DIVAGATING
By Gwen S., Clarke
Back when “recycling” was just beginning to have ecological connotations (the word isn’t even in my trusty 1956 Webster’s), I sent my good buddy, Annie Bee a birthday card that began, “This is the Age of Ecology.”
Inside was the portentous message: “Don’t throw this card away—recycle it to a friend! Happy Birthday! “
It was 1977. “Star Wars” was just a movie, President Carter alerted us to an energy crisis, nine million New Yorkers found themselves in the dark and, if that wasn’t bad enough, Elvis up and died!
Two months and six days later, I had a birthday. Back came the card, from Annie Bee and her husband, Jack. In 1978, I noted that Cycle #3 “makes this a tricycled card” and added our first son-in-law to the closing roster that had previously included spouse, self, and our three offspring.
Duly, by Cycle #5, the first of seven grandchildren joined the well-wishers.
By Cycle #11, everyone knew who shot J.R., Russia was running all over the heavens (and Afghanistan) and a handsome actor had replaced the peanut farmer in the White House.
As years passed, the card became a metaphor for our dinner table. A leaf was added to the table and the first of 17 (so far) sheets was appended to the card.
Anne acknowledged our age difference (a mere seven years) and let the poetic Pandora out of the box when I hit a milestone birthday on Cycle #14:
“Ah, yes, today’s the day we greet with care!
How do we know? We’ve been there.”
Anne and her sentimental Irish husband shared the countless momentous occasions in our three-rugrat domicile, with Jack growing more misty-eyed over the rites of passage than either parent.
Cycle #16 was the last time his signature was there.
When cycle #17 came due, I waxed sentimental: If it weren’t for high tide, there’d be no pretty shells. The Irishman would have lapped it up.
In 1988, our ricocheting robin had farther to travel than the usual ten blocks. My husband and I moved from the sun belt to this four-season climate, where both Anne and Hurricane Hugo managed to find us. Tremors from my October 17 birthday celebration were felt as far away as San Francisco, oil stained the coast of Alaska, and ecology had become a household word.
A force of nature named Andrew further tightened the ties that bind, as Anne’s home, in the lee of a gigantic fallen tree sheltered members of both families. Its repercussions prompted #33’s doggerel:
From ’92 to ’93, we lived in high anxiety.
And just in case you think I’m kiddin’-
“It’s an ill wind that blows no good”.
It didn’.
We’ve tacitly omitted gut-wrenching happenings from THE CARD. Anne’s mother, quirky, enigmatic Lady Josephine slept away on the fifteenth anniversary of Jack’s death; my own dear one was soon to follow. As a measure of my friend, she showed up, as our family gathered, with a huge sliced ham and a package of split peas. “My flowers for Nana,” said Lady Josephine’s practical daughter.
When Father Time’s odometer turned over all four digits, concerns about viruses plagued 295 million computer users. Fortunately, email did not replace our birthday card, which continued to snail through the mail.
Cycle #51 trumpeted a great-granddaughter. Cycle #69 is self-explanatory:
To say we’re oldsters is just nuts!
Who’d even think that is a putz!
We’ve put in our time
And we’ve done it in rhyme,
So, even with a walker,
We struts.
A few decades ago, I’d have been sitting on my eyelashes, wondering what was coming next. Now, experience tells me that I will find out soon enough. Although I wish I could be like the little Dutch boy, with my finger in the dike of time, stemming its gush, I know better. Recognizing and savoring what’s good and coming to terms with the rest is the best I can do.
Some mornings, when I wake up and realize that another week or month or year has gone by since I last made note of it, I know the value of a thing like this 40-year-old card, being stamped, as we speak, and sent on its 79th cycle.
