Another year is in the books

Look, there are just some things that come with age. I would know, as I just celebrated my birthday this week. Everybody is going to tell you wisdom but that's a crapshoot. Maybe you grew up in a house that told you to respect your elders — I did, and I do, if they deserve it — but I think we all have plenty of examples out here to prove that years in the bank are just that, years. They're not necessarily merit badges of knowledge. If they were, why do I still vacuum over a piece of string, pick it up and look at it funny when the machine doesn't suck it up, then drop it and try to vacuum it up again? I'll tell you what really comes with age: a fascination with bird-identification apps. My circle of friends and acquaintances is wide. Wide. All races, genders, political parties, religions, regions of the countries, musical tastes, you name it, it encompasses a bit of everything in there. And you know what just about everybody can agree on? Bird apps. I don't know what happened in the past few years, but it was a quiet movement I started noticing among friends, even strangers on social media, how many people were taking the time to notice the small things of nature. Maybe it was a national self-soothing distraction, the way people started baking bread during the pandemic. But I can tell you this, it has become a become a pretty reliable barometer of character. You show me somebody who couldn't care less about a songbird in their vicinity and my suspicions are up. This does not necessarily translate to the younger generations, however. I was a mother of, ahem, "advanced maternal age" when I had kids so I often find my mailbox stuffed full of mailers for both old-folk organizations and high school graduate stuff at the same time. The almost-17-year-old in the house reminds me on a nearly-daily basis of my so-called "dork" status, lest I continue in my delusion of thinking "I've still got it." Her friends, however, assure me I'm "cool," a fact I like to drop into conversation with her frequently. Daughter: "Mom, can you pass me the salt?" Me: "Sure can! You know, your friends say I'm cool." Her: (blank stare) Me: "Want to go to the store with me? I think it was Ryleigh that said it. It was like 'Your mom is so cool.' Have some mashed potatoes." Later, me, tiptoeing into her room: "Hey, are you asleep? Shhh … just wanted to let you know, your friends said I'm really cool. OK. Love you." I'm sure she enjoys this and it's not at all weird. Gift-giving becomes easier for us "old heads," too. I was absolutely delighted this week when my dear friend bought me a Swiss army knife for my key ring. He had no idea I've long carried pocket knives, a habit ingrained in me from my departed father. One of my most popular columns was one I wrote after my Dad died, and each of us six kids received a bag of pocket knives from his vast collection. Admittedly, this particular quirk may be in the blood, not the age. Years ago my girl and I were walking our beagle late at night when he came to a dead stop near the end of the block, his hackles raised and sniffing the air at the dark woods nearby. "Mommy," she said, slipping her tiny hand into mine. "I've got two knives on me." She was maybe 7. But maybe my favorite thing about aging? It's got to be the two I's: indignities and independence. Now that first one I mean sarcastically. Every time my bum ankle lets me down or my stupid elbow tells me when it is about to rain or my bones remind me why I "have to sit this one out" or in any way reminds me I am not as young as my mind thinks I am, I am shocked and appalled and would like to speak to the manager of this low-rent joint. But, oh, that second one, independence? That one just about makes up for it. It's a remarkable thing to lay aside what others think of you, to declare yourself independent of others' approval. I've had a bit of a head start on that for a long time, but there is a blessed freedom in aging that loosens societal, familial, generational and cultural expectations for many that is a wonder to see. "I am too old to care what you think of me," and "I do not need nor request your approval" do not require answers. Maybe this is what we call the wisdom we are supposed to attain with age, growing into who we were always supposed to be. Contact Chronicle-Telegram columnist Rini Jeffers at rinijeffers@gmail.com.