The Capacity to See

“Youth is happy because it has the capacity to see beauty. Anyone who keeps the ability to see beauty never grows old.”
--Franz Kafka

Passing the Baton

For starters, I’ll shoot the first person who says it’s only a number.

Not that you knew I was speaking of age (again), of course, but remember the first time you wrapped your head around centuries and discovered they were always ahead of what you expected?  The 20^th century, for instance, was always about the 1900s.  The 21^st century is about now.  It still doesn’t sound right.

Switch to decades and it gets weird[er]. 

When you live till your 11^th decade, you’re called a centenarian.  Did you know if you live to be 110 (your 12^th decade) you’re called a supercentenarian, like Jeralean Talley from Michigan and Misao Okawa from Japan who are both 114!  We all know who an octogenarian is, of course, but do you know what a person in her 90s is called?  Yup, a nonagenarian (not to be confused with a persona non grata!).

Now, meet Susan Elizabeth, Nelson Hodges, Virginia Louise, and Nancy Rebecca, a.k.a.  Floosie Soosie, Funny Sonny, Skinny Ginny, and Fancy Nancy (thanks to Dad).  Funny Sunny began his 8^th decade in January last year.  A week ago Floosie Soosie (not to be confused with our V&V Soosie!) followed suit…and two years from now Skinny Ginny will do the same, with Fancy Nancy the following year.

[After Fancy Nancy, we’ll pass on the baton to the next four in the family, but that’s a few years later, with Goofie Ruthie, the last of the eight, in 2026.]

So, what are Funny Sunny and Floosie Soosie called?  Yup, septuagenarians.  Those of us in our 60s are sexagenarians.  You in your 50s are quinquagenarians.  But you knew that.  You in your 40s?  Quadragenarians.  Then the thirty-somethings and the roaring twenties, of course.

BTW, did you know that once upon a time SEPTember, OCTober and NOvember were our 7^th, 8^th and 9^th months!  Blame the Romans for adding July and August for Julius and Augustus Caesar to screw up the system.  But I digress.

I go through this age ritual every June.  Skipping around like a flighty lark!  June is such a happy month for me.  Just when I think I couldn’t possibly get happier, another June comes and I‘m happier.  Does that mean I love growing old[er]?  I hope so.  I think so. 

However, the closer I get to my 8th decade, I admit that I pause.  It seriously does sound weird[er].   This never happened to me when I showed up for the 5^th, 6^th and 7th.  The 8^th is the part that doesn’t sound right because…it’s not like I’m going to be 80, you know!

Don’t you love how the elders are looking so tenderly and lovingly at the youngers, like they already know something very wise and are eager and willing to pass on the baton.  “DON’T BE FRIGHTENED,” I can hear them say. 

And did you notice none of us is older than 200 years (a Methuselagenarian?).  Nor are we teenagers anymore! 

So what do we have to lose, especially in June with our swimsuits on!  Grab yours and let’s go swimming.  Don’t worry.  Be happy.  Numbers are so screwed up anyway!

Do not deprive me of my age.  I have earned it.
--May Sarton

200 Years vs. 200 Miles

What’s the difference between a European and an American?  HA!  It’s truer than you think.

The first time I stood inside an Amsterdam building and found out it was older than my country of origin, America, I had to pick my jaw up off the floor.

In the following years of further travel around Europe, I’m still as awed.  It never really sinks in.  Like recently, in March, when we walked through the above Marksburg Castle in Germany, built in 1174.  It’s over 800 years old…and even has an inside toilet.

But what really takes the cake for me was Rome a few years back, walking around the Forum, following, perhaps, the footsteps of Apostle Paul from 2000 years ago.  It has been called the most celebrated meeting place in the world, and in all history, according to Wiki.  I can imagine how I’d feel if I ever make it to Jerusalem!

I never get used to it.

As for Astrid, who has lived all but one year of her life in the Netherlands (that one year being America), age of these places is simply ho-hum for her.  She’s never known anything other than O.L.D.

However.  The first time we took a one-day trip from where we live here in middle Holland to Groningen in the northeast of the country, just 120 miles away, you would have thought we had driven to the other side of the world.  Seriously.  And it wasn’t just her.  When she told her co-workers where we had gone and come back, all in the span of one Saturday, they picked their jaws up off the floor.

She was never used to anything other than N.E.A.R. here in Europe, but that’s changing quickly.

