Breaking away from writing, I step out for a walk. The sun has warmed us to a comfortable level. I stride along, nodding and saying hello to others encountered.
A shineless brown hot rod comes along. Roadster. Something out of the forties. Driven by a man who looks like he also originated in the forties, and a woman who might be a little younger, maybe even his daughter, as a passenger, bundled up in heavy clothes.
Putting along at 20 MPH, he guides the car to the side and waves a following vehicle past. Silver SUV, its twenty something driver gooses it faster. An electric vehicle, it glides by with a rising brash hum.
The scene on a small-town street seems so perfectly emblematic of change. Trees and their colors tell of the season changing around us, and there goes an old internal combustion car of a kind rarely seen, passed by an electric car, of the kind now commonly encountered.
The barista and I chatted when I ‘ordered’. Ordering wasn’t needed; my order was known and delivered before I reached the counter.
During our chat, it was somehow revealed that the barista was 20 years old. Then it came out that her father was three years older than her when he became a father (she was the oldest), and she couldn’t imagine that. She was nowhere ready to be a parent, herself.
I, meanwhile, did the math, and made that her father was probably about 43 years old. Meaning, he wasn’t born when the Stones song I listened to on the car radio on the way to the coffee shop was released (“Wild Horses”, 1970). Curious, I asked her if she knew who the Stones were. Yes, she said. She knew them because Dad was a fan. His older brother had introduced him to them after their parents introduced the Stones to the older brother. All this made me think that her grandparents were probably just a few years older than me.
And all of this is so right and fine, and amusing.
Good afternoon. Getting around a little late to this posting today. I dibble and dabbled the morning away, dashing up and down the Interstate and around town during late morning and early afternoon before returning home for naps and reading for a few hours.
It’s November 11, 2023, Saturday and Veteran’s Day. Awoke to a new battle between a feeble sun trying to crawl through chilly gray fog to reach us. Finally worked after a few hours, lifting us from about forty up to a skin scorching 55 F. Bazinga.
As we went zipped about town today, we had lunch and then began joking about our energy levels. “We used to be younger,” my wife and I teased one another. Yes, we used to be crazy, and we used to be fun. Now we’re prudent from mistakes made and lessons learned. Well, with happenstance, we turned off NPR games to pop on the car’s FM radio, and there was Miley Cyrus, repeating our words back at us.
We laughed and my spouse mentioned how much she enjoys the Miley Cyrus song, “Used To Be Crazy”, which came out earlier in 2023. And then I started wondering, when exactly did we start talking about when we were young? I think it was when I was in my forties, which is now about twenty years ago, depending on where the marker in my forties is thrown down, but I can’t verify it without a time machine. But how often do we mourn the passage of our youth and the new people which we end up being? We reflect on how our metabolism drops lower and lower, and with it often goes our energy levels, and maybe our attention levels. I also mourn hair loss and how many body shape has change, and oh, yeah, that hair has grayed and thinned. Were wrinkles mentioned? I forget.
I won’t say that I’ll never be the person I used to be. Techology may surprise us in new ways, like cloning a new version of Michael that I can inhabit with life memories and acquired knowledge intact, which could be pretty cool. Or perhaps an invention that comes along which washes out old cells and blows us out clean and fresh once again, even tailoring the result into which age we’ll like to be. I think I’d like to be 32 again.
Oh, well. This is the shit that is us, and such is life.
Stay positive, be strong and brave, and keep leaning forward. This concludes this portion of my posting day. Here’s the video. Cheers
A friend announced he was thinking of his age as the temperature and decided he would convert it from Fahrenheit to Celsius, which would make it him just 22 years old.
Michael Seidel, writer 