50

There is a story that has been told in my family as long as I can remember. As a small boy, I was riding in the car with my grandfather. I asked him how old he was. He answered, "50." (He was certainly older than that at the time, as he was 52 when I was born.) "Granddaddy! You're old enough to die!" was the kid's response.
In fewer than 20 minutes, I will join the list of those, from my little-boy-opinion, old enough to die.
50.
I never thought I'd be this old. And I'm having trouble caring.
I find the non-caring interesting. I think that 50 is a symbol to a lot of people. I am in the business of interpreting symbols. It just seems like it should be a big deal. I should be let in on the secrets of life. That whole wisdom thing should just boil up from...somewhere.
Something! Anything? Nothing.
I don't feel any different. I don't know any more. I certainly hope I don't know any less, at least not yet. It's sort of like becoming a grandfather. Maybe there's just a bit more enjoying of the moment, at home, anyway. Perhaps in a different circumstance there would be a little more "be here now" rather than the constant "where will I be shortly." That one really doesn't apply to my life at the moment. (Where I'll be shortly is probably the largest single issue in my life at the moment.)
Most of the change comes from the outside.
When in Washington last spring, I let my utter joy at visiting the Jefferson Memorial get the best of me, and in my rush to get to old Tom's statue, I threw a shoe and took a header. Right in front of about a dozen teachers with their thousands of eighth graders. So a couple of the 30-ish teachers come rushing over with their heartfelt, "Sir, are you alright? Can we do anything for you? Is there anyone we can call?" I was so grateful that my wonderful friend, Mike Gilliam, had stayed with the car so that I could endure my humiliation and remarkably skinned legs in anonymity. You haven't lived until you've stood in the Jefferson Memorial with blood streaming down both your legs! People just kind of back away...
I used to go over to poor unfortunates like me, with those solicitous words that I found so unpleasant when they were spoken to me.
Bishop Roy Clark came back to preach at Annual Conference some years after his retirement. Dad had served as his Associate Pastor at St. John's, and the old friends made a date for lunch one day of the session. I got to tag along. Early in the visit, Dad asked the Bishop how things were with him since retiring. Bishop Clark told a story about becoming distracted while stopped at a red light, missing the light's turning to green, and getting honked at and waved at in those special ways that people do when they've been delayed for 10 seconds in traffic. He said that none of that really mattered. What got him riled up was the fellow who rolled down his window and hollered at him, "Get out of the way, old man!" Oh, those last two words! The scary ones. The ones nobody ever wanted to hear.
Maybe the deal with 50 is that "old man" suddenly doesn't seem impossible any more. In fact, "old man" seems pretty likely. Unless...well, you know.
Because that's another thing about 50-something: we may say "too soon" when it happens, but a death in one's 50's? Just not the same as in the 30's or 40's. We're told all kinds of things by today's actuarial tables, that if you make this age, then you can expect to make it to that age...and then comes 50. Not old. But no longer young. And young is farther away than old is. Brutal reality: no man in my family bloodline (at least four generations) has celebrated an 81st birthday. That's sobering for multiple reasons.
Just to be clear, I like being this age, reaching this point of life. (None of this seems morbid to me, just a little bit of honesty and reality) I like being Granddaddy. No, I LOVE being Granddaddy! There is no sweeter sound on this earth than my Dancing Baby laughing at my approximation of the Wild Thing's growl and responding with her laughing "Granddaddy!" It is amazing watching my daughters as grown women. Sara is a good mother, putting all that she's learned from Nana, her psycho aunts, and, for the last nine years, Shannon, to good use caring for her child (who is so much like MommaMomma that I sometimes get transported in time, back about 22 or 23 years!). To her credit, she's also learned a lot about what to discard in mothering. Emmy is getting ready to teach. She adores children more than anyone I know, alongside my mother, and will be the teacher that every parent wants for their child when she gets finished at the U of M and into the schools. The only frustration with my girls is that I know my time with them in our home will run out at some point. Totally selfishly, I'd keep them here with me forever. But that's my wants rather than their needs. At least that's what the therapist says.
I also like being married at 50. Sure, we drive each other crazy at times, but that just goes with the territory. It's fun having a playmate. It's fun not having to worry about what she's going to think when I'm being me. It's great fun grandparenting in tandem. She's awesome with our granddaughter. And our daughters.
If you know me, you're not surprised that this is mostly about family. Family is big with us. We take it very, very seriously. It's why we know who we are.
When it comes to work, I will currently invoke the Thumper Rule. (If you don't remember, watch Bambi) But check back with me in five or six months, and we'll see what's what.
I'm 50 now. Nothing's fallen off. Nothing's dawned. Life goes on. James Albert, I apologize for my ignorance all those years ago. Maybe you told me that being
50 wasn't bad. I'm pretty sure that you thought it, even if you knew I wouldn't understand. If, after 50, I can mean half to my grandkid(s), of what you mean to us, still, then I'll have accomplished something.
50, but there's a long way to go...