If I told you it takes us one hour to drive from our back door to Antwerp, Belgium (50 miles), or 1.5 hours to Brussels (75 miles), in case we want to get a good pot of mussels, you’d laugh, right?  How about that it would take us 5 hours to drive from our city to Paris (250 miles) and could easily be done in a long weekend just about any time we wanted?  Yup, you’re picking your jaws up off the floor…while I’m convincing her how doable it is.

Speaking of America, Astrid came to visit me in Atlanta in 2009, 6 months before I moved to the Netherlands.  I wanted to take her to the family cottage in Michigan to meet some of my siblings.  Even by my standards it’s a long trip, 850 miles.  But I had done it almost every year for 25 years and knew the map like the back of my hand:  2 hours to Chattanooga, 2 hours to Nashville, 2.5 to Louisville, 2 to Indianapolis, another 2 to Fort Wayne, and then the “strome hetch” once crossing the line into Michigan.  All in one “swell foop” and usually during the night hours with at least 2 drivers.  In good weather we’d drive it in 12 hours, longer if we stopped at the cemetery to see Mom and Dad.

You could say I’m training Astrid.  She’s getting used to my “long-distance” antics.  In fact, we’re planning a 3-day birthday weekend to Luxembourg come July, 162 miles away, driving all around that wee country and spending a day in its capital, Luxembourg City, founded in the 900s.

She’s getting used to the distance, she says.  200 miles doesn’t make her gasp anymore.  But I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to any place older than dirt 200 years! 

A Pentecost Birthday

The Holy Spirit descends on the disciples of Jesus Christ
after the Resurrection.
[Pentecost image from the Hammerfest Church, Norway.]

In The Netherlands there are 3 national holidays that are 2 days each:  Christmas, Easter, and Pentecost (Pinksteren in Dutch).  For each it's important that you distinguish which day you're talking about.  The 2nd Christmas day would be 26 December, for instance. Today is the 2nd Pentecost day, which is always Monday...not Sunday, and because it's a national holiday, Astrid is off work.

It's also my 66th birthday.  How many of us get to post here at V&V on our birthday AND on a holiday!  WooHoo.

Here's the thing:  I've never ever minded any of my birthday numbers.  The ones ending in zero and five were always the best milestones, especially last year's when I became an official senior citizen.  All those discounts, remember?

In fact, I especially anticipated my 50s and 60s.  I know, weird.  But so many women I esteemed were that age and I aspired to be like them.  It was like the numbers were magic.  They would bring sage and wise gifts, right?  Automatically, of course.

Now that they're almost gone and I'm staring down the barrel at 70...gulp...I told Astrid I'm now closer to 70 than to 60 and that feels, yup, weird.  I've never felt that way about a birthday number before.  Brother Nelson, the oldest of us 8 kids, will turn 70 in January.  Sister Susan two years later.  And then a year later, 2015, moi.  The whole tribe is following suit, with sister Ruth bringing up the rear in 2026.

Oh, and by the way, I've had 10 Friday the 13th birthdays thus far, all good, which is why I'm not superstitious.  My favorite was when I turned 24 in the foothills of the Peruvian Andes and walked by myself 1-1/2 hours through the jungle to the airstrip to pick up our weekly mail.  I had exactly 24 pieces of mail, 3 from my husband-to-be at that time.

And listen to this:  my next Friday the 13th is in 2014, the day I turn 69.  My last year in the 60s.  HA!  Remember, I'm not superstitious!

Don't get me wrong.  I still feel pretty darn-tootin' proud of 66.  Sixty-six.  I like the sound of it.  66.  What a sexy number, don't you think?  [No, not 666, in case someone has a warped sense of humor.  This is a PENTECOST birthday!]

I know what you're thinking:  we're as young as we feel.  Exactly.  That's my point.  As I see 70 around the corner, I suddenly feel 'the number' for the first time in my life.  Did I mention weird?

Remember Route 66 ?  She ain't what she used to be either (have you seen it lately?) but she sure covered a lot of mileage in her day, originally from Chicago to Los Angeles:  2,448 miles (3,940 km) to be exact.  At my rate, based on all our photo hunts and travels, Astrid and I will easily cover that this year alone.

So when I look at it that way, I suddenly feel hot-to-trot.  Sixty-six and a holiday to celebrate it.  I feel 'descended upon' and very blessed.