Graduation cards and reality checks

It’s 5 a.m. The savory and piping hot cup of Joe is strong enough to put hair on your chest. Before me an article titled “Boomers in Their 60s vs 70s: 12 Surprising Ways They’re Worlds Apart.”

A little more than one year removed from becoming that 70s guy, I can see this movie playing out as described in the article. The confluence of past, present, and future.

Searching for their purpose in retirement, Boomers in their 60s want to keep making an impact. Retirement is redefined to include part-time work, starting businesses, or volunteering in new ways.

They focus on fitness, new experiences and hobbies, staying somewhat in the loop with trends. They still dream big, planning the next big adventure. The question is “What’s possible?”

For 70s Boomers, the question becomes “What truly matters?” Facing their own mortality, thoughts shift to legacy and memories left behind.

There is a desire to enjoy life, making peace with what is, appreciating the quieter moments and simple joys of daily life.

Health is something to manage. Trends become less important. Dreams are refined and bucket lists edited to reflect what is realistic.

The article does not mention consults with longevity entrepreneurs, biological age testing of organs, or hyperbaric chamber intervention.

No mention of body image or looksmaxxing, no steroid use, and certainly no hardmaxxing fads such as bone smashing to achieve a defined jaw line.

During the school year, I enjoy a steady diet of simple joys in my daily life while operating a gleaming yellow Petri dish full of high school students.

As the year concludes, it is time to bid farewell to this colorful assortment of lab rats. Time to reflect on the memories created in the span of a few hours each day for the past nine months.

Signed, sealed, and delivered into the capable hands of U.S. Postal Service employees.

Graduation cards containing carefully worded inspirational messages and heartfelt remembrances from the geezer bus driver to his latest crop of graduating high school seniors.

“Continue with your healthy eating habits. I will miss finding your half-eaten apple on the seat. You have come a long way since your ninth-grade year and the half-eaten GoGo Squeez Fruit.”

“Who could forget the sight of your neon green, Red Bull Dragon Fruit oozing across the bus floor, adhering so nicely to the white soles of my new Topo Athletic Phantom 4 daily walking shoes?”

“A highlight of my morning walk-through was locating your blanket on the bus floor, folding it meticulously, and leaving it on the seat for the next day. Take it with you to college but first use the enclosed gift to have it sanitized and restored to its original warm hue.”

“Though you patiently explained Fortnite to me a hundred times, I still cannot distinguish Jonesy from Peely. Thank you for trying.”

Driving home from the post office it hit me. My thoughtfully curated messages contained in the graduation cards were written in cursive, a foreign language which most students never learn!

What if they can’t read my heartfelt words? What makes me think they will even care? My mood ring transitioned from a happy blissful blue color to an anxious and unsettled liver mush brownish gray color.

The pragmatic side of my brain generated a painful reality check. The sentiments expressed in the cards could be printed in glitter glue, and it wouldn’t matter once their hands clasp the universal language of the Jacksons, the double sawbucks, the Dubs resting within the cards.

Approaching the Oak Hill community, anxiety over the language known as Cursive gave way to a bit of melancholy. I really will miss the students who are graduating.

As if on cue, Carly Simon’s 1971 song “Share the End” popped up on my playlist. “To watch the world go up in flames.” Well of course. How timely. An uplifting song about the end of the world.

Gazing over the manicured lawn at Oak Hill Methodist Church I recalled a message on their sign several months ago. “One day you’ll be just a memory. Make it a good one.”

Grant, Ada, Elija, and Alex may not be able to read my words. They will likely forget my name long before I forget theirs.

Hopefully, they will remember the smiles, the good morning greetings, the genuine affection, the concern, the questions, the puzzled looks, the patience while they returned to their homes for forgotten items, the listening ear.

They join a growing list of students responsible for cherished memories formed in the least likely place.

As it should be, they and their cohorts are totally unaware of their role in answering the question which confronts this almost 70s Boomer with increasing frequency:

What truly matters?