My mother recently celebrated her 80th birthday. She defies the stereotypes of what someone at that age is supposed to look or act like. Florence Henderson is 80. Cicely Tyson is 80. Willie Nelson, Barbara Feldon, Joan Rivers — all 80. It’s hard for me to grasp that these icons are that age. But then again, what do we who are under 80 really know about being 80, other than the notion that it’s practically the new 70?
Roger Angell penned a touching piece for The New Yorker about life in his 90s, offering a glimpse into his heart and soul — his words resonated with timelessness and grace. He emphasized that we are never too old to cherish meaningful connections and deep love. And let’s not forget, having a loyal dog is definitely a plus.
Speaking of dogs, my mother doesn’t have one today. When my siblings and I were young, we had a Golden Retriever named Max. Mom always claimed that we got her for our sake, as she was not a dog person at all. Yet, when Max suffered from seizures — which happened frequently towards the end of her life — it was my mother who cradled and comforted her until the episode passed.
As far as love goes, my father was her one and only soulmate. Though he has passed on, he remains ever-present in her thoughts. I sometimes ponder how different her life might have been had she chosen to welcome someone else into her life after his passing. But for reasons known only to her, she opted against that path.
In recent years, she has kept herself engaged and avoided the feeling of invisibility that many seniors report. She has poured her energy into creating continuing education courses for her peers, which has helped maintain her vibrant spirit.
While many of the common clichés about aging don’t seem to apply to her, she has slowed down just a bit. With a wave of her hand, she often brushes off offers of help (unless it involves technology, of course). But that stubbornness is nothing new; she was always headstrong.
At her birthday celebration, we watched old home movies and flipped through family photographs, some dating back to her own childhood — a nostalgic journey into a bygone era. Every summer Sunday, my grandparents’ backyard became the hub for family and friends. Men in ties and pressed shirts played cards at folding tables under leafy trees, while women donned their best dresses, stockings, and heels to play ping-pong, and children sang and danced to “Ring Around the Rosie.” For the first time, I viewed her life through a different lens: the richness and beauty of a family of immigrants happy just to be together in America. She was once a dimpled, curly-haired girl who blossomed into a beautiful, sometimes self-conscious woman with big dreams, who married a man with even bigger aspirations and started a family of her own.
My mother managed to narrate the memories for our guests, sharing anecdotes and highlights from her past. As a child, she did this for me, whispering lessons about the artwork we admired in museums, the actors in films, the fashions in store windows, and the collectibles she cherished.
A few nights later at her home, as we prepared to say our goodbyes before our flights the next day, one of my sons, her youngest grandson and an art student in New York, admired a striking print featuring a giant eyeball hanging on her wall. He had asked her about it many times over the years, and once again, she shared the story — the artist’s name, his background, and what he was known for. While she spoke, I surveyed the room and caught glimpses of my own childhood — objects that represent different phases of our family’s life. Each item echoed her voice, whispering stories that have always breathed life into them, sharing wisdom that I sometimes embraced, sometimes ignored.
“It’s yours,” she told my son about the print. “I’ll write your name on the back.”
In that moment, our eyes met. I wrapped my arm around her, fighting back tears. But eventually, I couldn’t hold them back. We both cried. I understood the significance of her words — she’s 80, after all — and it felt like yet another lesson she had shared with me.
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In summary, my mother’s life lessons continue to resonate with me, serving as a gentle reminder of the importance of connection, love, and the stories that shape our existence.
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