There are pieces of information that I carry in my memory that others might not know or might have forgotten. It is one of the elements of growing old. I remember, but I don’t remember everything. Often, I don’t know why my brain has sorted the experiences of 72 years of life and brings some things to consciousness and other things fade. On Saturday evening, we were having supper with friends at the Sugar Shack, an iconic Black Hills restaurant. The conversation turned to the topic of family vacations and trips, and our friends commented that they both had been in Yellowstone Park at the same time on separate family trips. Their trips were memorable because there was a massive earthquake. I immediately responded with the date: August 17, 1959 - one day shy of sixty-six years before we were eating our burgers.

The actual event took place just before midnight. I remember the date because it was rare for our family to be up in the middle of the night, and I remember that my father was on the telephone making arrangements for flights that he would take the next day. I remember the date because it was my sister’s birthday. I remember the year because she turned eight that year, and I had just turned six. My new red bicycle was one of my most prized possessions that summer.

The earthquake resulted in a massive landslide that blocked the flow of the Madison River and created Quake Lake. People died in the landslide, and the rising water in the new lake was threatening to reach levels where it would cause extensive damage and destruction if allowed to build up and flood downstream. Within a few days, engineers devised a plan to create a new spillway to allow the river to resume its normal flow. I wasn’t aware of the details, but I remember being shown the many photographs that were taken from my father’s airplane of the landslide and the newly formed lake.

Our friends remembered the earthquake, but they didn’t remember the date. We were able to recall a significant event and know where we were at the time. It was a connecting point in our stories, even though we didn’t meet each other until many years later.

There are other dates that I remember that don’t make that kind of connection. People my age connect by telling stories of where we were on certain specific dates. November 22, 1963. I was ten years old. I came home from school for lunch and learned that President Kennedy had been assigned. Most folks my age can remember where they were and what they were doing when they learned the news.

The things we recall could easily be used to tell how old we are. There are lots of other ways. The color of my hair and the lack of hair on the top of my head are pretty good indicators of age. My clumsiness when I operate my cell phone might be another indicator to a young person that I am not of their generation. I watch folks typing rapidly on their phones with two thumbs and know that it is a skill I will probably never muster. I awkwardly type on my phone using a single index finger, and my fingers don’t know the location of the letters. I have to stare at the phone, and even then, I make mistakes. Of course, unlike younger people, I compose text messages in complete sentences and carefully add punctuation. I rarely use emojis, and when I do, they are added as an afterthought.

There are a few downsides to being my age. My fingers are slow on the phone in part because a bit of arthritis has resulted in swollen knuckles. Both of my thumbs have had trigger release procedures, and they don’t move as freely as they once did. And although I have a good memory of certain events, there are gaps in my memory. There are times when it takes me some time to sort through my memories. There are many things that I have forgotten. Sometimes I cannot put a name to a familiar face. Sometimes the flow of conversation is interrupted because I can’t think of a detail.

Still, I am content with my age. I don’t mind being seen as old by others. One doesn’t have to be very old for young children to think of you as aged. People in their thirties think of me as a member of their grandparents' generation. Yesterday, I was content to sit in the pews as others led worship, content with being a retired former pastor. People ask me how I am, and I can honestly give a positive response. I am well. The usual aches and pains of aging do not limit my activities. I am content with my place in life.

Days like yesterday bring me joy. Visiting the church we served until five years ago feels like a homecoming. There were lots of familiar faces, lots of heartfelt greetings, lots of hugs. Visiting with dear friends brings to mind important events we have shared. I look at a face and recall a funeral, a wedding, a baptism, or another significant event in the life of the person I am greeting. There can be a lot of memories in a handshake or a hug. The decades have given me experience in saying hello and goodbye.

Today we will once again head west. We’ll be traveling on familiar roads. We’ve made this trip many times before. Some days we travel at a slower pace than once was the case, but we still are up for a road trip and putting a few miles behind us. We have lots to look forward to in our travels. As I write this morning, it feels like I have more than one home. Being in the hills is a homecoming. Leaving them feels like heading home. That, too, is one of the blessings of growing older.