Ninety years gone by. Not as many as 95 or 100, but still a long time. An occasion for reflection and contemplation, a moment that is appropriate for a scan of the past and the present and also a look at what might remain of the slender future.
It is a period that stretches almost all the way back to World War One – the great war - and includes the Great Depression, World War II which was a war that really affected most of the world, many important technological advances that we take for granted today such as television, jet aircraft and the internet and the Great Recession which began near the end of 2007 and which many say still lingers. Lots of “greats.” In the United States that period also brought hithertofore undreamed of government programs with beneficial economic safety nets like Social Security, world-wide travel on a mass scale and cultural diversity to an extent never before imagined. It also brought the ball point pen, the two (or more) car garage, daily hot showers instead of a once-a-week tub bath, a decline in the quality of public education and in the number of those finishing high school, the cell phone and texting, a tendency towards crude public displays and obscenities, a shift to getting rich on financial shenanigans instead of creating real businesses, making real discoveries and providing real services to others, a terrible increase in income inequality, the rise and proliferation of well-funded special interest groups, vicious polarization among political parties, more wars and increasing allocation of public funds toward military spending. Medical discoveries and new techniques brought about a substantial increase in longevity. Those years also saw a profusion of cheap weapons with unbelievable destructive and killing potential and the rise of terrorist organizations that hate the United States and want to destroy it and its people, a very different outlook than that of anarchists and nihilists of earlier years.
It indeed was a remarkable and singularly transformative period. In that almost-a century there were many good things that happened and many not so good. It can make one hopeful or gloomy for the future, depending on one’s general disposition. That is something I choose not to dwell on because I won’t be a witness. Anyway, almost all those who make predictions – except perhaps for Nostradamus – miss the boat. So why join that crowd?
A notion persists that age ninety should be celebrated with a lavish birthday party. My dear lady decided that would be the thing for me. A nice idea, I must admit. A big party, however, entails its burdens and not only for the giver of the party, although those are certainly considerable. Unless the party is kept as a total surprise, the person who is about to be ninety also shares in the burdens. For starters, there is an address list. Whom to invite? Which of the many friends that are still alive will receive an invitation? That can’t be left to someone else to choose. Good feelings about seeing old and true friends are diminished by guilty feelings about some that will not receive an invitation. As an example, someone for whom you care very little but who is close to or a business associate of others who definitely will be invited? If not invited, that someone will undoubtedly learn about the party and then…? Friends and relatives who live far away and who are very unlikely to travel, send them an invitation? What if a friend wants to bring someone whom you don’t know or don’t care about? Winnowing the list to manageable size is a task.
But that isn’t all. You know there will be little speeches at the party and maybe a toast or two. You must respond graciously, perhaps even utter a word or two that bespeaks the supposed wisdom of being ninety years old. So you lie in bed at night thinking about what to say, working over the phrases, repeating them over and over, somewhat like counting sheep, but repeating the phrases only keeps you awake whereas counting sheep might induce restful sleep. You don’t want your words to be dull and boring, so what will liven them up? A joke? You can’t think of even one in the middle of the night. Besides, what is funny about being ninety? Oh, I know jokesters have put together ironic, sardonic little stories about old age that are supposed to be funny. Every other day some of them pop up on the computer screen, often long lists, sent by some well-meaning friends, or more likely by some idiot with nothing better to do and who in his or her deranged way thinks that mocking old age is funny. Well, being ninety is often being in the midst of a hard, cruel time, a time when pains inexplicably come out of nowhere, when you can’t do the things you used to do easily, when memory sometimes fails, when you dribble and spill stuff on yourself and when joking about those happenings is not a cure although it may provide a diversion. So you lie in bed and fumble with what to say.
That, as you discover, has a good side. All that restless groping for words has really been about contemplating and reflecting on what ninety years of living have meant. During that period has there been any event worth noting? Is there any experience that might be helpful to others, that might make a difference in their lives?
I use the word “experience” rather than “wisdom.” The capacity for wisdom, or a smart and intelligent mind, is like other gifts or talents. It is something that a person is born with and with which a person may do great things with diligent application. As the old saying goes, “you can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.” This despite the notion that is gaining popularity that a college degree can. Therefore, memories and the stories that spring from them, “experiences,” are important and can serve as guideposts for those who will listen.
