Second Sunset
CARRIE CLASSON
The Postscript
I spent the last couple weeks visiting my
parents.
I’ve been lucky in the parent department. It’s
fashionable to recall some pivotal incident that
occurred when we were eight and extrapolate
how every diffi culty experienced in our life since
is a result. But I’ve never seen any truth to this
in my own life. I was really happy when I was
eight—and I give my parents full credit.
My life is very different from my parents’
life. Still, they have always been supportive and
have always at least pretended to be interested
in whatever I was doing as I careened from one
career to the next. When, in my fi fties, I started
to write, my parents were characteristically
enthusiastic, with only the occasional exception
(perhaps when I wrote in a column how my
mother used to garden in her red bikini).
They have always lived a life they enjoy and
are proud of, and have encouraged me to do the
same. Now in their eighties, my parents still
inspire me. Most recently, it was at sunset.
My parents live in northern Minnesota in a
cabin high on a hill overlooking the lake, so you
have to climb a lot of steps to get from the cabin
down to the shore. My father built the steps down
to the lake. In the middle of the climb, there is
a bench where (my dad insists) there is a good
place to admire the view. (It happens to also be a
good place to rest on the way up—but I’ll let him
stick to his story.)
Almost every evening, my parents fi nd their
way down to the water’s edge. They take a seat
on the dock and watch the sun set across the lake.
They listen to the loons call to one another across
the water and watch the clouds turn pink as the
sun disappears in the evening sky.
Then they do it all over again.
Because the cabin sits so far above the shore,
when they climb back up the hill, the sun is no
longer below the horizon but just beginning to set
again—a second sunset.
So, my parents take a seat outside their cabin
and watch the whole thing all over again—from
a different perspective. I tell my parents I admire
the life they have created for themselves. They
have this great cabin, fun friends and neighbors,
they bike all summer, ski all winter and, at the
end of every day, they get an extra sunset.
I’d like an extra sunset.
By middle age, I thought I could already see the
sun going down. I fi gured I knew, more or less,
how the story ended. It turns out I was wrong.
Today, I am doing things I never dreamt of
doing fi fteen years ago, things I never imagined I
could do. But now, as I scramble up the hill in the
end-of-the-day light, I realize how much there is
to do in the late afternoon, how much is left to
see. I’d feel a lot sillier if I were the only one
panting up the hill, but I have a lot of company.
All around me I see folks looking for that second
sunset: picking up paintbrushes and pens and
college degrees, trying on new haircuts and new
beliefs. Sometimes it’s a little embarrassing – but
we don’t really care.
Like my parents, we’re just grateful to get
this extra sunset. We’re so glad the sun hasn’t
gone down after all. We just needed a different
perspective. We just needed to get to higher
ground.
Till next time,
Carrie
Learn more about Carrie at CarrieClasson.
com.
�����������������
�����������������������������������������������
�����������������������������������������������������
������������������������������������������������������
�����������������������������������������
����������������������������
��������������������
�����������������������
�������������������������������������������
������������
���������������������
����������������������������
Senior Connections HJ.COM
Senior
Connections Nov/Dec 2019
7