The End of Youth

R

ecently, I spoke to a women’s writing group about the joys of writing. Among my main points was that writing makes life more vivid and alive. One reads differently when constantly asking whether one has learned something new to share with others or something that illuminates other issues about which one has been thinking. In addition, one’s powers of observation sharpen when one is always on the lookout for new material.

The danger of those heightened powers of observation, however, is that one can end up turning one’s life into a script for the next column, sometimes to the irritation of other unwitting characters in one’s drama. Despite that warning, I’m going to skip my planned column on Hunter Biden, in favor of writing about my last five days, including two trips to the Shaare Zedek emergency room and the insertion of a stent into one of two blocked coronary arteries on Tishah B’Av.

In truth, I had long planned a piece beginning with an incident that powerfully brought home the fact that I’m no longer young. On a recent family vacation to celebrate a milestone birthday, I decided to join a group of grandchildren on the basketball court, where their lack of experience was evident.

I called for the ball, with the expectation of dazzling the grandchildren with Saba’s ability to still shoot baskets from fifteen feet. To my shock, my first effort fell far short of basket and never reached the height of the rim. My second effort fared no better.