Lying in bed and thinking those thoughts brings many an experience to mind. In some sense I have led a charmed and blessed life, the many pages of which include more than one event or story which might intrigue a listener. If, however, at the upcoming birthday party I started to tell stories, I would become instantly boring. Not every one of my experiences might delight or have relevance for an audience. I dismissed that notion.
Nonetheless, it was intriguing to think that there might be one story, one experience, which is more important than all the others. The secret of life, if you will, encapsulated in a single slogan. One neat, pithy phrase to live by. Such as:
-
Why break your back digging for gold when you can sell shovels to the
miners?, or -
Buy late, sell early, or
-
Never give a sucker an even break, or…
Such slogans, however, are about making money, greed, cheating someone who is less fast on his feet or quick on the draw. But as secrets of life? Hardly compatible with the dictum to “lay up treasures not on earth where moth and rust corrupt and thieves break through and steal.” Oh, no.
That elevating thought led me to more agitated turning between the sheets and probing the dark spaces around me as, if great thoughts lurk in the gloom of night. As I lay there looking at the shadows on the ceiling I came to realize that what I had left was no more tangible than those shadows. What treasures of a life remain as one grows to old age, becomes ancient, reaches ninety? Of what does the residue of a lifetime consist? Will it be material wealth? A stamp collection? Art? Oriental rugs? Photographs? A classic car collection, real or in miniature? Storybook dolls? Old books? A fine watch? A glorious mansion? Will any of those count? Or is the real treasure more ephemeral, more representative of something else, like the sled in that movie?
The answer, of course, is not the same for everyone. For some, the big house, the luxury car, the thrill of power will be everything. The slogans set out above will be their fingerposts to life, and the imminence of death will not bring a different outlook.
But as I scanned the vague shapes overhead, my inner vision reached beyond as often happens when wrapped in darkness, sought out bits and pieces of that long lifetime and stitched together the many remnants that floated before me. It had been a long lifetime, not uneventful, one that was filled with challenges, with many joys and some sorrows. What remained were memories and the few surviving friends that support those memories. Those, I realized, were my greatest riches. They are truly abundant, a source of great satisfaction.
Scattered among the memories were times when I had made a positive difference in the lives of others. Recalling those instances always gives an unexpected and special pleasure and sometimes a bit of humor, like the profusion with which a woman thanked me years after I had fired her. She insisted that this caused her to embark on a new and different career. The reward for making a difference in the lives of others is intangible. It consists only of the knowledge that you may have given another human being hope, a path to a better life, even life itself. What better reward?
Darkness eventually brought on sleep and in due course gave way to dawn and the day of the party. The party, as such things go, was a huge success, lots of friends, a few speeches, a toast, my response and more than enough to eat and drink. When all the guests had gone, we journeyed home clothed in a garment of goodwill, with warm feelings and a head full of memories of another happy time.
But there is always the future to consider. The future comes to us whether we want it or not. There is no putting it off or wishing it away. I asked, “What’s ahead?” No Delphic oracle, however, is lurking behind a large rock, or in a mountain cave, sniffing future’s fumes for an answer. Moreover, I realized that even a Delphic oracle at the peak of her career could not provide a sufficient answer for me. The reason is simple and straightforward. Although an Oracle with divine ability might foresee future events, like whether I will perish in an earthquake or fall down a flight of steps and break my neck, that aspect of the future is not my concern.
Death, like the future, is inevitable, and I do not consider it, much less worry about it. As a wise man once taught me, “worry only about things you can do something about.” No, the inevitable is not my concern. My concern is about the future that will be of my own making. That is what I must explore and about which there must be a decision, or decisions. Otherwise the future will be like a vacant prairie, a vast emptiness, perhaps not so vast if my days ahead are numbered and on the short side.
Some older men and women fill that remaining space with endless hours of card-playing, or television-watching, or theater-going, or idle chatter. That, however, is not my inclination, vacuously pleasant as those things might be. Someplace in the litter of my 90 years, I have a picture of myself as a very little boy, perhaps two or three years old, bundled in a heavy coat, a furry hat on my head and mittens on my hands to keep the freezing cold out. The mittened hands hold a broom, and I am furiously sweeping a light
snowfall off a sidewalk, with a resolute determination marking my face, as if I were Hercules cleaning the Augean stables.
I must get to work. There are many sidewalks to sweep, many stables to clean. That is the future.
(This is a companion piece to A Friend of Mine Turned 90 This Week by Gavin Stevens, also on this blog)
