At a gathering of old friends (all seniors) the other day, conversation was light and laden with nostalgia. We exchanged memories of youthful times; one lady called them the “pre-wrinkle days.”

 

We remembered our dance parties where the young men congregated on one side of the room and the girls sat opposite them, primping and preening, some painfully insecure, pretending not to care who approached them first to ask for a dance. Yes, there were chaperones, normally the host’s parents, who tried not to be too conspicuous, but who checked every so often that the lights had not been dimmed and that there was no alcohol and no “hanky-panky.”

 

Were there DJs then? I don’t think so. But the music was always good. It normally started and ended with Glenn Miller, from opening with “Moonlight Serenade” to the dreamy “Adios,” which indicated it was time to go home.

 

We slow-danced to Nat King Cole, Frank Sinatra, Vic Damone, Andy Russell, Dick Haymes and Vaughn Monroe. A big hit of the early ’50s was “I Can Dream Can’t I” by the Andrew Sisters.

 

‘Jam sessions’

 

Do young people still have these dance parties? We called them “jam sessions.” I wonder why? A jam session by definition has nothing to do with dancing. It was the getting together of different musicians to play their music, unrehearsed, unarranged.

 

Back then, young ladies hardly wore any makeup; short skirts and low necklines were frowned upon, as were dancing too close and laughing too loud. Party food was hearty. The bar was usually set up with lots of “the pause that refreshes” and Royal Tru-Orange. Of course, some naughty guys brought their own drink of choice and made many trips to the parking lot.

 

It was the season for crushes. There was a kind of magic when what started out as a one-sided infatuation, an almost furtive “ligaw tingin,” suddenly was reciprocated and bloomed into what felt like the real thing.

 

We were all still in school, just starting college. There was still so much living left to do. But in the turmoil of new emotions, many took a step too far.

 

I can only imagine how parents worried during that time. Their dreams and plans for their children could be dashed to earth by overactive hormones. But no one explained that to us.

 

And so we figured dad and mom were just old-fashioned fuddy-duddies, too strict, not understanding and maybe even heartless. Some thought it smart to break away.

 

Life stories

 

After dessert, there were questions. Some shared from their life stories. Others just listened. We concluded and agreed that when you live these many years, there is no room for regrets. Scars and all, we had a good laugh about old heartbreaks, now happily forgiven if not forgotten. We all have lived and learned.

 

Talk about feeling old!

 

The other day I spoke to my baby, my youngest child who lives in Florida. It was a little after her 48th birthday and she was lamenting her age, about time going way too fast. And in typical “today” language, she grumbled: “Mom, growing old sucks.”

 

Okay, not too refined. I tried to digest that without reprimanding, without correcting her choice of words. I let her vent.

 

My daughter was in disbelief about having a child in college, a voter in 2016 and another one halfway through high school.

 

As I listened, I tried to remember how I felt when my children had these milestones in their lives. Did I feel as ancient? (Her words.)

 

I think perhaps some of the events did mark me and make me fearful that I was indeed getting old. I remember that when my first grandchild was born, as thrilled as I was, I was stunned. It made a momentary dent on my vanity.

 

I’m sure the same thought crosses every woman’s mind. “Am I over the hill?” But soon I discovered that becoming a grandmother is just a step up the ladder on the way to feeling beautiful.

 

Bonus time

 

I hope my daughter soon realizes that she is not old, but just entering the “early bonus” part of life. I am at its peak.

 

Lately, my children and grandchildren (there are now 18 of them plus five great-grand) have made me wonder a bit more about where time has gone.

 

Let’s see: a job promotion, another championship trophy, someone writes a song, a sold-out concert, a grandson opens his own restaurant, a granddaughter runs her own school, one sings for the Lord, a son preaches about Jesus. I could go on and on.

 

I see the way they love and support one another and my heart wants to burst. I have to catch my breath to whisper a prayer of thanks.

 

Although I am no longer as agile and spry as I would like to be, more often than not, I don’t “think old.” I may sometimes “write old.” But I was born in another era, a different generation, and it shows in how I think and what I say. I won’t apologize for that.

 

Every night before falling asleep, I review my day. I think happy thoughts. I focus on what I can do, not on what I can’t; on what I have, not on what I lost. And I am grateful.

 

I remember my life and wonder why I have been given so much. There is no lack. And I am humbled.

 

My heart is full and it runs over.

 

God is good!