Month: August 2021

“How old would you be if you didn’t know how old you were?” I read this question on a friend’s refrigerator magnet years ago. I think about it frequently. When I was in my 50’s, I often felt that I was more like in my mid-30s. Now that I am over 70, I think the number has moved up to mid-40s.

Aging was not something I thought much about until I realized that I was really getting older. They say, however, that age is a state of mind and I have chosen to adopt an affirmative stance. I believe that aging should be more about the number of memories and stories to tell than the number of years.

Positive aging is a dominant idea in popular literature. Also called healthy aging, the notion advocates for making good choices in the present to improve one’s life in the long-term. Positive aging is an attitude that views aging as a normal part of life.

I am lucky to have good examples of positive aging in my life. As a child I always thought of my parents as “old.” In retrospect, however, I recognize how active physically and mentally they were until close to the end of their lives. My mother, especially, was purposeful about making positive choices about her life.

My association with a variety of individuals through active running and outdoor clubs has been an inspiration to me. For several years I ran regularly with a group of women who were at least 10 years my senior. My goal was to keep up with them as we all got older. Today, I hike in the mountains with some women and men in their 80s. I aspire to be like them!  

People who keep their minds active through reading and continual learning also serve as role models to me. Being curious, adventurous, and reflecting critically on the world seems to be part of the positive aging process at any age.

I am reminded that I am not as young as I used to be when I tune into my body. I do seem to have more aches and pains than in my youth. I used to watch my dad make little noises as he got up from his recliner and never quite understood why until now. A few little aches may be a small price to pay for getting to remain active every day I can. I like the saying by an unknown author, “Wrinkles mean you laughed, grey hair means you cared, and scars mean you lived.”

To age positively requires effort. I enjoy taking time to keep myself healthy. I love to reflect on all the memories that come with my older age.

I have a new passion for wildflowers. I receive such delight in seeing them, trying to remember their names, and noticing their intricacies. This summer, by many accounts, has been one of the best years ever for flowers. I am grateful.

Wildflowers have been of minor consequence much of my life. The main wildflower I remember from growing up in Iowa was the wild rose commonly seen along roadways. I am sure other native prairie flowers existed, but so much of the land was cultivated that I do not recall much about anything but domestic flowers.

When I was a counselor at Cheley Colorado Camps in 1971, one of the projects that campers could do on hikes was to identify wildflowers. They had to point them out to the counselors and when they recognized a certain number, they got a wildflower patch or something. I knew little about the flowers and when the campers came to me and asked if this was “such and such,” I usually responded yes. Perhaps I was unknowingly channeling Silas Houses statement that, “They are wildflowers. They would not want a name.”

My two years spent in Texas was not the best time of my life, but the fields of wildflowers in the spring in Texas were a definite highlight—Bluebonnets galore.

New rituals for me in Colorado are looking for the first signs of spring through wildflowers—the Pasque flowers and tiny Spring Beauties. The Pasque flower precedes most other greenery in the spring.

The final flowers of the summer are now appearing. The fireweed comes back to disturbed spots including the burned areas of the park. The adage goes that when the fireweed blooms to the very top, the first frost is not far behind.

The arctic gentians are the last summer flowers seen on the tundra. These delicate flowers are beautiful to encounter but portend the end of the flower season in the mountains. Rangers sometimes call this the “boo-hoo flower” because when it blooms the short alpine summer is almost over.

My favorite Colorado wildflower is Indian Paintbrush. It blossoms prolifically in many parts of the park for a majority of the summer and comes in a variety of colors-scarlet, orange, coral, magenta, yellow, white, and rose, although the varied colors probably have other more specific names. I never fail to smile when I encounter paintbrush while wandering on the trails.

Recently I read a Native American proverb that summarizes for me my new relationship and connection to wildflowers. Whether wildflowers have a name or not, this thought is my wish for everyone reading this blog: “May your life be like a wildflower growing freely in the beauty and joy of each day.”

My Dad took me back to the airport after a long weekend in Iowa several years ago. As we turned right to go down the main street of Toddville and started the 20-minute drive to the airport, Dad announced, “I’m not afraid to die. I’ve had a great life.”

My Dad was usually quiet, and this statement took me by surprise. He went on to say, “Marge and I have been married for 65 years and we have done a lot of things. We have seen the world. Not many people have done all that we got to do.”

