My mother turns 89 today and continues to live a rich and active life. Unlike the woman in the picture, she doesn’t have two live-in maids but resides alone. She spends her time writing a poetry column, participating in book clubs and women’s groups, swimming regularly in her lake, reading novels (especially Austen, Dickens, and Trollope), and fighting an unending battle with nature in her house in the woods. In her case, nature in tooth and claw is represented by beavers damming up the water flow, pileated woodpeckers attacking the siding, squirrels gnawing on the video lines, mice invading her car, flying squirrels and bats nesting in the eaves, raccoons invading the back porch, and deer eating anything she tries to plant.
Some part of her has to remain young to keep fighting the good fight. Because 89 is the new 75, here’s a Robert Service poem written to celebrate his own 75th birthday. Happy birthday, mama.
For all the happiness that’s mine;
That I am festive, fit and free
To savor women, wit and wine;
That I may game of golf enjoy,
And have a formidable drive:
In short, that I’m a gay old boy
Though I be
Seventy-and-five.
(I’m not a crock, when all is said),
I mustn’t let my feet get cold,
And should wear woollen socks in bed;
A worsted night-cap too, forsooth!
To humor her I won’t contrive:
A man is in his second youth
When he is
Seventy-and-five.
And not till then, I warn my wife;
At eighty I’ll recant my sins,
And live a staid and sober life.
But meantime let me whoop it up,
And tell the world that I’m alive:
Fill to the brim the bubbly cup –
Here’s health to
Seventy-and-five!
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