social connection

Growing up, we got our Christmas trees from Mr. Munro, the man who owned our house before us.

One of my very best friends died three years ago. He happened to be my grandfather, who was 96 years old. He  was ready. It was time.

There were  yoga classes in California’s Silicon Valley and  line dances in Washington. There were  bocce ball matches in Rochester, N.Y., and  water volleyball games in Mason City, Iowa. But best of all, across the country, there were younger people and older people coming together to participate.

They clutched their binoculars and scribbled notes in their programs. They paced behind the teller windows and snagged seats just before post time. Some spent the day on their own, but most huddled in groups, talking stats, favorites and odds.

“What can the very young and the very old offer each other, if given the chance?”

I met Arthur six years ago, thanks to an online ad.

As we pedaled along, it was as if we shared a bike path with the whole city.

In retirement, my grandfather, Pop Pop, traveled the world with my grandmother. They went to Greece, China, Peru, Portugal — you name it. They’d spent years running a small business and raising three kids, so retirement was their chance to get away and see it all.

Two years ago this month, I sat beside my Pop Pop as he died. I can’t help but cry as I type that, but this isn’t a sad story.