friends
before connecting with her sister was a little bonus she gave
herself, and a little restaurant advice as well.
And there was a fierce thunderstorm Monday evening after she'd
settled in at the hotel with her sister and niece. A lightning
strike took out a transformer a short distance outside their
window, leaving them and the entire hotel in the dark for
a few minutes.
She gave me a lot of detail about all those events and conversations,
and wants to take me to the restaurant Pete and Carol introduced
her to. I'm game!
It's great to have her back home again. I was pleased to let
her know that during her absence I took good care of the flowers
we'd put out in pots on the deck last week. I was even more
pleased by her approval.
Isn't it amazing? We're approaching our 48th wedding anniversary
later this year, and I'm still pleased by her approval of
my simple little accomplishments. That's some part of a pretty
good working definition of a happy and successful marriage,
I think.
June
14: This Process Called Aging
I awoke this morning and did my first lake check of
the day, which consists of looking out each of several windows
on the lake side of the house and enjoying whichever face
the Big Lake has chosen to wear.
I was startled this morning to see that an aspen, about 30
feet tall I suppose, had snapped off 10 or 12 feet from the
ground. Weather had been rainy, but not noisily stormy, and
all the rest of the trees, both live ones and dead ones, were
standing staunchly.
After breakfast and blood-pressure and vitamin pills, I climbed
into grubbies and work boots and went out to observe the suddenly
altered scene. A single glance gave me a solid clue. A dark
punky-looking patch showed clearly in the broken tree trunk.
I picked up a handy cobblestone and tapped the tree near its
base. That produced a sickly, hollow, rotten sound, and I
had my explanation of why the tree broke.
It was like some sad, unfortunate people who look OK on the
surface, but are somehow diseased, afflicted, or just plain
rotten or empty deep inside.
But it was damp and a bit steamy out there in the brush beside
the fallen tree, so I didn't stand around philosophizing even
long enough to let the mosquitoes settle in on my skin. I
went to the garage and got out my wheelbarrow, my pruners,
and assorted bow saws, then went to work clipping away the
brushy top of the downed tree. Leafy scraps went into the
deep brush, pieces of small branches (cut to approximately
stove-length size) went onto a woodpile. Satisfied for the
moment with my work, I turned to commune with my constant
friend the lake, and then came into the house to remove damp
boots and soiled chore duds, have a comforting shower and
my second large mug of good French Roast coffee.
I've been wanting to say some things about this process called
aging, and the sudden death of what I'd thought was a normal
healthy tree prompts me to go ahead on this theme.
We chose the right place, we're convinced, to live through
and enjoy our retirement. One of the many reasons is that
we have many opportunities to associate with people of all
ages. I'm active in groups that include other lively geezers
and cronies in my own chronology category. And those same
organizations contain several vigorous thirty-somethingers,
some quadragenarians, and folks in their fifties.
I revel in the range and diversity of ages. I don't think
I'd be happy in one of those "retirement communities"
hobnobbing with nobody but other oldsters—anymore than
I'd be happy living in a community of nothing but adolescents
(which could drive an elderly man bonkers quicker than that
Aspen tree snapped and fell).
I think about my age some—at least, I'm aware of its
steady advancement. But I don't dwell on getting old or being
old or losing my youth and vitality. One of my friends, a
77-year-old retired physician, says, "Oh, I know I'm
vulnerable and slowing down, but I refuse to think like an
old man."
It may be that I'm now enjoying the after-effects of my chosen
career in teaching. Teaching is challenging and exhausting
and important work, but it's also invigorating to be in the
company of younger people on a daily basis, and I think it
keeps many a teacher feeling young well into middle age and
beyond.
For a few years back in the 1980s I had the pleasure of teaching
a course called "Encounters In Humanities." Now
my encounters with humanity parallel my encounters with the
Big Lake, some trees, many many rocks, and occasional loons,
eagles, wolves, beavers, foxes, and rarely, even a moose.
Oh, and I almost forgot the hummingbirds.
Journal
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