I AM IN THAT CURIOUS STRETCH OF LIFE WHERE I AM NO LONGER YOUNG...
AND NOT OLD ENOUGH TO BECOME A CORPSE. Having arrived in that curious zone where I am now decades past being pubescent and not yet bereft of life, I would be a fraud if I said I had no regrets. I have committed my share of absurdities, was a somewhat deplorable husband, tried to be a flawless father but made many mistakes, and the jury is still out as to whether I am or am not a good grandfather. Down through the years, I have treated some women badly and failed others; through idleness or imbibing in work, I also allowed some fine friendships to deteriorate. As you tumble into old age, however, you somehow learn to forgive yourself. You acquire a sense of proportion about your own relative misbehavior. The damage of the past is done; there is nothing you can do to avoid it or repair it. Popeye was dead on when he said, "I yam what I yam an' that's all I yam."
If I regret anything, it is the loss of the illusions of my youth. This is a familiar process, of course, better men than I have acquired the same sorrowful knowledge. It is difficult to explain to the young the potent excitement that attended the election of John F. Kennedy or the pounding hole his death blew through this country. More impossible still to tell them that there actually was a time, when I was young, that Americans thought change could be effected through politics; and that my two grandchildren still cannot believe that there was once a world without television or the internet and that I had once lived in it.
It was 30 years ago when I first took note suddenly in the window of a store that there was a chunky middle-aged stranger looking back at me. At the same time, white hairs mysteriously sprouted from my scalp. The hard, invincible body I thought I possessed when I was young was forever gone. I once worked 70 hours straight without sleep, belting down coffee, smoking too many cigarettes. I now take afternoon naps, sleep less, rise before dawn, have become aware that hair seems magically to bud forth from my nose and spring from my ears on an almost weekly basis, I urinate more often than I once did, and I now avoid whenever possible the brittle chatter of cocktail parties, due to a minor loss of hearing.
And yet, sometimes I wake up in the morning and in the moments between sleep and true consciousness, I am once again in my college dormitory when I was 20, full of possibilities and dreams, with my whole life spread out before me. When I realize that I am 77 and no longer that confused romantic boy, I am filled with an amazing sense of sadness, and give a moment's though to my past sins, both mortal and venial.
The up-beat side to all of this, however, is that in a few more months, they'll be playing the first games of another season of baseball, and I will be able to see a fresh new rookie try to hit a curve ball, exactly like I tried to do so many years ago. The snow will melt, lakes will make churning sounds, the trees will become noisy with birds, and my hope is that I won't be a carcass in a casket listening to folks looking down at me and saying, "My goodness, the cosmetologist certainly did a good job on him. Now that he's finally checked out, he looks better as a cadaver than he did when he was still full of piss and vinegar..."
AND NOT OLD ENOUGH TO BECOME A CORPSE. Having arrived in that curious zone where I am now decades past being pubescent and not yet bereft of life, I would be a fraud if I said I had no regrets. I have committed my share of absurdities, was a somewhat deplorable husband, tried to be a flawless father but made many mistakes, and the jury is still out as to whether I am or am not a good grandfather. Down through the years, I have treated some women badly and failed others; through idleness or imbibing in work, I also allowed some fine friendships to deteriorate. As you tumble into old age, however, you somehow learn to forgive yourself. You acquire a sense of proportion about your own relative misbehavior. The damage of the past is done; there is nothing you can do to avoid it or repair it. Popeye was dead on when he said, "I yam what I yam an' that's all I yam."
If I regret anything, it is the loss of the illusions of my youth. This is a familiar process, of course, better men than I have acquired the same sorrowful knowledge. It is difficult to explain to the young the potent excitement that attended the election of John F. Kennedy or the pounding hole his death blew through this country. More impossible still to tell them that there actually was a time, when I was young, that Americans thought change could be effected through politics; and that my two grandchildren still cannot believe that there was once a world without television or the internet and that I had once lived in it.
It was 30 years ago when I first took note suddenly in the window of a store that there was a chunky middle-aged stranger looking back at me. At the same time, white hairs mysteriously sprouted from my scalp. The hard, invincible body I thought I possessed when I was young was forever gone. I once worked 70 hours straight without sleep, belting down coffee, smoking too many cigarettes. I now take afternoon naps, sleep less, rise before dawn, have become aware that hair seems magically to bud forth from my nose and spring from my ears on an almost weekly basis, I urinate more often than I once did, and I now avoid whenever possible the brittle chatter of cocktail parties, due to a minor loss of hearing.
And yet, sometimes I wake up in the morning and in the moments between sleep and true consciousness, I am once again in my college dormitory when I was 20, full of possibilities and dreams, with my whole life spread out before me. When I realize that I am 77 and no longer that confused romantic boy, I am filled with an amazing sense of sadness, and give a moment's though to my past sins, both mortal and venial.
The up-beat side to all of this, however, is that in a few more months, they'll be playing the first games of another season of baseball, and I will be able to see a fresh new rookie try to hit a curve ball, exactly like I tried to do so many years ago. The snow will melt, lakes will make churning sounds, the trees will become noisy with birds, and my hope is that I won't be a carcass in a casket listening to folks looking down at me and saying, "My goodness, the cosmetologist certainly did a good job on him. Now that he's finally checked out, he looks better as a cadaver than he did when he was still full of piss and vinegar..."
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