So I went to the front door at 6 a.m. on Sunday morning, Nov. 13 to pick up the New York Times and what to my wondering eyes should appear but a huge (30 feet by 8 feet) yard sign, trumpeting my 80th birthday and featuring colorful balloons and ribbons and cool greetings like “We love you, Dee!” and “Hooray,” etc.
I immediately (and rightly) suspected my creative stepson Ed Barker, who lives in Belmont, Massachusetts, of cooking up this surprise. He slammed it. (Check out Sign Gypsies of Midcoast Maine if you like the concept).
Anyway, here are some reflections upon turning 80.
First of all, my wife Tina, who turned 80 last January, must now share the spotlight when she proudly announces to strangers that she’s 80 years old and basks in amazed reactions, such as, “That can’t be” or “I don’t believe it.”
I’m happy to remain on this side of the ground, although being diagnosed with Waldenstroms macroglobulinemia (a form of non-Hodgkins lymphoma) created a temporary scare. I’ve successfully undergone eight chemotherapy treatments with four more to go. My oncologist assures me that all signs look good for a full recovery. (Thanks to all who’ve expressed good wishes.)
I’m grateful that I can still pursue such passions as reading and going to the theater and being with good friends.
I’m relieved — as is Tina — that I remember to zip up my fly, well, er, most of the time. (Did I mention maintaining a sense of humor?)
I’m ever more attuned to those moments that give meaning to life, like hearing a child laugh for no apparent reason or spotting a bald eagle high in a tree on a lookout for fish or seeing a young couple nuzzling on a park bench, obvious to the world, or a woman helping her husband go down the aisle to take communion.
Like many seniors, I encounter the same struggles as others do in the November of our years. Spam calls. Achy muscles. Commercials in which you don’t have the foggiest notion what they’re advertising and why. The push to “go online” to find an answer to a question, when you’d rather talk to a real human being — thank you very much.
I’m humbled that young Bowdoin students seem to like being with Tina and me. They tolerate our “When we were your age …” stories and they really like storing their luggage in our garage during the summer or being taken to the Portland airport at ungodly hours. Happily, many of those relationships endure after the students graduate; in fact, I heard from five host students on my birthday. Wowser!
I’m more than ready to pass on the torch to the younger generations. Young people proved during the recent midterms that they possess a better sense of the Constitution and appreciation for the common good than many of their elders.
Speaking of the younger generations, I’m blessed to have nine grandchildren, three boys and six girls. It is exhilarating to see them blossom and grow while taking their next steps.
I recently had lunch with a good friend and Bowdoin classmate who said, ‘I don’t want to be the last man standing.” I disagree. I’ll take as many years as I can, as long as I can engage in meaningful ways with people and look forward to each new day. The odds are promising; I’ve been lucky on the genetic front. My dad, who lived until age 97, was playing in bridge tournaments with much younger partners up until a week before he died. My mother was tutoring a Chinese woman until a week before her death at age 89.
As Tina always says, “It is a privilege to grow old.” I ditto that.
David Treadwell, a Brunswick writer, welcomes commentary and suggestions for future “Just a Little Old” columns. dtreadw575@aol.com.
Comments are not available on this story.
Send questions/comments to the editors.
