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The Sixties

      The pages of my Life Book have been riffling by with amazing speed. Not quite over the Medicare divide, I am gathering speed and well on the approach. How did all those years slip through my fingers so quickly? Yesterday I walked the campus of Boston University, scurried to classes, explored ideas and plunged into political protest. It was the late sixties, after all. The atmosphere was intellectually stimulating and romance was in first blush. Youth glowed in my face and inspired visions of “Making a Difference.”

      Now when I look in the mirror I am startled to view the face of a senior. A graduate of the school of life has replaced the naive ingénue. Still, I feel physically robust and have recently launched two new careers —as an adoption coach and as a writer—both of which are passion-fueled and energizing. Cancer was defeated and left in the dust forty-six years ago. In May we marked our 40th wedding anniversary with a memorable trip to Peru.

      But recently, our trips have been less memorable and the destination far more mundane— the gym. The two hours spent stretching, heaving and hauling heavy exercise machines while working up a very unladylike sweat are the most important minutes of each day. Ill health plagues many relatives and dear friends and some have already succumbed to mortality. (I get the message, God; I’m not taking my good fortune for granted.) Dylan Thomas wrote “Do not go gentle into that good night” and so, I drive to the gym and nurture my greatest blessing: good health.

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