If I were to chart the phenomenon
of aging it would be a bell curve or normal distribution curve. The top of that curve could arguably be
middle age for most folks, while most retirees would like to mark that zenith
as the day they begin retirement. It is due mainly to this almost universal
optimism that they would be spending the same number of retirement years as the
amount of time spanned by their youth and the height reached by one’s labor or
career. It could be mere optimism but
some folks these days wishfully believe in altering life’s chronology because,
well, sixty is now the new forty! Those of us past that would like to think so,
or at least, we hope so.
At near bottom and left side of that bell curve is the child
rushing to grow up, in a hurry to get to seven, thus declaring his or her age
as, “I am six-and-a-half years old”. The
teenage years are at the steepest climb, mid-way up that curve, and we all know
why. It is tough during that climb for anyone simultaneously trying to break
away from being twelve, rebelling at real and perceived oppressive parental
authority, establishing an identity and direction and proving to be worthy of
the claim that he or she already knows everything there is to know about
adulthood. Steeper still are the years
that follow when after school (be that high school or college) one must earn a
living. Pressure does not let up while
racing to reach as high as one may, maintaining that position, and then
realizing the apex has been attained and settling to await the moment – to let
go and prepare for the post-career life.
Here is the thing though, if you haven’t noticed, that although
the right side of the bell curve appears downhill (it should be easy, right?),
we find ourselves inevitably fighting the gravitational pull of getting old. The young child hurrying to grow up is now the
older facsimile trying to slow down the ticking of the clock. Alas, time keeps
the same pace at one second per second.
Meet Darla
She is my version of the character
in the “Dos Equis” beer commercial about “the most interesting man in the world”
except, of course, that she’s a woman.
She was one of 42 people we were with that took an overnight bus trip to
San Antonio, Texas where the hotel we were staying at was right at the river’s
edge. We’ve been to this city many times
in the past but this is the first time someone else was doing the driving for
us with a bunch of other retired folks.
Inevitably, the river walk cruise was part of the package that evening. Since we were in a large group the wait was
going to be long (as much as 45 min. to an hour) but there was one option for
those willing to walk several blocks to another loading platform where the wait
was considerably shorter. A handful (my wife, I and five others) took that
option. As we assembled ourselves before
starting to walk so the tour guide can make a head count, this one lady in our
group of seven stood out because of her enthusiasm to make the “long”
hike. Her name is Darla. What got our attention
was finding out she was 84 years old. She did not look it but since she was bragging
about it I impolitely asked to see her driver’s license. She flashed it like an FBI badge. Sure enough she was born in 1933!
Sure enough it was a long
walk. To kill time along the way I
coaxed her to tell me more about her life.
Her parents were Ukrainian immigrants who settled in Chicago where Darla
was born. She became a school
teacher. She married an engineer who
later had a foreign posting in Algeria. There
Darla got a job to teach English at the international school. One of her 4th grade pupils was a
son of a Brazilian diplomat. That
student is now a lawyer living somewhere in the U.S. East Coast and he was
getting married in a couple of months.
Darla was invited to the wedding. I needed to know more about this school
teacher who must have left a tremendous impression on the 4th grader,
who not only kept in touch but invited her to his wedding.
Darla is one of those rare
individuals who had not lost her enthusiasm for life, even after her husband
had passed away five years ago.
After the river cruise, shortly
about half past nine, Darla suggested that we all should go up to The Tower of
the Americas, a San Antonio landmark, that has a bar 750 feet up at the top and
a revolving restaurant just one floor below it. There was another couple with us who also
just met Darla. Except for Darla we were all kind of lukewarm to the idea,
considering the time, but somehow we agreed but only if we took a cab, although
Darla was so certain we can all walk the distance. The hotel concierge actually did strongly
suggest we took a cab. The $7.00 cab ride dropped all five of us off almost two
blocks away (that was as far as vehicle traffic can go) so we walked the rest
of the way to the Tower. Darla suggested we all should go up for drinks and
appetizers. There we learned more about her and the shark teeth collection she used
to have while teaching. Often, she told us, she used the shark teeth and
stories about sharks to liven up her English classroom. She came to know
Eugenie Clark. I did not know then who
that was but we listened. (Later when I Googled the name, Eugenie Clark, I read
she was also known as the shark lady, a pioneer in marine conservation and an
expert in sharks. Eugenie Clark was born to an American father and a Japanese
mother in 1922. National Geographic featured her work on sharks and marine conservation
several times. She published two books on
sharks and marine conservation and continued to dive close to the time she died
at age 92 in 2015.
