In a world where Starbucks tries to define the seasons for us (pumpkin spice latte in August anyone?), I find myself thinking about the seasons of life often. As a society we keep adding phases, while no longer thinking simply in terms of being a child, an adult or a senior. Adolescence is a fairly new designation as we recognize the challenges associated with that age group. And booksellers are advertising a genre called New Adult Fiction, aimed at 18-29 year olds, which are books with stories about the trials of becoming an adult. It is projected that about half of all babies born today will live to be close to a hundred years old. How will we define the years after sixty then?
In Barry Martin’s book Under One Roof: Lessons I Learned from a Tough Old Woman in a Little Old House, he tells the true story of Edith Macefield who, at the age of 84, refused a commercial developer’s one million dollar offer to buy her home. Edith desperately wanted to define this phase in her life for herself, and not be bound by predetermined labels.
Or did she? Maybe she simply wanted to spend the rest of her life in her home. Maybe she didn’t care about defining her stage of life. Maybe she just wanted to live her life in her own way.
I invite you to decide for yourself. The book is out of print, but it is worth searching for a used copy. Let me know what you think. Have we named too many seasons of life? Or too few? As we age, do the milestones (turning thirty or fifty) matter? And how did others correctly or incorrectly think of Edith?
