Endings and Beginnings

 

We think that a New Year, our artificial numbering of the orbits of the sun since the possible birth of a son of a god plus a couple of days, is significant. That we have to stay up until midnight (in our time zone?) to "see it in." Our mayor has ordered that bars and restaurants cut it short for a 10:30p.m. curfew as COVID-19 surges in our community. The state has sued the city for trying to enforce this order. 

There are real events in time, birth and death, and sunrise and sunset. A year and its seasons. But we arbitrarily label them to give us a sense of control and order. So tomorrow is no different than today. Except that it's time to worry about taxes. To wind up our bookkeeping. To write a different number at the end of the thing we call a date. We try to wrap it up in the media with lists of deaths, lists of bests, etc.

The COVID-19 Pandemic does not respect your new calendar or planner. It surges on. And that has made me realize, more than ever, that there are no magic dates or deadlines except the natural ones. 

Since the pandemic we often drive somewhere and walk around outside, keeping away from people. We have walked in a cemetery a few miles away quite a bit. In the photo, FFP (my husband) looks at the simple headstones for his parents. The space to his right is ours. There isn't room for two coffins (no double stacking here, unlike where my parents are buried). We will allegedly be cremated and placed there. We have talked during the last months of isolation about buying a marker. But, perhaps, we won't even have one. 

There isn't much real significance to the day of your death. We arbitrarily assign it based on our system. My mother's day of death was August 28, 2002. August 28 was her younger sister's birthday. We cling to significance, though. I once read a book on probability that said that the chance a person died in the quarter after their birthday was much higher than the 1/4 you might expect. As if people wanted to and in some cases did will themselves to pass that marker. 

We don't age by years, though. We age by bits and drabs and tiny insults. We give the arrival of a new year an artificial power. Whereas the actual day of birth and death are significant events, their anniversaries are not, really, except in our brains. 

I am not religious, but my parents were. I put this bible verse on my dad's obituary. 

"A good name is better than precious ointment; and the day of death than the day of one's birth." Ecclesiastes 7:1

While we celebrate anniversaries of days and the flipping of the calendar, anniversaries are our arbitrary triggers of memory. 

I AM 60

Apparently so is Puma. They have a store at the Domain. I was surprised to see all this "I AM 60" decor in their window when we were out there the other day. Before I started wearing New Balance some years ago I always liked Puma tennies.

I am 60, but I still don't have my life figured out. What's up with that?

This morning I had a conversation with my dad. We were talking about something and I said it was so far in the future I didn't care, I wouldn't live that long.

"You will live as long as I have," he asserted.

"You keep going and you are going to make another Christmas and make 93."

"I'm planning on it," he said. "Christmas is almost here. I haven't even decided what to buy for myself."

Which is hilarious. He buys almost nothing for himself but gas for the car, groceries and the occasional article of clothing which he grudgingly gets to replace something ancient. The other morning I was over there and it was cool and he'd grabbed a corduroy shirt out of his closet.

"You know where I got this shirt?"

I didn't.

"Deedy [our affectionate name for my grandmother on my mother's side] made it for me."

I have no idea when the shirt was made, but my grandmother died in 1978 and she'd been too infirm to sit at a sewing machine for a while before that. So, I don't know, maybe the shirt was forty years old if a day. He never gives up on a good thing. I wore out my last article of clothing that she made me in the '60's about a decade ago.

Compared to my dad, sixty is young. And I do feel young. Immature even. When will I grow up and figure stuff out?

And I'm still laughing about my dad's Christmas comment. He doesn't buy presents for other people either and only sends money.

Shapes

I'm sure I have something to say today. Or yesterday. As I type this it is exactly midnight. I was so weary earlier in the day. I just wanted to sleep and I had all these things that I should have been doing. I haven't slept a lot the last couple of nights. The picture is a reflection portrait of a very good friend who doesn't like to have her picture taken.

A cup of coffee and a party for someone who reached the age of 90 revived me and now I'll stay up too late once again. Life is funny, huh? I should go to sleep now.