NINETY CANDLES

My friend Paul Murphy recently shared a Senior Moment: “I was out walking one morning along the Androscoggin River when I felt a gust of wind start to lift my hat from my head. I swiftly grabbed for it, completely forgetting that I was carrying a 2.5 lb. weight in my hand. No harm was done, the hat cushioned the blow, but I realized this was definitely a new experience in the aging process." 

Ah yes, that process.

For us folks in our 80s and above, the aging process is not only nigh, it’s in full throttle. My memory has more leaks than a colander. Disaster in our house isn’t when the electricity goes out — it’s when a hearing aid goes pfffft. We amble instead of sprint, we climb stairs like we’re ascending the final leg to the summit of Everest, and it seems like our social life specializes in funerals and significant decade-turning birthday parties with bonfire cakes. 

Several weeks ago Mr. Wonderful and I ventured from Maine to Cape Cod to celebrate the 90th birthday of his Colby College buddy. After crossing the Sagamore Bridge along with 9,651 other cars on a sunny Saturday morning, we followed the Cape Highway to the Yarmouth exit. 

It being our first visit to Yarmouth, we weren’t certain where Keeton and Bev lived, and kept our eyes peeled for a mailbox that read “158.” Suddenly up ahead, we noticed an ambulance with blinking lights and a police car filling the driveway of, yup, “158.”  Apparently, one of the octogenarian guests fell shortly after arriving at the gathering and suffered a bloody head wound, possible concussion.  The Birthday Boy himself sported a name tag with the message: “Please don’t hug me tightly.” (He had a serious fall the prior week and broke two ribs.) 

Since the Weather Channel had predicted “afternoon rain,” I placed my umbrella amidst the huddle of canes and walkers by the front door. Our thoughtful hostess provided “name tags” which proved helpful — to a degree. After making rounds and introducing myself to various people, I circled back to a “new” group near the front door. I said, “Hi, my name is Val.” They smiled and mentioned that we’d met 20 minutes prior. We had?

Talking with one of Mr. W’s college friends, I learned that my husband had been a crackerjack cribbage player back in the day. “The two of us played for hours in the fraternity house,” the man told me.  (Later I mentioned that to Bob who looked at me with complete surprise. “I never played cribbage in college,” he asserted.)

Before leaving, I complimented our hostess on her lovely home.  “It’s so comfortable and pretty, and I’m delighted we finally got to see where you two live.”  Bev looked at me askance. “But you were here 20 years ago — you don’t remember that visit?”  I guess this wasn’t our first visit to Yarmouth.

Paul Murphy put this ocean of forgetfulness in perspective. He told me, “I remain grateful for what I remember and I simply don’t worry about what I’ve forgotten.” I’m trying to remember those words for future situations.

And about the prescription sunglasses I lost. After returning home the next day, I went out back to check on my tomato plants. There were the glasses, hanging high on a stalk, exactly where I’d placed them “for just a minute” while snipping a suckling.