"It's just another day." That's what old people used to say about some holiday or momentous occasion that was so earthshakingly fascinating to us. How could anyone say such a thing! Christmas is coming, with all its secrets, Halloween with scariness and thrills, birthdays with cake and love, and, probably most anticipated of all, the opening of the Great Schaghticoke Fair. Speculating and hoping and dreaming all rolled into one remarkable life experience. "Same old thing," said the old people. We, unable to comprehend, vowed never to feel that way; why would anyone want to? In the ignorance of our youth, surrounded always by those who held similar values, the failure to be enthralled by life seemed to be a deliberate choice, a choice way beyond our ken.
Life, if you live long enough, has a way of getting even, of making you humble, though too late to be of any value or consolation to those long-gone old people. Isolation and loss levels the playing field, eventually, to a plane where the days all seem as one. Minus the camaraderie of others who share the joy of expectation, life's color turns to gray.
After childhood, a portion of our remaining time is spent in trying to recapture what we had for the next generation. So much anticipation, preparation, and sharing of thoughts and ideas, almost, but not quite, as magical as the first time around. After that cycle has run its course, and life's magic begins to be handed down yet again, comes the sameness of the days. The old people have lost a critical connection. There is no joy in looking forward to that which can only diminish.
It is raining today, on the Fourth of July. It's just another day, though a rainy one, which alters nothing. I have anticipated nothing---no parade, nothing to decorate, no patriotic outfits to coordinate, no festivities to organize or attend, certainly no fireworks-------just another day.
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