Simon & Garfunkel’s words have been echoing through my head. I don’t feel old, but I will readily agree that it feels strange to be seventy.
Back when I first heard the song in the 1960s I thought seventy was old. I’m not so sure of that now.
Can you imagine us years from today,
Sharing a parkbench quietly
How terribly strange to be seventy
What’s happening in my life, other than turning seventy?
It’s warm enough that I am doing my morning prayers and reading outdoors most days. I have a roll of HP5 from the Yashica-D waiting to be scanned. Yesterday I celebrated my last day of 69 by walking up and hills in Durand Eastman Park. This afternoon Milady and I had Pilates via Zoom. Tomorrow morning I have yoga in the park. I am reading or rereading the entire Discworld saga, in order. I am reading a chapter a day from Grace by Michael Casey.
I am going mildly stir-crazy with the good and necessary covid-19 restrictions. And I am ever so glad that things are starting to open up again. New York State is reopening cautiously by region and keeping a close eye on the numbers. So far cases, hospitalizations, and death continue to decrease. For which we give thanks to God.
These are the last of my photographs with the Welta Weltur from my walk down to the Irondequoit Bay outlet a week or so ago. The ducks and geese were looking for handouts. I was a good environmentalist and didn’t give them any. But they are ever so hard to resist.