As you age, you realize you’re being taken for granted by
the young — regarded, at times, with a sort of faintly amused indifference. Spooks
you.
You begin to hear your own voice sound suspiciously similar to those muted
brass wah-wahs that mark the voices of the adults in the Charlie Brown
cartoons.
But even as you fade into the background, you now see what’s
going on around you with a vivid, unsentimental clarity. You discover with a
start that you have become Miss Marple.
I remember how I felt when I was in Effingham High School 40
years ago. Seeing a girl I knew reading Agatha Christie’s “At Bertram’s Hotel,”
I remember thinking, “Why would anyone ever want to read about that silly old
bat?”
Life will have its little cosmic wink of a joke at your
expense.
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