Darla took diving lessons even
though she did not know how to swim. By her account, she figured diving was all
about sinking so swimming was optional. She did get certified as a diver, got
herself introduced to Eugenie Clark.
Darla was one of several Eugenie fans who showed up for one of Eugenie’s
last dives before she retired, less than two years before she died. I had to mention Ms. Clark because clearly
she too was a most interesting person.
But Darla’s story is not over yet.
After we were done with our
drinks and appetizer we decided to call it a night. There was a young couple
ahead of us waiting for the elevator and they had been there a while. Darla
started talking with the couple and in no time she was taking pictures – the couple
included. Twenty minutes passed and
still no elevator. One of the couple,
the young gentleman, offered to buy us all a round of vodka shots – nine in all
to include another couple who were seated at the bar (the elevator is about
three steps from one end of the bar). My
wife doesn’t drink so the host had to take two shots. As we kept talking the gentleman host (who
proclaimed to be a native of San Antonio) wanted to order another round. Darla was okay with it but we dragged her one
floor down to the restaurant where the elevator was mysteriously working. When
we reached the lobby we asked the staff there about how easily we can get a
cab. This was almost eleven o’clock already.
The personnel said it was not going to be easy and the fare will now be
between 40-70 dollars (we paid $7 on the way up) because the taxi driver will
have to drive over.
Darla this time was even more adamant
about walking the distance. And so we
did. Did I mention she is barely five
feet tall? Well, she is and she kept up with the pace. By that time there was hardly anybody walking
through the streets even as we wound down the river walk to get our bearings
right since the hotel was by the river. Darla just simply walked the walk.
The following morning at the
hotel restaurant there was Darla having breakfast with her hotel room
mate. I stopped by their table to chat
for a bit. Darla had not slowed down at
all. She was rearing to do the next leg of the trip – the 23 acre (93,000
square meters) outlet shopping stores in San Marcos. It was a three-hour layover to give the
slowest walker among us ample time to reconnoiter the more than 350 stores,
which is impossible to do even by those fit to run the marathon. I read that folks spend between 25 minutes to
1-1/2 hours (on average) at the shopping complex. Darla did her share but by the time we saw
her before boarding the bus, she was having a bowl (not cone) of ice cream!
From that point on we knew she was replenishing sugar to stoke her
inexhaustible energy. That is what aging
should be all about.
Go to as Many Reunions as You Can
Going to reunions, (high school
or college) can be fun but not for some, who avoid it at all costs. That is
understandable. For many it should be
something that needed to be done at least once.
Family reunions on the other hand can be enjoyable but for some it can
be filled with trepidation, even the equivalence of sitting on a dentist’s
chair. Some relatives may even find
facing the Spanish Inquisition or a root canal preferably more enticing than to
be at a family reunion. I’m exaggerating,
of course, so don’t take that seriously.
The company I retired from has a
robust alumni organization. For a very nominal annual membership fee I get
email announcements of various activities.
These activities or outings do have costs associated with each but not
too terribly expensive but there is enough variety for everyone. Most well-attended are the annual barbecue,
spring luncheons and holiday get together (featured speakers are invited to the
latter two). It is not every time that I
find a familiar face since attendees could come from different departments,
locations and, of course, from different eras of corporate service. The latter category is what interests me. About
eight years ago after a luncheon event there was someone walking very slowly just
ahead of us. I spoke with him. He’d been
retired for 45 years! Quarterly, the
alumni newsletter would include in its issue anywhere from 3 to 7 retirees who
turned 100! I just met one of them.
My wife and I now make it a point
during one of these sit-down luncheons to sit at a table with folks older than
we are, preferably quite a bit older. It
is very interesting to find out how these folks managed their golden
years. This last spring luncheon we happened
to sit across a retiree wearing a suit and tie and a WWII veteran hat. Ted, his name is, came to work for the
company right after his military service and is now 94 years old. Ted looked
fit without an ounce of fat in him, stood erect and was quite lucid with his
memory. In fact, I thought, he asked one of the more insightful questions
during the question-and-answer portion when the featured speaker finished his
presentation. I made note of the fact
that Ted played a major role in the company’s environmental program long before
there was an Environmental Protection Agency. The couple sitting next to me was
in their mid-eighties. The retiree’s
wife still played doubles tennis. These
folks, like Darla, have not relinquished, at least not yet, their vehemence to
keep on living with relish.
How else can we learn the art of aging?
We can learn from these folks.
