I have reached the age where the radical music of my youth is now musac, the background noise to ones ride in an elevator.  What on earth would hoarse-voiced, liquor-toting Janis Joplin think of Me and Bobby McGee played with a chorus of violins sobbing to a subdued beat?

I went off to college almost 60 years ago with a brand new Olivetti typewriter grandly in its case.  This was a gift from a loving grandmother who wanted me to have the latest in technology for my entrance into the world of academia.  Even with this happily received item, research papers were a production nightmare. 

I have found over the years that changing our preconceptions is a necessary part of growing up. This seems even more important as we age, and the world around us becomes less and less like the world we grew up in. We are all born into families and societies that form our thoughts about the world. Some of these thoughts are worthwhile and others need to change.

Once we reach the eighties, we begin to realize that we have more past than we have future.

And there is nothing wrong with that as memories of the past can be wonderful: the joy of accomplishments, the new baby’s first cry, the ideal job that dropped out of the sky, the family we love.

recently attended a lecture in which most of the audience had gray hair to match mine.  I did not know any of the other people attending, so I sat quietly listening to the conversations around me and waiting for the talk to begin. 

We have all have had fashion accessories that defined who we were, or last least who we wanted to be, in the course of a lifetime. I think of my granddaughter, who while in elementary school, defined herself by the bows that she sported in her long hair.

We heard them when we were young, and we probably rolled our eyes just as the younger generation does now at what I call the you-have-it-so-good-because-in-my-day stories.  You know the ones I mean: I walked seven miles to school in the snow, I studied my lessons by candlelight, I had one pair of shoes I shared with three siblings, etc. 

I have been watching the Olympics with a great deal of interest as have, according to news reports, more Americans than ever.  I, of course, loved watching Simone Biles compete, and Katie Ledecky win decisively in her long-distance races.  But what struck me most was the men’s gymnastic team from Ukraine. 

We have been consumed with age lately from the presidential election to the Olympics.  We replaced a presidential candidate we thought too old in his eighties and rejoiced over a first time Olympic medalist swimming at 31, the oldest in 120 years.  And we still look forward to a gymnast who is competitive at the ripe old age of 27.

I’ve become an invisible woman. I first became aware of this fact when I walked through a busy mall with my tall, very attractive granddaughter.

I recently watched a documentary that interviewed the few elderly remnants of Hitler’s domination over Germany before and during the Second World War. Their memories were as different as they were and ranged from a full declaration of support for the regime and the man, to a denial that they knew anything of the racial hatred that spawned gas chambers, to a deep sadness over what their silence had meant.

Life seems to be filled with two running columns of pluses and minuses.  For instance, that new baby is the cutest one ever born, but how about two hours of uninterrupted sleep?

It can get very quiet at 80.  Waking up in the morning there is no longer children’s lunches to fix, commuter traffic to face, casseroles to make for community or family events, or a job to consume all thought.  This can be uncomfortable. 

When I was in college, visiting my grandparents, my grandfather commented in passing that he did not know where the years went now that he was older. He noted that when he was younger, a year seemed to last forever.

One of the most challenging things about hitting the eighth decade is how we define ourselves.  We cannot, and perhaps no longer should, do that by our physical achievements. 

Cultivate a quiet joy.
Count yourself last in everything. Put others before you.
Watch well and listen closely. Hold the learned lessons dear.

I recently visited a museum where there was a retrospective on Norman Rockwell's paintings and Saturday Evening Post covers. In addition to his ability as an artist, he was an astute judge of human character with its humor, foibles, and sentiments.

We just recently moved, and although we are not in an official retirement community, everyone around us has gray hair as do we.  We moved in during the pandemic so met very few neighbors but are now meeting them as we garden or walk around the neighborhood.  I have noticed that the primary object of any initial conversation or meeting is to find out who we used to be. 

Recently I read an article in The New Yorker indicating that it is the kiss of death to promote any item that looks like it is for old people.  In other words, for me. 

It is spring, and last night we opened the door from our bedroom to the outside porch.   From the pond behind our house came a Morman Tabernacle Choir of lovesick frogs and geese all calling to one another.  The uproar was quite amazing but, rather than being distracting, it brought back memories of the sleeping porch.