The Odometer of Life

When my odometer rolled over to 569,400 I was somewhere on the road between Massachusetts and Maryland. The "vehicle" was this 65-year-old body. The number is 65x365x24 = hours I've been alive. If one hour = one mile, I'm a sturdy, reliable old engine, and I've had very few breakdowns, if I do say so myself.

A road trip with your husband, sister, and brother-in-law is not a bad way to celebrate a birthday. The miles roll by, with pleasant conversation and pretty views - interspersed with a few traffic jams and crazy drivers. Kind of like life itself.

We spent the night in a motel with a breath-taking view of the rolling hills of Pennsylvania. Dinner was at a chain called something like the Ground Round, and when I asked if they had wine, the waiter said, "Well, we have red, but not white." Odd, we thought.

When he served my cabernet sauvignon, the amount in the glass was a little skimpy. "That's all the cab we have," he said. "When you drink that, I'll bring you something else." Odder, we thought, but the Syrah he brought was just fine. Meanwhile, the others enjoyed their various adult beverages, too.

Kevin handed me the bill to check, and it was way too low. We pointed out to the waiter that he had not charged us for drinks. "Well, we can't because we don't have a liquor license any more. So we just give it away." Oddest, we thought. But kind of a cool birthday present on the road, and the waiter got a really big tip!

* * * * *

As it turned out, my dear family in Maryland decided to make a fuss about my birthday. We gathered at my parents' farm, where everybody sang a clever song about how, "Walkers and handrails and new dental fittings" are now "a few of my favorite things. Thanks, guys! But they also presented me with a beautiful album with photos and sweet notes about who I am in their lives. There was even an hysterically funny video made in Europe by two of my ingenious nephews and one wife. And delicious food, and three kinds of cake baked by my older sister. And presents, too!

As I wrote to some of them later: "Thanks again for everything! Occasionally I open my wonderful album at random and read a little something. When I was telling Erik that it’s a little overwhelming to have so many nice things said about you all at once, he said, 'Sometimes you just have to take it.' So, I am happily ‘taking it.’ I do appreciate your finding good attributes to focus on, and I will try to live up to them. At least more often!!!"

Gone, But Not Forgotten!

I was five the first time I accidentally dropped something I loved in the toilet. It was a harmonica, and it fell through the hole in an outhouse. I know - pretty gross! I remember that sinking feeling, watching it disappear. I was crushed when my father refused to retrieve it.

I felt exactly the same way last night, as I watched my beloved pedometer swirl at the bottom of the toilet bowl, and "Wait! Wait! That's my pedometer, and it's about to . . . Oh, no! It just went down the toilet."

My sister Melissa thought it was hysterically funny. We sat on a banquette in the lobby of that fancy seafood place in Plymouth, Massachusetts, and laughed until the hostess gave us the evil eyeball. Then we laughed some more.

Today, I miss my old buddy. I keep reaching in my pocket, and it's not there. How far have I walked? Walt said on Facebook that he walked 40,000 steps yesterday. I have nothing to report.

I also have some existential questions about the steps I took during the two and one-half weeks that pedometer and I were together. What becomes of the steps when the pedometer goes down the toilet? Is it as though they were never taken? Are they gone forever? Were they taken in vain? Or do my steps exist in some alternate universe and someday I will catch up with them again?

These are, unexpectedly, the questions I am pondering on the evening of my 65th birthday, sitting in a motel on the way between Massachusetts and Maryland.