25 and 61

Do you remember the first time that someone mentioned a thing that happened 25 years ago and you realize that you actually remember the thing and that you are now a person whose memory spans a quarter-century? Did you feel old? 

When I was growing up, our parents and aunts and uncles and grandparents would tell us that they remembered exactly where they were and what they were doing on November 22, 1963 when they learned that President Kennedy had been shot and killed. I heard about it so often that it took on the quality of myth. When other kids my age went through their ancient Greece and Egypt phases, I had a Kennedy assassination phase. The assassination happened about two years before I was born, and even though I couldn’t claim any memory of November 22, 1963, it was still a fixed point in history for me, a clearly marked line between a before and after. I suppose that 9/11 is that for young people, even the ones who weren’t born yet and who have no real memory of the day itself. 

I remember 9/11 very vividly, of course, because I was a 36-year-old working mother and not a child just old enough to retain memories. This is when you can call yourself old. 

*****

And I am old. Wednesday was my birthday. I turned 61. There’s no particular significance to that number, but I do think that it marks the official descent into old age. 60 was the end of the 50s, which a lot of extremely optimistic people still consider middle age (I mean, do the math, right?) 61 is the first step toward 70, and 70 is old by anyone’s calendar. People can say that 60 is the new 50 (I don’t say that, but some people do) but 70 is just the old 70. 

The word “descent” might leave you with the impression that I’m sad about my age, but I’m not. I actually really like the peaceful, settled quality of early old age. And I’m sure that there are still (God willing) lots of interesting things ahead. 

*****

I know it seems a little solipsistic to tie the 9/11 25th anniversary to my birthday, but both things happened during the same week. And memories are all about us, anyway. Unless we are one of the few people who happen to have been there or who lost friends or family members, we talk about the 9/11 attacks in personal terms. We talk about where we were and what we were doing and who we were with. And our children listen and wonder what it was really like.