Memories

Age Is Just a Thing

Posted on by Mark Aldrich

One friend, upon hearing me describe a new ache or an old pain, used to reply, “You’ve never been (insert age here) before!”

At first, I found this insulting, then, later, very insulting. But knowing the friend as I did, I eventually realized that he was not being dismissive when he said this, but was instead reminding me to do something I did not have a long history of doing: To pay attention to my body. He has since passed on and will remain forever 65.

He was saying that almost everything we experience is unique to us, yet not at all unique. That sentence is either wise in its simpleness, so simple and wise that “simpleness” is too complicated a word for it, or incredibly banal. All of the above: We are all growing older. I’ve never been 46 before. So it is.
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Forever Snug

Posted on by Mark Aldrich

My current crush and I are grabbing some sun today at the same local pond I wrote about last week in “Forever Snug“:

Yesterday was one of those days in which the lifeguards outnumbered the swimmers. We were at a local park that features a small lake and beach; busy late August life kept the crowds away even on a sunny Saturday afternoon, so we were one couple out of maybe ten groups. Two families, each with three water-loving toddlers, splashed about, and none of the children were yet old enough to test their limits against the flimsy, algae-covered nylon rope demarcating the “deep end” on three sides. The lifeguards chatted with the families, flirted with each other, bought each other ice cream, and burned off the calories breaking each others’ speed records chasing after the ice cream truck.
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In-Flight Reading

Posted on by Mark Aldrich

I never looked for his book online or in a bookstore. He showed it to me, or he showed me a galley proof of it. And now, a decade later, I do not remember his name or much about the book.

We were on a plane, and 98% of my personal air travel history dates from the years 2000 to 2004, when I moved from upstate New York to Cedar Rapids, Iowa, and twice a year I returned home for holiday visits. The typical route was Eastern Iowa Airport to Cincinnati/Northern Kentucky International Airport to Stewart International Airport (or sometimes Logan in Boston), because there are no direct flights between Iowa and anyplace else I have ever lived. The book author was across the aisle from me.
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