            My father passed away seven years ago this month. I think about him every day. When I was growing up, I saw him as a humble farmer when I had designs on trying to do something great to change the world. I now understand how my Dad’s life was anything but insignificant. To be a farmer who cared deeply about his family and the land was remarkable. As I reflect on my Dad, I am grateful to him for inspiring me about travelling, the outdoors, animals, and leisure.

            I saw how special travelling was to my parents. I remember going to Arizona to visit my grandparents on a train when I was 10 years old. In the middle of a moonlit night rumbling through Kansas, Dad excitedly explained to me all that he knew about wheat fields. He loved to talk about what he learned about farming on their trips to Canada, Europe, Brazil, Norway, Australia, and New Zealand. He prided himself in having been to all 50 states. I was with him when he got the 50^th one—South Carolina—in 2004. When I have the privilege of travelling, I think about how much Dad would have enjoyed my trips.

Dad loved the land. I doubt he would describe himself as an environmentalist, but I saw what he did. If anyone practiced repair, reuse, reduce, and recycle, it was my Dad. When Dad sold the farm, the Soil and Water Conservation officer in Linn County said he had created 1 ½ inches more fertile topsoil than when he began farming. He embodied leaving the earth better than he found it.

Dad loved animals. He cared that the animals he raised were healthy and comfortable. He also had pets that were special. For several years he had a pet goat that followed him everywhere. When Herbie died, dad spent a day finding a suitable burial spot for the animal on the top of a hill where the goat could forever behold the farm operations.

            My Dad’s work ethic was central to his good life. He taught me to work hard, and also to take time to enjoy the simple things of life—a beautiful sunset, a baby rabbit, a raccoon peeking out a hole in a tree. Although he worked from before sunrise until after sunset, he showed me how to find leisure in unpretentious pleasures.

            My father was a man of few words. I learned something exceptionally touching about my Dad two years ago after my mother passed. My sisters and I were reading some of the letters my Mom had saved from Dad when he served in WWII. They planned to be married when he returned home. Several of his letters ended with a heartfelt salutation to my mother, “I love you in all ways always.” That statement sums the secret to Dad’s great life—loving one’s spouse, family, animals, and the land zealously.

Friends I will remember you, think of you

Pray for you

And when another day is through

I’ll still be friends with you

John Denver

John Denver’s song, Friends with You, has always been a favorite of mine. I was talking to a friend I met over 40 years ago in Wisconsin, and we were remarking about the length of our friendship and the number of friends we had encountered over the years. Denver also noted that one of the gifts of growing old is having stories to be told.  Friends have evolved in my life as I change, and circumstances change. Some friends come for a short time. Many friendships last a lifetime.

I think about friends in two ways: circles and affinities. One circle surrounds me closely. This first small circle includes emotionally supportive friends that I have a consistent sharing of daily activities and decisions. The second circle going outward is friends that I see or communicate with on a somewhat routine, but not daily, basis. We enjoy each other’s company and would help each other in a moment’s notice if needed.

The third expanding circle is people with whom I might not have frequent contact, but I keep up with the ups and downs of their lives from time to time. I know they are in my corner and they know I will always be there for them. Probably a final circle is Facebook friends. Some inhabit other circles, and some folks are just interesting and special people to follow. They add an additional dimension to my life.

Another way I categorize friends are those with whom I have established affinities because of common interests. I think about friends made through groups such as running clubs, hiking/trip adventures, and writing groups. I have classmates that I have known for decades. In addition, band, volunteering, and professional associations are sources of friendship. Some friends become friends through their association with other friends. Friendship circles and affinities can always expand.

I am lucky to have a variety of new friends where I now live. Two years ago I had shoulder surgery and couldn’t drive for three weeks. My neighbors who lived across the street remarked about all the different cars that pulled into my driveway to bring me food and take me places. I am grateful for these recent networks.

Not all friends are friends for life. Unfortunately, I have lost special friends due to death. Some friends have drifted away for lack of nurturing those relationships. I have not put energy into keeping friendships with people whom I learned I could not trust. Some friendships are conditional.

My mother had a cross stitched wall hanging in our house on the farm. I now have it in my house. In addition to John Denver’s words about the friends we have in time, these sentiments are special to me: “Remembrance is the sweetest flower of all the world’s perfuming. Memory guards it sun or shower, friendship keeps it blooming.”