Exceeding Expectations: Three Score Years and Eleven —by Jinny Batterson
My birthday happens this month. As I age, the years tend to go by more and more quickly. Overall, it’s been a marvelous ride so far.
Having a spring birthday is a quirk of my arrival on earth for which I’m very grateful—spring is generally such a hopeful time of year. Most of my birthdays have long since slipped out of memory, though a few have associations that persist:
—my 5th birthday, the first after the birth of my younger sister, when my mother staged outdoor scavenger games in our small yard. The weather was wonderfully warm and sunny; several friends came to enjoy prizes and homemade birthday cake. For one glorious day, I didn’t have to share the limelight with the cute, dimpled new baby.
—my 11th birthday, the final year I spent in the cramped first house our family lived in, before moving to a much larger house that summer.
—my 21st birthday, when I was nearly finished college and got engaged over my birthday weekend to my future husband.
—my 30th birthday, when I was pregnant with our younger child, and we staged an “over the hill party” with friends and colleagues.
—my 50th birthday, when our children were both grown and living elsewhere and I treated myself to a decadent chocolate cake.
At the time I was born, between 1940 and 1950, life expectancy for white women was between 67 and 72 years, increasing each decade. The small liberal arts school I was attending when my twentieth birthday arrived had a college springtime tradition: attaching short poems to a weeping cherry tree in front of an ivy-festooned brick classroom building. Often a handwritten copy of A.E. Housman’s “Loveliest of Trees” was among the offerings:
Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.
Now, of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.
And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.
Back then three score years and ten seemed impossibly old—older even than my parents, aunts, and uncles in our long-generation family.
In the part of North Carolina where I now live, early spring days in 2018 have seen more than one frosting of actual snow, so warmer days and cherry trees hung with blooms are most welcome. In our woodlands, white-blossomed cherries share center stage with white and pink dogwoods plus redbud trees whose smallish flowers are more pink than red. Along major roads and interstates this year, an extensive array of big, blowsy lavender wisteria clusters has draped adjacent trees.
And I’ve had the chance to watch the “woodland ride” now for threescore years and eleven—a wonderful bonus. Happy springtime, y’all, wherever you spend it!