75 years, then and now

Tomorrow my husband turns 75.

That’s about five years past the age he once said he would retire. In his 30s, he said he would work until he was at least 70. Then he turned 62 and his company closed its doors. A year of looking for similar work and he decided the time had come to sign up for Social Security.

As a child, he said he knew for sure that he, like his dad and his uncles and aunts, would have white hair and dentures by his fourth decade. At 40, he retained a very youthful look, dark hair and all his teeth. At 75, his hair may be white and thinning, but he has all of his teeth.

In his 40s, we went to Disney World for the first time. He absolutely insisted on getting his money’s worth on the teacup ride. He spun the control round and round. The sons riding with him walked away from the ride weaving and holding their stomachs. He wanted to go again.

At 70, we went to Magic Springs with grandchildren where he rode their newest, wildest swinging chair ride ever. It turned him upside down, around and swung back and forth. He wobbled off, came over to me and said, “I am 70, I do not have to prove anything to anyone anymore. I do not have to take that ride ever again.”

His granddaughter wanted to do it again. He stood in line with her and rode it again.

We met 40 years ago. He told me he loved to play sports. He wanted to make sure everyone knew he could play. Twelve years later, he decided he did not need to participate in an adult league but the game still called. In his 60s he served as a counselor at camp and joined the kids playing ball. He fell and hurt his leg running to a position on the grassy field and nursed it for weeks, muttering, “I really am too old for this.”

That’s what he said, but last fall, he found a 10-year-old and the two of them tackled every sport and game they could find.

Last winter the house needed a new roof.

In his 30s he hauled the ladder around our two-story house and re-roofed it with a bit of help from our 72-year-old, retired neighbor who just liked to keep his hands busy.

In his 60s he re-roofed our low, one-story house with his sons.

Last winter he discovered rotten corners over the porch. He made the basic repairs. Our 90-year-old neighbor said, “We watched you the entire time. I told my wife, if he falls, you call 9-1-1 and I’ll call the ambulance.”

Repairs completed, hubby looked at the necessary re-roofing, thought about the weight of bundles of shingles and shivered in the cold. He called a roofer.

As a young couple we traveled from one side of the country to the other, hauling a tent everywhere we went. My husband thought getting somewhere and seeing it outweighed the inconveniences of camping.

About 10 years ago, he began registering us at resorts with crisp white linens, air conditioning and hot running water. Our camp stove rusted by the time we hauled it out to heat food during an electrical outage. Our sleeping bags emerge only for company and church retreats.

In his 30s he easily lost weight in a competition with my sister. In his 70s he too knows the reality of the losing battle.

Through the first 10 years of our marriage he re-modeled a very old house, using a minimal collection of tools. In retirement, he began collecting tools: special screw drivers, wrenches, hammers, a planer, sander and saws and proudly finds many uses for his wide selection of clamps, braces and bungee cords.

In our 30s we combined our birthdays and anniversary to one celebratory outing. In his 60s we began going out each of the three nights.

In his 30s, he spread the kids’ Lego blocks out on the table and involved his sons in a game of building. In his 70s, he just spreads out the Legos and spends days sorting and building.

In his 20s, 30s and 40s, he welcomed five sons and a daughter. In his 40s, 50s, 60s, and 70s he has welcomed grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

The years have changed the man physically. They have added wisdom (it weighs about 40 pounds on him) and many, many more loved ones. But nothing has curbed his enthusiasm for life and fun. He has so many items left on his “to-do” list, I expect he will live to 150.

If you see him, wish him a happy 75th and many more.

(Joan Hershberger is a staff writer at the News-Times and author of “Twenty Gallons of Milk and Other Columns from the El Dorado News-Times.” Email her at joanh@everybody.org.)


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