Henrietta Hay's Column

My younger son turned 48 this month. My oldest grandson became 18 the next day. With all these aging relatives I found it quite appropriate to have my 81st birthday this week. Confessing this is not something that "ladies" of earlier generations did. My mother would have walked down south Broadway in her nightgown before she would have admitted her age.

The reason I admit it is that a lot of people think that 60 is doddering, that 70 is beyond the pale, and they never heard of 80. I want to reassure them that there really is life after 40. What Betty Freidan calls the negative mystique about aging is tragic because it keeps people from seeing the real possibilities of growing old. Helen Hayes knew what she was talking about when she wrote at 83, "The hardest years in life are those between ten and seventy." I keep telling that to my young friends who help keep me young.

While we give far too much importance to age, birthdays are nice to remember.. On my 18th my father ceremoniously escorted me downstairs to the farthest corner of the basement, reached into the back of a cupboard and pulled out a dusty bottle of sparkling burgundy. It was dusty, because it had been squirreled away for twelve years. This most law abiding of men had bought it just before prohibition became a fact, in anticipation of his daughter's 18th birthday. It had long since lost its sparkle, but there was sparkle in the basement, as we laughed at ourselves and drank it anyway.

On my 60th I rode my beautiful blue Kawasaki 175 to work. On my 65th I planned to arrive at the library in a hot air balloon. The Colorado spring breezes decreed otherwise, but the balloonist said he thought we could take off from the library lawn. And we did to the amusement and amazement of the entire staff. Because of all the power lines, we had to go up fast, and he barely made it aboard. For a minute I had visions of sailing the thing alone, which would probably have ended the birthday series right there. My son John suggested that I celebrate my 70th by having breakfast in Paris, but I passed on that one.

By the time of my 80th I had quit showing off and enjoyed a wonderful party surrounded by family and friends and talk and laughter, which is really the best kind.

I have lots of over-80 friends who are still busy and productive. One has retired four or five times from different careers. She is currently unemployed, but I fully expect her to start something else soon. Another had an organ recital in her home to celebrate her 80th. She decided to learn to play the organ a couple of years before that, and now is making beautiful music.

Another friend lives in Prescott, Arizona, and drives 100 miles to Phoenix every week to serve as a docent in the Head Museum. That is between her activities as a life long rabble-rouser, which may partially explain our friendship.

One college classmate travels extensively for AARP and the Colorado Retired School Employees. She also substitutes occasionally in the Cortez High School just to keep her hand in. Another one who lives in California has been involved for years in trying to save the planet and is still working on it.

Of the over-eighties whom I don't know but wish I did, Julia Child is high on the list. She still eats well, cooks up a storm on television, looks every minute of her 83 years and doesn't care. Sometimes she almost inspires me to take up cooking again -- almost. There are limits.

Sure, we can't run as fast or hear as well or see as well as we once did, but it's not smart to write us all off. As George Burns commented through the cigar smoke, "By the time you're eighty you've learned everything. You just have to remember it."

I'm glad I had another birthday. It was not as exciting as hidden wine, or motorcycles, but, like the reason for climbing mountains, it was there.