A birthday makes me look back — and ahead

Boston Globe

Beverly Beckham

I had a birthday recently. It’s a number I would love to hear come out of a meteorologist’s mouth tonight on the local news. “Tomorrow is going to be in the mid-70s, folks. A preview of summer. If you have a vacation day, take it.”

This number also inspired the signature song from “The Music Man” — “Seventy-Six Trombones” — a catchy tune played most often by marching bands in the South. Converted to candles on a birthday cake, however, 76 is, a) a fire hazard and b) a not-so-subtle reminder of the Biblical promise that our days are numbered.

Not that this is a revelation. I’ve always known that our days are numbered. My oldest friend Rosemary remembers that when we were kids, I would say to her at every birthday — both hers and mine — “I can’t believe I’ve lived to be 9. I can’t believe you’ve lived to be 10. “We made it to 16, Rose!” “Twenty-one. And we’re still alive!”

Always smarter than I am, Rose — beginning in fifth grade — would reel off statistics proving that time was on our side. That if we continued to not cut through the woods as our mothers directed, and to not get in a car with strangers; and if we stopped chasing the ice cream man down the street, (I did this only once), we had a good chance of making it to 74, the predicted life span for both of us at that time. I didn’t buy this. I’d seen “Day the World Ended.” I’d read “On the Beach.” I knew, despite what her encyclopedia said, that we were living on borrowed time.

Which sounds morbid. But it isn’t. Think “Frosty the Snowman” in the 1969 animated version where every time someone places a hat on his head, Frosty comes to life. He is repeatedly ecstatic. That’s how I feel most mornings. I open my eyes, look around, and think, “Wow! Unbelievable. I’m still alive!”

How long will I be alive, I ask Siri. Minus nuclear annihilation, flesh-eating bacteria, lethal viruses, floods, drought, tornadoes, hurricanes, a meteor hitting the earth, an encephalitic mosquito bite, just how many more days do I have left on the earth?

Siri is an optimist. She bypasses days and computes in years. She is also, I suspect, a card-carrying capitalist because she led me directly to a site that required I fill out a form (I lied a little. I said I exercise regularly. And that I don’t drink.). Duly duped, this site “Developed by Professors at the University of Pennsylvania,” predicted without flourish that my life expectancy is … wait for it. Ninety-five! But then came the codicil: “You’ll spend hundreds of thousands more in your long retirement.” (By living to 95). Followed by the sales pitch: “An annuity provides income as long as you live. See if you’re a fit.” Click here.

I went back to Siri and asked again. This time I was specific. “Hey Siri, “What is the life expectancy of a 76-year-old white woman living in the United States?”

This time, maybe because she’s sick of the question, maybe because 76-year-old women all across the country are asking Siri this right now, she said nothing. Like the Ghost of Christmas future who silently leads Scrooge to a cemetery, then points at his grave, Siri did the cyber equivalent. She pulled up a Life Expectancy Chart (health.ny.gov) on which I learned, (why is the print always so small?) that, statistically, I have 11.33 more years to live.

This would bring me to sometime in May 2034. Which seems like a long time away. Except that 11.3 years in the other direction was 2012. And that was just yesterday. I still wear boots I bought in 2012. (I’ve had them re-healed). I still have Stonewall Holiday jam someone gave me that year.

I used to laugh when some old person said “I don’t buy green bananas.” I don’t laugh anymore. I am an old person. I do buy green bananas, however. I think of it as a small act of faith. I don’t buy winter coats in the spring when they’re on sale, though. Or fat books. Or 10-year CDs. I don’t have that much faith.

On my birthday, Rose called as she always does. And I said what I’ve been saying since we were children together. “I can’t believe we are …”

“Seventy-six,” we both said. And then we laughed. And then we sighed.

Beverly Beckham can be reached at bev@beverlybeckham.com.