You know you're getting old when the candles
needed would set off the sprinkler system.
Copyright © 2025
by Ralph F. Couey
This post's title is a line from the Simon and Garfunkel song "Old Friends." The song tells the story of two old men who sit in the park every day together on a bench, simply passing the hours. At one point, Simon sings, "How terribly strange to be seventy." It's a poignant line, a somber nod to the creeping inevitability of age.
I reached that milestone this year, May 23rd, and that particular verse has been echoing in my mind. It's kinda funny in that in the past, I had always considered 70 to be incredibly ancient, perhaps even archaeological. And now, here I am. There are the usual maladies associated with aging, but nothing really serious or life-threatening. One of my friends, after listening to my ruminations, said, "Hey, you've still got your knees, your hips, and your hair. Be happy with that!" He was correct, and I am well aware that many others never made it this far with this much intact.
The day itself was uneventful. Cheryl was in Japan with her sister, niece, and youngest daughter, embarking on a once-in-a-lifetime trip to her ancestral homelands. I had just returned from Virginia, spending some precious time with our son and his family. I slept in and took myself out for breakfast, pancakes, of course. I went to the local IHOP only to discover it had been shuttered. I went to Zippy's instead, a local classic that makes really good pancakes. I feasted happily.
I went home and, after some TV watching, I got busy cleaning house, in anticipation of Cheryl's return. Part of that effort was ripping up the old, nasty, and unlamented carpet in the living room. That was hard work, but seeing that beautiful wood floor emerge made me wonder why we ever covered it up in the first place.
We did have a significant change in our lives. A friend of Jamie's (our youngest) was nearing the end of her life, a torturous path of chronic pain had led her to give her beloved dog away. Since she was here in Honolulu, Jamie suggested us. I won't burden you with the details, but on May 20th, I went and picked up the dog, a cute little Bichon named Pickles. I spent a lot of time with her in her new home, bonding and helping the dog adapt to her new home. She's been a welcome addition, a total delight. I hadn't realized the hole left in our lives when our previous dog, Tweeter, passed in 2016. When Cheryl returned, our family became complete. We had missed having that companionship, the evening walks, time chasing a tennis ball in the park, and having that warm presence on the couch with us, as well as sharing our bed at night. Such a blessing...
One of the things that comes with aging is perspective. You live, you learn, and the acquisition of wisdom, the conjunction of experience and pain, comes with the territory. Of course, it arrives way too late to help me, and younger people don't particularly want to listen. In fairness, at that age, I, too, thought I knew it all. The other thing is a bit disturbing. This week, after a sudden onset of crippling vertigo, I took a trip to the ER. During those hours, I couldn't help but feel that everyone working there, even the doctors, looked like kids. It was that sudden recognition of the distance in time and life between myself and them that reinforced the impact of the number of birthdays I've had.
I've said this a few times. but in our younger years, when we look ahead five years, it's just five years. We don't anticipate anything getting in the way of our plans and goals. In five years, I'll be 75, and with the rate of decline in my memory and cognition, it's not something to which I'm looking forward. I still thoroughly enjoy the work I do at the USS Missouri Memorial, and the sad realization that I may have to give it up at some point when I'm no longer able to recall and deliver the tour presentations. And this episode, on Saturday, that resulted in my second-ever ride in an ambulance added some additional uncertainties. So, when I look to the future, it's with a more worrisome perspective. It would be great if there were a way to pause the aging process and at least prevent it from getting worse. But that's not going to happen.
So, what do I do? The only thing is to not obsess about any possible futures, and just face each day as it comes. Meet those challenges as best as possible, and like hiking a tough trail, just put one foot in front of the other. Because if I get through that day, then I've earned the place that exists in the following day. I think for me, that may be the key. I will look for the joy that is there in each of those 24-hour segments and focus on that. Tomorrow, next week, next month, next year may be worse. But for today, this day, I will live my life.
