by sheila morris
I’m thinking of a number
Which makes me start to wonder
What is the magic number
Written in the sky?
The number that is time
Surrendered by the prime
To centuries of decline
Marked by colors in the sky.
We cannot know our number
Which causes us to ponder
Where our minds may wander
While we contemplate the sky.
my friend Dawne and me at Lake Bowen yesterday –
were we thinking of a number?
Carl’s definitely thinking of his number these days
The exam room was smaller than most, no frills, stark white like every other doctor’s office I’d ever been in – the chair was a classic stackable with no arms. I imagined a long uncomfortable wait as the friendly masked doctor’s assistant waltzed cheerily out of the room after taking my vital signs, leaving me with the sunny parting words: the doctor will be right in. I was dubious, of course, but my first visit to this gastroenterology practice deserved an open mind.
To my surprise the door opened almost as soon as she closed it, and a young masked doctor entered pushing a computer sitting on a tall desktop that rolled. He squeezed his equipment into the tiny room, rolled to a stop in front of me and closed the door.
He had the same positive energy his assistant had as we began to discuss my health concerns which were, in my mind at least, unremarkable. He tapped computer keys as we talked for a few minutes. During a lull in the conversation I asked him how long he had been a practicing physician.
“Twenty years,” he replied.
“Gosh,” I said. “You look very young in that mask. Plus you’re so cheerful while we’re talking about bowel movements which I assume must be the topic of most of your patient interviews. I admire your attitude.”
He seemed pleased about the compliment, murmuring a thank you. Then he motioned to an exam table opposite my chair and asked me if I thought I could get on it. I assured him I could. I was, however, grateful for the two steps at the bottom of the table and began my climb which must have taken longer than I imagined because he chose those moments to ask me if I was retired, what I had done, what I was doing now. I answered in halting sentences that didn’t sound like me at all, I thought, but I was focused on the ascent to the exam table which I finally accomplished.
As I was settling in a prone position, the young doctor said, “Well, you’ve had a good ride. Yes,” he continued as he checked my heart and lungs, “I hope when I’m 74 I can say the same thing. Well, I’ve had a good ride.”
I concentrated on breathing in and out…
Pretty was waiting for me when I joined her in the car. When I told her what the doctor said about my “good ride,” she rolled her eyes. That’s Pretty for you – she never tries to rain on a parade. I believe her comment was “whatever.”
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I published this piece four years ago and still laugh when I think about the gastroenterologist behind the mask. Years later I heard our son Drew echo the same sentiments about someone’s passing. Well, he said, they had a good ride. When I think about it as I enter the final year of my seventies this month, I have had quite the ride, and I’ve learned a few truths along the way.
“No matter where I rode to, that’s where I was. The ride isn’t over for me, but it’s slowing down. Choices. Trade-offs. Chance. Timing. Priorities. Obsession. Conviction. Change. Challenges. Love. Sex. Ambition. Death. Loss. Grief. Joy. Pride. Exhilaration. The ride took me to all of these places in no apparent order and, often, more than one at the same time. What I found was that I was always there. Where am I now that I need me? I’m here, just as you are. Don’t wait for the ride – don’t hope for the ride. Saddle up now, and embrace the journey. Celebrate yourself for who you are this day. Along the way, remember to try an outrageous act or two. You may find that your world is not quite the same.”
(Not Quite the Same Epilogue)
Yesterday, when I was young the taste of life was sweet like rain upon my tongue. I teased at life as if it were a foolish game the way an evening breeze would tease a candle flame. The thousand dreams I dreamed, the splendid things I planned, I always built to last on weak and shifting sand. I lived by night and shunned the naked light of day and only now I see how the years have run away. Yesterday, when I was young there were so many songs that waited to be sung. So many wild pleasures that lay in store for me and so much pain my dazzled eyes refused to see. I ran so fast that time and youth at last ran out. I never stopped to think what life was all about and every conversation that I can recall concerns itself with me and nothing else at all. Yesterday the moon was blue, and every crazy day brought something new to do. And I used my magic age as if it were a wand, I never saw the waste and emptiness beyond. The game of love I played with arrogance and pride, and every flame I lit, so quickly, quickly died The friends I made all seemed somehow to drift away, and only I am left on stage to end the play.Yesterday, when I was young there were so many songs that waited to be sung. So many wild pleasures that lay in store for me, and so much pain my dazzled eyes refused to see. There are so many songs in me that won’t be sung ’cause I feel the bitter taste of tears upon my tongue. And the time has come for me to pay for yesterday when I was young
(Source: Musixmatch Songwriters: Herbert Kretzmer / Charles Aznavour)
Unlike the lyrics in this song, I do stop to think what life was all about, a personal luxury as the general life expectancy age for women in the United States is 79 years which will be my age in five weeks. I can identify with these reflections, with their universal themes of how the years run away, the wild pleasures mixed in with the dazzling pain, teasing at life, dreams that won’t ever be realized – all compressed into memory makers. Every day I am reminded that my age is a gift, unmerited favor, grace that should be celebrated.
