What's it like to be 95? I don't know but my uncle's birthday is today and... Born in Glasgow in 1920, he's lived in Canada since just after the Second World War to work as an engineer, and is now in Halifax.
I'm lazy about keeping in touch, in part because, while he's a generous and warm-hearted person, I find him a little bossy and judgmental. I'd never known his birthday, but when Mum mentioned it, well... No, still lazy, my wife found the number and called. And there he was, sounding as hearty (the word he applied to me) as ever, his accent still clearly Scottish.
How are you doing, Peter, you ask, and get news of storms and work and children (and grandchildren) and health, but the real news is you, Uncle, and your health. Still driving? Still getting out and socializing? Sounds like it.
When my family emigrated, we stayed with you near Toronto. Your children, our playmates. Dinners, vacations together. But our lives have separated; had separated before today's call. Can we send you pictures with text messages? Can we skype? No? but let's see what we can do to continue or expand the contact. Suddenly a new person in my constellation of contacts.
It used to be that 95 was as close to the end of life as anyone could reasonable expect--with all the diminution of powers and personality that number suggests. Closer to it, I can see farther beyond it, but still it's impressive. Yet a day in one's 96th year is still a day, characterized as any of ours is with pleasures and prospects of all kinds. Every day is an opportunity to be human and for encounter. You expressed delight at my call, but really I'm the one blessed.
I'm lazy about keeping in touch, in part because, while he's a generous and warm-hearted person, I find him a little bossy and judgmental. I'd never known his birthday, but when Mum mentioned it, well... No, still lazy, my wife found the number and called. And there he was, sounding as hearty (the word he applied to me) as ever, his accent still clearly Scottish.
How are you doing, Peter, you ask, and get news of storms and work and children (and grandchildren) and health, but the real news is you, Uncle, and your health. Still driving? Still getting out and socializing? Sounds like it.
When my family emigrated, we stayed with you near Toronto. Your children, our playmates. Dinners, vacations together. But our lives have separated; had separated before today's call. Can we send you pictures with text messages? Can we skype? No? but let's see what we can do to continue or expand the contact. Suddenly a new person in my constellation of contacts.
It used to be that 95 was as close to the end of life as anyone could reasonable expect--with all the diminution of powers and personality that number suggests. Closer to it, I can see farther beyond it, but still it's impressive. Yet a day in one's 96th year is still a day, characterized as any of ours is with pleasures and prospects of all kinds. Every day is an opportunity to be human and for encounter. You expressed delight at my call, but really I'm the one blessed.
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