How Terribly Strange...?

The "round toes" of my "high shoes"
Old friends... sat on their park bench like bookendsA newspaper blown through the grass... falls on the round toes... of the high shoesOf 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 Simonwas twenty-six years old when his song, “Old Friends,” was released on theBookends album. I was fourteen. I played that vinyl record (a gift from myjunior high boyfriend, Doug Olson) over and over and over that year and thenext. To Simon, at age twenty-six, the thought of being seventy years old musthave been unfathomable, as it was for me. Paul Simon is eighty-three now… andstill doing music.

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

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

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

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

At seventy, Istill have my own teeth, in case you’re wondering. And I’m still hiking, thoughnot daily, as I no longer live in the mountains. I’m walking three miles a day,though. Climbing over downed trees or up onto boulders when I hike. And, likePaul Simon, still playing my guitar and singing. Who knew seventy would be thismuch fun?

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

That includesexperiencing the miracles of Nature through 280 seasons.

At two a day,that’s approximately 38,690 cups of black tea (given I began drinking the stuffat age eighteen). Ahhhhh….

I’ve hadeleven cats (13 if you count childhood family cats).

Nineteendogs. (Some were short timers, like my beloved June. All were adored.)

I’ve rescuedand held a hummingbird twice.

I’ve rescuedand held (with leather gloves) a baby opossum, returning it to its anxiousmama.

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

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

I literally laughedand sang my way through a career teaching teenagers what to love and what notto love about literature.

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

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

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

So, I’m justsaying, seventy does not seem strange at all. Seventy feels warm andcomfortable, like flannel sheets in winter and a cup of hot chocolate withIrish cream and a good book.

Despite thecurrent 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 coolerthan ever, and as much as some might try to hide diversity from them, it’sright there in their social media feed, so yeah, they will be the champions ofinclusion. Trust me. Just wait.

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