Today is my elderly friend's anniversary. I visited him last week and asked about it as he served me a cup of tea.

 

"Is it your seventieth coming up?"

 

"I'm not sure. I will check." He headed upstairs to retrieve his marriage license, which he found immediately. I did not mention the difficulty I had last week finding certain papers John needed to file our taxes. You know, the ones that came in the mail last fall. But this man could lay his hands on something from 1955. 

 

"Yes here it is," he said unfolding the yellowed document and reading without glasses. He described the beautiful spring day. Then his story meandered into his deployment to Okinawa. 

 

"How long was it until you came home from the army?" I wondered. 

 

"I will look," he said heading back up the stairs. Soon he brought down his discharge papers. 

 

"August of 1956," he told me. 

 

"Could you talk to Anne at all in the time you were apart?"

 

"We called once, but the connection was not clear. It's much different these days." I thought of the myriad ways I have of speaking and even seeing our daughter in Europe, or our son in California.  

 

"I was released early because I had a job waiting for me, teaching at the high school."

 

"How long did you teach?" It was not my intention to give him exercise, but he headed back up to find the answer. 

 

"Here it is," he said as he opened a folder describing his employment history. "Thirty nine years."

 

"Plus the one when you were asked to step in as principal of the elementary school." 

 

"Yes, and here is the card the children gave me."

 

The tea was lovely, and I appreciated his kindness. But what truly enthralled me was how he recalled, or didn't recall, the accomplishments of his long life. There was no trace of pride, or self congratulations. 

 

But I brought him a cupcake.