The closer I get to a birthday, the more I care about life expectancy and the extra rabbit holes I go down with my Googling. There are more rabbit holes in a Google search than there are Jackrabbits in West Texas. The good news is if I can last just five more weeks until my 79th. birthday on April 21st., my average life expectancy is 9.5 years or I will live until I am 88.5 years old. Sigh. Apparently I need to be extra careful, though. Try not to fall, avoid fatty foods, tell Pretty how much I love her every night, and mostly be a kinder person to my family and friends.
Fun fact in one rabbit hole: short people outlive tall ones. Good grief. Finally, a benefit of my body type.
five-year-old Ella, three-year-old Molly, and Naynay at Krispy Kreme Store
Nana and Ella love Krispy Kreme donuts
Molly doesn’t like donuts (according to her)
Hmm. Maybe Molly needs to reconsider her position on donuts.
I’m trying to figure out how to eat the icing first
is there anything more delicious than a donut?
Yes! It’s a donut with M&M candy in the icing!
Such an adventure with our two granddaughters who have grown up with Krispy Kreme donuts but always in a drive-thru setting – never actually going inside a store where the donuts are made. Heavenly aromas as we opened the door to the store and feasts for the eyes that opened wide to see the dozens of varieties in spotless display cases as hundreds of donuts moved through an assembly line in full view behind the cases. The girls were mesmerized and a bit overwhelmed by the choices when we limited them to two each but thrilled to sit at a little table with their milk to experiment with unusual tastes and colors. Finally, a race to the restroom to wash hands and faces when we had to take them to their parents.
As Nana leaned into the middle row of the grannymobile to buckle Ella in her car seat when we were leaving the Krispy Kreme store, Ella asked out of the blue: Nana, did you marry Naynay? Nana said yes, I did. I was sitting next to Ella who then turned to me and asked the question Naynay, did you marry Nana? I answered yes, I married Nana.
But you’re both girls, Ella continued, and I nodded yes to her. But that’s okay, I said. Without skipping a beat as the wheels turned in her five-year-old brain she said, Owen had two moms. Owen was a little boy in her first daycare for two years. He did, indeed, have two moms we met when we picked Ella up in the afternoons.
Yes, I said. We are two of your grandmothers like Owen’s two mothers.
And that was that. No more questions. No long discussions – they would come later, but for now everything was fine in her mind.
When could we come back to Krispy Kreme??
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Slava Ukraini. For the children.
Old King Cole was a merry old soul,
And a merry old soul was he;
He called for his pipe, and he called for his bowl,
And he called for his fiddlers three.
Old King Don was a grumpy old soul,
and a grumpy old soul was he;
he called for his pens, and he called for his friends,
and he mowed down democracy.
Heh, heh. Sometimes I have to entertain myself and cross my fingers somebody else thinks I’m as funny as I fancy I am.
Since 1709, the Brits have had a nursery rhyme about the fictional Old King Cole. Starting this week in 2025, the Americans across the Pond from the Brits have a chief executive who fancies himself to be a King with the absolute authority to demolish democratic rule in these United States.
Hear ye, hear ye, hear ye, Elon and Don – we ain’t picking up what you’re putting down. The next time we vote for a King, your names will be deleted by the thousands of people affected by your doge department layoffs.
Read the room, guys. Your ship has sailed.
I'll Call It Like I See It 
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