Forget whatever gifts you got, I got, your mom got, your dog
got and so on. My grandmother wins the
Christmas sweepstakes hands down with one of the more remarkable gifts anyone
could ever hope to receive: her ninetieth
birthday. You read that right: ninetieth. Nine-Zero.
90. Kind of makes whatever
impressive gizmo you may have received the other day seem sort of underwhelming,
at least for a moment or two, does it not?
It does, especially when you consider this: my grandmother
is not the sort of woman who barely limped through yet another year of
decline. She is the kind of elderly
woman who can refer to her contemporaries as "old ladies", complain
about the fact that none of them do anything quickly enough for her, and get
away with it. Left to your own
observations and quizzed, you'd probably be stunned to learn that she is a day
over seventy or so. She is spry and
savvy. For all I know, that computer in
her bedroom lands on Turned on Its Ear
from time to time. She has become old in
that manner which we all aspire to, once we're done with the
young-pretty-beautiful-corpse segment of our lives.
A couple of days ago in this post, I alluded to some
misgivings I had about traveling a good ninety minutes north with Rhea and my
mother for her birthday party yesterday.
I could not have been more wrong about them: while there is an unsavory
aspect to my extended family, I'm delighted to report that all the nasty people
stayed home. Without their negativity to
burden the proceedings, a true celebration was had: good food! Cake!
Relatives that I actually wish I got to see more! A band playing standards fronted by a blind
man whom I truly believe to be the Richard Cheese of the geriatric set! I am fully aware, dear readers, that you will
want some proof - or at least some more details - regarding that last one. Really, you just had to be there, and will
have to take myself and/or Rhea at our word.
In fact, you may just have to take me at my word about the
whole thing, as my heart is so full with happiness and admiration for my
grandmother that no amount of stilted, belabored prose can really do it fair
justice. Simply making it to ninety
years old is a combination of genetics and luck. Truly living to, and past, that age is a
decision that one makes every day when they wake up again. It is
a gift, as I said at the beginning of this post, but it is one that can't simply
be handed out. Its recipient has to
truly want it, and be willing to maintain it on a daily basis. That can be a daunting task for folks my age,
let alone nonagenarians.
I'll get back to being snarky tomorrow. Today, it's all about admiration and acknowledgement
of the gift that's been given to my grandmother - and, by extension, me and
mine.
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