“When we recall the past, we usually find that it is the simplest things — not the great occasions — that in retrospect give off the greatest glow of happiness.” — Bob Hope
Ronald Reagan was speaking to a classroom at the University of California when a student stood and said, “It’s impossible for your generation to understand mine. Today we have television, jet planes, space travel, nuclear energy, computers…”
When the student paused for breath, Reagan said, “You’re right. We didn’t have those things when we were young. We invented them.”
Those of us born before 1945 were here before the pill, polio shots, smartphones, antibiotics, and disposable diapers. Before frozen dinners, credit cards, ballpoint pens, and even before our generation was tagged with the name “senior citizens.”
We were here before computers. A mouse pad was where mice hung out. To log on was to add wood to the fire. Windows were for looking out of. We were even here before McDonald’s and instant coffee.
My first job was at Kress Department Store where I earned the minimum wage of sixty cents an hour. My mother washed our clothes in a wringer washer that sat on the back porch and hung them on a line outside to dry.
I used to think sixty-five was old. The idea of actually reaching it seemed as far away as the notion that I would one day wear a Dick Tracy watch on my wrist — one that could talk to me, and where I could talk to someone named Siri. When I mentioned this recently to an eighteen-year-old, she looked at me blankly and asked, “Who is Dick Tracy?”
Now that I’ve lived well past that milestone, I find myself in this season of life with something I didn’t expect: a rich reserve.
Not money in the bank — though that helps too — but a reservoir of experiences accumulated over more than eight decades. Lessons learned the hard way and the easy way. A clearer sense of what actually matters and what never did.
I’ve learned that time is too precious to waste on worry, grudges, or things I cannot change. I’ve learned to stop sweating the small stuff and to relish the small pleasures instead — a walk with my dog in the early morning, a cup of coffee on the porch swing with nothing but birdsong for company, an afternoon lost in a good book.
I’ve learned that forgetting a name or walking a little more slowly isn’t something to apologize for. People just chalk it up to being over eighty. There are worse things.
I can take a nap whenever I feel like it. I don’t set an alarm clock. And I’ve finally started doing the things I always meant to do — including writing the cozy mystery novels I always intended to write, which turned out to be some of the most satisfying work of my life.
Why retire when the work still brings daily challenges, interesting people, and genuine joy? Just because most people do at a certain age seems like a poor reason to stop.
I’m realistic enough to know I will never be as vibrant as I was at twenty or forty or even sixty. But I’ve stopped measuring myself against earlier versions of myself. This version — slower, quieter, with a harder-won perspective — has something the earlier ones didn’t.
I don’t know exactly what the rest of my life will look like. But I intend to make it the best it can be — putting the past in its proper place, keeping the future in perspective, and living each day as fully as possible.
Someday will be my last day. Today is not that day.
And for you, reading this — it isn’t yours either.