The Elephant in the Room

The Elephant in the Room

I read in the local newspaper this morning that another of my high school classmates had passed away. She was 61 years old.

I can't remember her.

I even pulled out the old, dusty senior yearbook and looked for her picture. I looked at it hard after I found it and tried to remember her. Still no memory of the girl. That's not conclusive evidence that I never knew her. When I attend class reunions, I don't remember LOTS of people and a lot of them remember me. Go figure. But maybe I had her in a class or two? Maybe not. More than likely I passed her in the hallways from time to time on our way to and from classes. Maybe we even smiled and nodded to each other. Or had mutual friends? I know I didn't date her. I definitely remember all the girls I dated!

As I recall there were a number of semi-formal groups or cliques in the high school where I attended. There were the brainiacs, the jocks, the wienies, the theater bunch, the semi-normals and the criminals and criminal wannabes. Maybe a couple others that I don't remember. Homemakers? Farmers? I'll let you try to guess what group I belonged to. I wonder what group the deceased girl belonged to?

I graduated with a large class of seniors in the mid-'60's. That was over 40 years ago, if you're counting. I remember a year later, when I was only 19, and the shock I felt when one of the first of my classmates died. That one I did know – not closely, but I definitely did know him. We went to grade school together for a few years, then four years of high school. He could probably come up with my name if he saw me. I know I could his. He was killed in Vietnam in 1966, if my memory is correct. Killed dead half-way around the world. He was the first of three classmates who lost their lives in that conflict. I knew two of them fairly well. Their names are engraved on the war memorial wall at the local cemetery. The hero's memorial.

I think about him and about the girl who just passed. At least she was given some years to hang a life upon. She was gifted with 43 more years to work with after high school, to build a career, to marry and to love a spouse, to have children and even grandchildren. To make a mark and to accomplish something or at least to have the chance to accomplish something. Some would call it a long life. I wouldn't use that adjective. She's the same age as I am and I don't consider myself old, but that sort of judgment is, of course, purely subjective. When I was a kid, someone of my present age I'd have considered ancient. I surely wouldn't now. But when I compare her years to the miserly one year after high school that the other fellow was given, there's really no comparison. She had a life. He didn't.

I find myself, in my daily life, performing some of the same actions I recall my father doing at somewhat the same time in his life. One of them is to check the obituaries on the front page of the newspaper as one of my morning tasks. To look at the names and the ages. To look for familiar names and to look at similar ages to my own.

To do a little quiet math.

It's a morbid activity but it has become a habit that I'm not willing to give up. It seems so odd, too, reading of fellow travelers on this earth of my age passing away from – apparently – natural causes! Spooky stuff. Because when I look at the world I feel very much the young man who graduated with his high school class those long years ago. The reflection in the mirror tells me a different story, however. I don't know where that ol' codger came from, but he's been hanging around for a while and I'm growing used to his face, I guess.

Most of my parent's generation are gone and the ones who are left are definitely getting quite long in the tooth and thin on the ground. I guess it's my classmates and I who have inherited the distinction of being the “mature” generation at the present time. Us baby-boomers are now the movers and shakers of the world. What a disconcerting thought.

I don't think I've ever moved or shaken anything.

I experienced something a few weeks ago that demonstrated to me that I had slipped into the “older” generation in the short period of time while I hadn't been looking. I was having a discussion with some workmates at the office. An old friend of mine of similar age and I were discoursing on something that had happened to us “a few years ago”. The incident was fresh in our minds and seemed, at least to us, to have happened “only a couple of years ago”although, in our hearts, we knew it'd been a bit longer than that. Then, out of the blue, another workmate – a younger lady who was listening intently to the conversation, said innocently, “Wow, listening to you guys is just like listening to the History Channel!”

My friend and I looked at each other and suddenly realized that our “recent” memory was of an experience that had probably happened before she had been born! It was funny and we all laughed, but the fact of our advanced years had suddenly become the proverbial “elephant in the room that no one talks about”.

After that incident I took a look around the office I work at. The man I work my normal shift with was born the year I got married. The other folks in my immediate office area averaged 10 to almost 30 years younger. My boss is that same age as my younger brother. I'm the old man in the office! When the hell had that happened? Then I relax and enjoy the position. As I always am wont to say, “Getting old sure as hell beats the alternative!”

So I more or less ignore the passing years. I still enjoy a crisp fall day, a thick and juicy steak, fresh strawberries and the sight of pretty girls everywhere I look. I still look forward to summer vacations, playing with my dogs, watching a new movie and returning home to my wife after a busy night at work.

I guess as long as the heart still beats, the aches and pains are bearable and my mind remains as clear and impressionable as the 18-year-old high school graduate that still resides inside this more “mature” body, I'll try to forget the years that accumulate and the gray hairs that multiply.

But I'll still do my little math problems with the newspaper every morning and I'll still give thanks for being around to read it.