“Let’s read this new author, Elizabeth Strout, I’ve heard so much about,” suggested Mary to our book group soon after we’d formed in 1998. Mary’s literary taste was refined, and we often embraced her suggestions. “What’s the book called, and what’s it about?” we asked. “Amy and Isabelle, and it tells the story of 16-year-old Amy and her strained relationship with Isabelle, her mother. Amy falls in love with her math substitute teacher, who finds her beautiful and tells her she looks like a poet,” explained Mary.

We loved Strout’s spare language and her affection for her characters, no matter how flawed. When the book was published, we were seven women with teenage or young adult daughters and sons. Six of us were psychotherapists. The themes of mother-daughter tension, mutual intolerance and occasional pitched battles were common terrain for us.

We read an eclectic selection of fiction and nonfiction. We loved Zadie Smith’s “White Teeth,” “Never Let Me Go” by Kazuo Ishiguro, and “I Feel Bad About My Neck” by Nora Ephron. When we discussed Ephron’s essay collection, we laughed and covered our necks with both hands or scarves wrapped twice around. By then, we were in our 50s, and aging mattered.

We waited for another Strout novel while enjoying lively conversations about the chosen book of the month. Each person hosted a Friday afternoon gathering in her living room, accompanied by tea, coffee, cheeses, crackers and homemade chocolate cookies or lemon bars.

Serious readers, we completed the books — most of the time — but put aside time to chat about our private practices and catch up on our kids’ schooling, marriages and grandchildren.

One day, Peg said, “Let’s read another book by what’s her name.

The author who wrote so poignantly about a mother and daughter in Maine.” “Oh, yes!” said several of us in unison while other group members looked blank, “You mean Elizabeth Strout.” “Yes, she’s the one,” said Peg with relief shining in her eyes and grins emerging on the faces of those of us who’d blanked out. “Olive Kitteridge,” shouted Sharon with pride in knowing the name of Strout’s 2008 book. And we read it with relish.

Over the ensuing two decades, we noticed that fewer of us could remember the names of books and authors, even our favorite ones. In our 60s, one or two or three of our group could recall parts of a title, an author’s first or last name, or bits of plot. We worried about losing our memories and if dementia was invading our now close circle of friends.

One of us researched the kind of forgetting we were experiencing and learned, to our relief, that it was a normal part of aging. “The brain ages just like the rest of the body,” explained Patti Neighmond, an NPR reporter. Forgetting the name of a book or a movie, in the absence of other kinds of forgetting, happens to everyone over their 50s.

What a relief for us. Wrinkled brows that had accompanied our book-forgetting conversations fell away. The crepey necks, however, grew more folds over the years. But that was normal, too.

In time, we celebrated Pat’s 70th birthday, Sharon’s 75th, and Peg’s 80th birthday. We no longer worried when we couldn’t think of the name of “that wonderful author who crafted endearing characters even if they were selfish, curmudgeonly, or quirky.” After all, we’d retained the gist of Elizabeth Strout’s tales and knew our forgetting was normal.

Then, something surprising happened. Over the decades, we’d gone from grinning to smiling broadly to hiccupping laughter each time our group forgetting-ritual occurred.

We’d found a novel way to enjoy each other with that knowing feeling that shared experiences can foster. “I’m so glad we’re all in our 70s and 80s and can laugh together about forgetting,” exclaimed Louise.

This is a joy limited to our select club of septuagenarians and octogenarians. We’re proud to be library card-carrying members.

Patricia Steckler (pattisteckler@gmail.com) is a retired psychologist who was in private practice for 40 years. She lives in Bethesda and is a 2019 graduate of the Johns Hopkins science writing master’s degree program.