On Turning Eighty
Fern: Your birthday fell on election day. Quite a present you got this year. I was surprised by my reaction to the result of the election. Which was: “Ok, a really crazy dog caught the car. Let’s see what he does with it.”
Joe: I’m just relieved that it’s over. But nobody knows for sure whether November 5th is my real birthday or not. Born at home in a small town in Lebanon in 1944, I never had a birth certificate. When we were in America only a few years, I asked my mother for a birthday party, like my American friends were having. She was certain I was born in the first week of November. And since the upcoming Saturday was the 5th, she declared that to be my birthday. A couple years later, when I asked for another party, she told me Saturday the 8th would be my birthday. I was around eight or nine and knew enough by then that your birthday didn’t change for convenience’s sake. I stuck with November 5th.
Fern: You never had a birth certificate. Aren’t you at risk of being deported?
Joe: I have naturalization papers. They’re around here somewhere. Besides, I’m too old to bother with.
Fern: What is it like to be eighty?
Joe: Better than it was to be seventy-nine. The last six months of that year I was in physical therapy for my back issues. I thought: well, this is it. I’m never going to get rid of this pain. And then, with time and physical therapy, I did.
Fern: It took you a really long time to finish the last painting.
Joe: Usually I paint standing up, but pain prevented me standing for more than a couple minutes at a time. So I worked—on the days I even felt up to painting—seated on a high stool. Adding to the complications, this particular painting happens to be one of my largest and most detailed efforts. Here’s a photo. It’s called “Taxi! Taxi!”
Fern: New York! I love this one.
So at eighty, any regrets? Have you had a few? Too few to mention? Joe: None that I would dwell on. At eighty I’ve outlived some friends and loved ones. Those losses I regret. On balance, I’ve also outlived a few sons of bitches, too. So there’s that.
My most recent regret is from last Tuesday night’s poker game where I folded an 8-2, off suit, and then the flop came 8-8-2. But how could I have seen that coming? I couldn’t have. I shrug, tell myself “That’s poker.” I wait for the next deal and feel grateful for the chips I have left.
Fern: And nearing Thanksgiving, what are you thankful for at eighty?
Joe: Besides being married to you? I’m thankful it doesn’t burn when I pee.
Fern: Oh, funny.
Joe: No joke. Surviving bladder cancer was a main event in my seventies. I’m thankful that my yearly scope just last week was all-clear.
Fern: We’ve both had cancer. I don’t want to one-up you, but mine was scarier and rare: carcinosarcoma. That was almost ten years ago. For a while I used to think of it everyday. If I had a pain in my thumb, I’d perseverate: Do I have thumb cancer?
Joe: I’m grateful for our good health care, Medicare and supplemental insurance.
And grateful to have that temporary handicap sticker when my back was out. I know you used it yourself.
Fern: I was going to Target when all the students were coming back to ISU. The parking lot was crazy. And there were at least five empty spaces in handicapped parking. I only used it once. Maybe twice.
Joe: We’re both story-tellers. So one thing I’m grateful for at eighty is that you listen to stories that you’ve heard me tell dozens of times before with some grace. And even feign interest.
Fern: You, same. Though probably not as much feigning as I.
Joe: After many years, accepting each other, as we are . . . that’s something to be grateful for.
Fern: I know by now that you are always going to leave the knife, sticky with peanut butter, on the kitchen counter rather than put it in the sink. And you will always procrastinate with some simple chore that weighs on you.
Joe: Yes. That’s who I am.
Fern: That doesn’t have to be who you are. Even at eighty, you can become someone else.
Joe: With your nagging, I'll can certainly wish I were someone else.
Fern: Let’s go back to November 5th. The election, not your birthday. I thought there would be a lot of women who went in the booth and secretly voted for Kamala Harris. Turns out there were probably more folks who secretly voted for Trump.
I get it, about the backlash against the Democrats. Progressives can be annoying: the pronouns, the demonization of police, the importance of hiring a Latinx . . . So much tsk-tsking. Like church ladies without a church.
The good thing about a democratic loss is that we are gracious losers. No one whines for years about an unfair election. No one storms the capital. Democrats feel awful. We call our friends and commiserate. We walk the dog.
Joe: We don’t have a dog. But you sure busied yourself cleaning out closets.
Fern: Hillary Clinton’s loss to Trump in 2016 resulted in a peaceful women’s march and a big sale on pink yarn. Where do we go from here?
Joe: I don’t know. But there is a line from an essay by William Maxwell about his nearing ninety. Good advice, too, at turning eighty and still looking for pictures to paint. “Every now and then, in my waking moments, and especially when I am in the country, I stand and look hard at everything.”
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It's been TOO LONG since we've heard from you. Love this, all of it. And Fern, I'm so with you on the how our team can be "like church ladies without a church." Well put.
And I'm grateful to know you well enough that I hear your voices as I read your substack!
I'm also grateful that, despite appearances, my Dad would appear to be near death many times, just to bounce back. Although at 90, it wasn't much of a bounce. So I don't get too engaged with any health trauma and that allows me to pretend that I'm not getting older.