Word spread quickly, and the place became very popular with the “Yuppie” crowd (for those unfamiliar, “Yuppie” was a 1980’s term, an acronym for “Young Urban Professional;” we were Yuppies, and Coffee Achievers, too – Google them for a chuckle.) Every Friday afternoon, like clockwork, we’d hit “happy hour” with an ever-changing entourage of friends and co-workers. There were no spouses, no kids, no obligations; or so it seemed. It was, in so many ways, a good time.
Years passed. We grew up, I suppose - acquired families and mortgages and baggage. We had the occasional “reunion” when we were able to pull it off, but over time the gatherings became less frequent, the attendance more sparse. It was as though we’d been a part of the cast of “Cheers” for a while, but like the show itself, our ratings had dropped, and so it was over.
But funny things happen at midlife, as we find ourselves stepping onto the turf of the Back Nine. Extramarital affairs happen. Convertibles happen. Gym memberships happen. Goatees happen. You name it; internalization of the reality of impending mortality causes people to go a little crazy. Sometimes, we try to find something within ourselves that we’d long ago abandoned.
And so it was, very recently, that a few of us found ourselves back in our long-abandoned booth, slugging down beer and Buffalo Wings. Save for the prices, the place hadn’t changed a bit. The food and drink were great, as was the company. But there was a surreal quality to the experience. We’d become different. We no longer looked like most of the other patrons (what are Yuppies called these days, anyway?) Yes, of course we were older; but we had also grown wiser, and sadder – or perhaps just more somber. Oh, we’ve all had good lives to this point, and on balance we’ve no reason to complain; but we’d each borne unique crosses of one sort or another, and it became clear as the conversation progressed that the weight of our burdens and the years we’d spent carrying them had taken their toll. I’ve always insisted that Thomas Wolfe was wrong, that you can go home again; but I’m starting to doubt myself.
I wrote most of this post in the living room of my mother’s house, sitting on a sofa that was built in the 1950’s. She was sleeping in her bedroom, in mid-afternoon. She is 90 years old. I had traveled a fair distance to take her out to dinner for Mother’s Day; but she didn’t feel up to leaving the house. Her mind is still sharp, but her body is slowly failing. She knows this, and in characteristic fashion speaks to it directly: “I just need what nobody can give me – a new body.” I look into her eyes and see my future. It scares the hell out of me. Longevity is a blessing and a curse.
My mother is a stoic and eminently practical woman. She’s a classic member of the Greatest Generation – she’d lived through the Great Depression, and that experience had, to a great degree, formed her world view. She wastes nothing. Her demeanor is blunt and to the point. She speaks her mind, and doesn’t particularly care what others think or feel. Her background and personality, of course, played a large role in shaping my childhood. I learned at an early age not to expect anything to be sugar-coated, and nothing was.
By the time I reached adulthood, I had come to understand that there are certain topics of conversation that are best avoided with Mom. My wife quickly learned this as well, with a bit of trial-and-error in the beginning. The general theme was to avoid creating the impression that were somehow profligate spendthrifts. This was more easily said than done: buying a new car, for example, danced dangerously close to the cliff; and a car is too big to hide. But that could be alright, if we played up the terrific price bargain we'd negotiated. Discarding leftover food, no matter how small the morsel, led directly to a lecture about starving children in the Third World. When I was a kid, it was always Biafra for some reason. The starving children there must have been on the TV news a lot. Saving the food in a tiny bit of aluminum foil in the back of the refrigerator until it grew mold and then tossing it – that has always been OK.
When our children came along, the ‘thrift’ theme was extended to include a “you’re spoiling those kids” corollary; so we stepped up our game, expanding the list of off-limits topics. Our kids walked on eggshells while visiting Grandma’s house, lest they slip up and leave a wet towel somewhere, or forget to turn off the lights when leaving a room. When stuff like that happened – and, of course, it did – they would get the lecture and we would get that look – the one telling us that we were wholly incompetent parents raising unruly scoundrels.
This Mother’s Day visit was unfortunate, in that Mom wasn’t feeling well, but it was also unusual in a positive way, in that we actually had a real conversation, transcending the superficiality of the weather and the news stories of the day. It was just the two of us. Dinner had been a bust, so we’d ordered in Chinese food. She told me about how poorly she’s been feeling lately, in somewhat graphic detail. She asked me how old I was – she’d lost track – and she seemed surprised by the answer. I’m further along than she’d thought. We talked about regrets – a traditionally verboten topic. We talked about lives that feel like to-do lists, marked by endless tasks and chores, to the exclusion of most everything else (or so it seems at times.) I mentioned that my wife and I have had our noses to the proverbial grindstone for decades, that we'd sent one daughter to Europe and the other to college, yet we’d somehow managed to postpone our 20th anniversary cruise for three years and counting. What Mom said next surprised me: “you should go. Book it now, while you’re young enough to enjoy it. You should focus on doing things that make you happy now.”
And there it was - the pleasure principle. Since I was a child, I’d heard about the virtues of hard work, that I needed to save my pennies for a rainy day, how “lucky” I was to have a steady job, and on and on. Now, spurred on by what I imagine to be her own perception of a darkening stage, my mother appeared circumspect. She went on to say, as though I needed a reminder, that life is short. From her perspective, even a very long life goes by shockingly quickly.
Driving back home this morning, I realized that my mother had given me a Mother’s Day gift – a new perspective to ponder. We are going to book that trip. We must. But beyond that, I’ve got some reassessing and re-prioritizing to do. Change is in the wind. It is time.
