Best of Beth Ashley: Instead of the doom, focus on the precious

Editor’s note: The IJ is reprinting some of the late Beth Ashley’s columns. This is from 2010.

Recently, my No. 4 son turned 50.

If he’s 50, how old am I?

I am shocked, shocked, shocked to realize that I’m not young anymore.

My first, Pete, will be 59, come November. How did that happen?

My children have all moved up in the family hierarchy. Their schedules are busier, more urgent than mine. They have become the energy in every get-together; I have become old lady in the corner. My oldest boy, stepson Ken, is already a grandfather.

The boys have noticed the passage of time. They’re more and more solicitous in my presence. When we walk together, they offer me an arm. I usually take it.

I’m sure my age is shocking to them, too.

I remember well when my parents grew old. In what seemed the twinkling of an eye, they were no longer the ones we leaned upon; they began leaning on us.

When I left home in 1948 to live in Paris, I fought tears as I bade my father goodbye. I somehow knew I would never see him again, and I didn’t.

My mom lived on for many years; in fact I lived with her in her cottage in Belvedere, after I returned from Europe. She became the shoulder I leaned on; she cared for baby Peter when I went to work for the IJ and she cooked dinner and packed my lunch, often avocado sandwiches, lovingly made.

When I married my second husband and left the Belvedere cottage, she lived there alone but unhappy. My husband and I tried to lighten the darkness; she came to dinner at least once a week and often stayed the night. My sister Faith, who lived near her in Belvedere, watched with a loving eye. Our hearts grew heavy as Mom grew old and sometimes sick. Eventually she moved into the Redwoods in Mill Valley. She died at age 83.

My grief overwhelmed me. When I depart, my children will mourn me, too. Poor loves, faced with life’s inevitabilities.

At 84, I’m still here, but what will next year hold? And the next?

Well, enough of gloom and (upcoming) doom. To dwell on one’s mortality is to miss half the fun.

Many people were astonished when Rowland and I got married. What’s the point, they seemed to say, when you’re already in your mid-80s? Can you possibly still have fun? And if you do, goes the thinking, how can it possibly last?

We never thought that way.

Each day is precious — more precious than the days that have gone before. What a bonus it has been. We might have decided to stay stuck in old age, but decided to pretend we are young.

We continue to book exotic travels, knowing we can’t climb mountains anymore, or jump on and off little boats. But there’s lots we can still do — and we plan to do it, as long as our old legs can carry us.

We walk every morning. I go to the gym. Rowland plays golf and tennis when he can. As the song lyric goes, we are “stayin’ alive” — at least doing our best.

As I write, Rowland is exploring properties to buy on the coast of Maine. How absurd, you may say — at such an advanced age, what can they do with a cottage in Maine?

Well, maybe we would only have it for a year or two, if we buy it at all, but with what joy we could fix it up, with what faith we could plan our summers and with what satisfaction we would contemplate the ocean — near the place where we first met!

Absurdity may be part of the package. Our lives are based on the here and now. We take each day as it comes, with gratitude for each hour and each moment of laughter.

There’s no way to know what’s ahead.

If we fastened upon the possibilities, such as getting an illness or health problems, what fun would that be?

Doom and gloom is a reality, of course, but we hold it at bay. It’s out there like clouds hidden beyond the beautiful sunshine.

My No. 4 son has turned 50. If he’s as lucky as we, he still has a long way to go.