THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1994, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, August 21, 1994 TAG: 9408190223
SECTION: CHESAPEAKE CLIPPER PAGE: 02 EDITION: FINAL
COLUMN: Random Rambles
SOURCE: Tony Stein
LENGTH: Medium: 83 lines
When Julius Caesar wasn't conquering, he went around talking Latin. And one of the things he used to say was ``Tempus fugit,'' which means ``Time flies.''
Julie was not only a great general, he was a smart dude. Tempus does indeed fugit. It fugits like crazy. I am sharply aware of this because I will be 65 years old in just a few days.
Whoa! Sixty-five years old! Three score and five. Halfway to 130. Less than 900 years younger than Methuselah.
Now don't get me wrong. I do not think 65 is all that old. It's just that I didn't expect to get here so fast. When I was younger, the time train was a local, making all the stops with layovers for a leisurely look around. Then, all of a sudden, the time train turned into an express. Swoosh. Forty, 50, 60. It's like a blur that even my bifocals can't correct.
I heard a theory once that time goes slowly when you're very young because each day is a large part of your life. But when you are old, older, oldest, each day is just a small fragment and they start whizzing. I'll drink to that. With prune juice, of course.
I remember clearly one day when I was 22 and working at the bookstore at New York University. By coincidence, both of my supervisors turned 35 the same week. I remember studying them and thinking that they were pretty well preserved, considering their advanced age.
Now, of course, I figure 35 for the first flush of youth. Practically just out of training pants. Old? Listen here, old is 10 years more than you are, no matter what your age. Once, when I was 60, there was a headline in the paper about a 61-year-old. The headline called him ``elderly.''
That made me mad. I start reading the paper as a man in mature middle age and, the next thing I know, they are telling me I am two years from elderly. I wanted to sneak up to the editors' desk and slash the word out of all their dictionaries. Hey, young editors, write 1,000 times on your word processors ``61 is not elderly.''
So what age is? I couldn't tell you because I have discovered that it has nothing to do with numbers. My mother just sort of signed off from lively activity when she was in her early 60s. On the other hand, her oldest sister was lively and feisty and bustling on into her mid-80s. One of my favorite people of all time was a Dixieland drummer named Pops Campbell, who could drive a band with a rock-solid beat well into his 80s.
Nevertheless, 65 is a milepost. By most standards, it is the advent of codgerhood, though I refuse to say old codgerhood. Let's take stock. I have been semi-retired for a bit more than a year, and my wife and I are enjoying ourselves immensely. Physically, I admit to a variety of minor aches, pains and annoyances. Lately, my left knee has decided not to go to work until half an hour after the rest of my body.
Mentally, I am fine. My memory is . . . is . . . what was I saying? Just kidding, although I had better take a list to the grocery store.
The one downer, the one reality is, to put it bluntly, that you know the time train is pretty far along on its run. You look at the obituary page and, more often than you want to think about, there is a familiar name. But then you know that you're here, your breath is still clouding the bathroom mirror and your name isn't on the page, so, OK, enjoy another go-round.
In fact, enjoy all the go-rounds you can while you have them. I guess that's the big lesson for you assembled whipper-snappers to take with you.
Meanwhile, I am going to take advantage of my official codgerhood and complain about a few things. Like about the louts who are too lazy to put carts away in the parking lots of discount stores and supermarkets. Here you are, trying to pull into a space and you suddenly have to play dodge-cart. Bummer.
Since it is a codger's civic duty to mutter and growl, when are they going to make it official and call Great Bridge ``Kempsville II?'' It isn't just the Carolina traffic on the weekend that's ugly; it's every darn morning and afternoon. And North Battlefield will soon be graced by yet another strip shopping center and massive home improvement store. Just what we need to make our passages smooth and swift.
But before you tab me as the Grump of Great Bridge, let me say that I'm having too good a time as my 65th birthday nears. The birds are flocking to the feeders. The dogs are being their usual endearing selves. After 42 years of marriage, Miz Phyllis is still my best friend, and the bills are paid for another month. As the song says, who could ask for anything more, except if you win the lottery and want to split with me, don't hesitate to call. by CNB