Today I looked back through the doorway of time. My grandmother celebrated her 98th birthday. To put that into perspective, back in 1914, Charlie Chaplin starred in his first motion picture and Babe Ruth made his major league debut for the Red Sox. A world war was declared and FDR was born. In her many years, she has lived simply being a true product of the depression era. Her generation would mimic the Wizard of Oz, beginning in an era of black and white and see their future bloom into technicolor. Today she sat among many elders at lunchtime. At 12pm sharp, scooters and walkers descended slowly upon the dining room. I smiled as I imagined Peter getting his hands on one of these mobility contraptions. Over lunch, ladies would come up to grandma Kay and they would reach out their hands to one another. In each quiet embrace, their fondness was genuine. At that age, people tend to speak less and less. Perhaps it’s because our hearing goes to pot or maybe it’s because most at that age have said everything that they really want to say. While it’s all been said and done, I find these folks have histories far richer than our own. They lived through an era of depression and war where self-importance was a non-issue. This generation would have wasted none of their valuable time puttering on the internet or texting their idle thoughts. This crowd was the real deal. They would be the ones that in their prime, fought in Normandy or learned how to rivit together a B-52, They drove massive Ford Thunderbolts that make my Subaru look like a soapbox racer. They witnessed mans’ first steps on the moon and grieved an assassinated president. As I looked around the dining room, I knew these stories were tucked away. To my dismay, I knew nothing of their individual tales of heroism and greatness or even of their disappointments. I would have to be content with a cordial smile and leave wondering. Many a wise tale from this generation could be brought to light if only people asked. Maybe, if we listened, we could learn from them and avoid making mistakes. I close my eyes and picture my 98 year old grandmother as a young mother embracing my dad as a child. We’re no different despite the many years separating as we just do our best to love our children with everything we have. It’s funny how everything comes full circle. Here’s to no ordinary miracle of 98 years and counting. Happy Birthday Grandamama.