And pretty colors too in the appreciation of being another year older.
Joseph Mackereth
Finally, it is fall again. The humidity is fading, the trees are turning into a curtain of gold and I can think cozy thoughts once more. I love my sweaters, thick socks, I even love rainy days. Rainy days off are the best. Oh well, nothing to do other than make a pot of tea, and curl up with a good book and cookies. That’s a great day in my book.
Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley forests, at least in my area, are predominantly oak trees. Oak trees do not produce the flamboyant colors of New England’s maple trees. Oaks turn a burnished gold, almost bronze, like an old family heirloom. Oak trees in the fall remind me of my great-grandmother’s tea pot, always sitting in the same spot on the wood-burning stove, ready to offer up a cup of comfort. I don’t need New England’s flaming reds when I can have the color of golden treasure.
I am an October baby, so the fall has always been special to me. Any season that regularly produces birthday cake is a good one. I was born at the Southside Community Hospital, a few counties southeast of the Shenanadoah Valley, on the most likely delivery day for babies conceived on New Year’s Eve. There’s a festive fact for you. But it also tells you that my parents were very hopeful for that new year. Yep, this year looks so good it’s time to have a baby.
So here I am, every October since I was carried out of Southside, lurching my way through life and celebrating another year with cake. The older I get, the more I celebrate. If you thought I had big revelries as a child, you should see me now. As my knees remind me daily, I have lived another year. I made it another year. Yippee! Pass the cake. No, pass the whole cake.
Not everyone appreciates the aging process like I do. I will tell the tale of a co-worker I shared an office with long ago. She had been crowned Miss Alabama and competed in the Miss America contest where she was a runner-up. She was everything a lovely Southern woman should be, aspires to be. She was truly a Miss Alabama.
Well, everyone gets the invitation to join AARP on their 50th birthday. When my friend, Miss Alabama, received her AARP invitation she was traumatized. She cried at her desk the whole day. She was turning 50, which you could not tell by looking at her, and the AARP reminded her she was turning 50 and why not join a group whose membership she had assumed started at age 65. Cried. If she wasn’t in therapy before that, she certainly went afterwards.
Me? I like aging. Every 10 years it seems that I congratulate myself for really understanding life and getting it together. Every ten years I tell myself that boy oh boy, I didn’t know much at all before but now I get it. So even though I am constantly improving and wincing at how little I knew just yesterday, I will still think I’ve arrived at adulthood. I will still think I’ve finally “leveled up.” I don’t think any birthday will make me feel grown up, mentally. I’m still that little girl that wants to be an astronaut/ballerina/cowboy.
This fall, as you’re enjoying the elegance of our forests turning shades of gold and bronze, think of this AARP member who still dreams her little girl dreams. And if you see an astronaut wearing a tutu and carrying a lasso, have a piece of cake to celebrate dreams coming true.
The story above first appeared in our September/October 2021 issue. For more like it subscribe today or log in with your active BRC+ Membership. Thank you for your support!