Turning 50 time to reflect, reassess — and look goofy
One recent Saturday I was reminiscing with my wife Angelyn about my dear old dad. I could recall feeling embarrassed as a kid by his choice of weekend attire: an Oriental dragon shirt, plaid shorts, white socks and green canvas shoes, all set off by his graying goatee and bald head.
Dad was 50 at the time.
Then I glanced down at my own clothes: an oversize red Aztec-design T-shirt, faded camo trousers shrunk to the length of capri pants, rubber shoes with no socks when I went outside, all set off by my graying beard and thinning hair.
I turned 50 in December.
* * *
When Jesus, who was in his early 30s, said Abraham had foreseen His coming, the Pharisees responded sarcastically: “You are not yet 50 years old and you have seen Abraham!” according to John 8:57.
Interesting that they should choose 50 as a benchmark. Obviously it represents an age when youth is but a memory.
That’s why I dreaded my 50th birthday. You can still claim to be young in your 40s, but there’s just no way the word “young” can be attached to 50.
Youthful maybe. But not young.
* * *
I awaited my birthday nervously. Would I deflate like a balloon? Develop a hitch in my get-along?
As it turned out, none of the above. And as months passed, I began to feel a sense of relief.
Now was the time, I realized, to get rid of the deadwood in my life, identify the things that work and focus on them.
If you can’t do that at 50, when can you?
Start with freelance magazine writing. I’d been doing that for 30 years. It’s a lot of hassle with little return. Scrap it.
Book writing isn’t so bad, but let it chill for awhile, too.
Canoeing? I paddled for more than 25 years. Wrote two canoe guidebooks and a trip narrative.
The rivers are all starting to look alike. A float trip seems more trouble than it’s worth. I can get just as much outdoor pleasure on my own little patch of ground in Amite County.
* * *
Music is another story. I’ve played instruments since I was 13 but always kept it on the back burner. I performed at churches now and then but mainly at home.
It just so happens that I joined a bluegrass gospel group shortly after my 50th birthday. I love it. It’s an adventure; it taps into my creative spirit.
Picking a banjo seems to activate the same non-verbal part of my brain that paddling a canoe does, but with a lot less equipment.
* * *
The more I assessed my life, the lighter I felt. Turning 50, I discovered, is liberating. I now have the authority, the right, to dispense with things that are not worth my time.
Like hurrying. Let the 30- and 40-somethings do that, like I did at their age. I want to drive slowly — the speed limit, that is — while the young folks zip past, yakking on their cell phones, risking their lives to save two minutes.
I want to do a day’s work, come home, eat supper and relax. Sit back. Enjoy. Occasionally reminisce.
And maybe discover that I’m not all that different from my dear old dad.
Dad was 50 at the time.
Then I glanced down at my own clothes: an oversize red Aztec-design T-shirt, faded camo trousers shrunk to the length of capri pants, rubber shoes with no socks when I went outside, all set off by my graying beard and thinning hair.
I turned 50 in December.
* * *
When Jesus, who was in his early 30s, said Abraham had foreseen His coming, the Pharisees responded sarcastically: “You are not yet 50 years old and you have seen Abraham!” according to John 8:57.
Interesting that they should choose 50 as a benchmark. Obviously it represents an age when youth is but a memory.
That’s why I dreaded my 50th birthday. You can still claim to be young in your 40s, but there’s just no way the word “young” can be attached to 50.
Youthful maybe. But not young.
* * *
I awaited my birthday nervously. Would I deflate like a balloon? Develop a hitch in my get-along?
As it turned out, none of the above. And as months passed, I began to feel a sense of relief.
Now was the time, I realized, to get rid of the deadwood in my life, identify the things that work and focus on them.
If you can’t do that at 50, when can you?
Start with freelance magazine writing. I’d been doing that for 30 years. It’s a lot of hassle with little return. Scrap it.
Book writing isn’t so bad, but let it chill for awhile, too.
Canoeing? I paddled for more than 25 years. Wrote two canoe guidebooks and a trip narrative.
The rivers are all starting to look alike. A float trip seems more trouble than it’s worth. I can get just as much outdoor pleasure on my own little patch of ground in Amite County.
* * *
Music is another story. I’ve played instruments since I was 13 but always kept it on the back burner. I performed at churches now and then but mainly at home.
It just so happens that I joined a bluegrass gospel group shortly after my 50th birthday. I love it. It’s an adventure; it taps into my creative spirit.
Picking a banjo seems to activate the same non-verbal part of my brain that paddling a canoe does, but with a lot less equipment.
* * *
The more I assessed my life, the lighter I felt. Turning 50, I discovered, is liberating. I now have the authority, the right, to dispense with things that are not worth my time.
Like hurrying. Let the 30- and 40-somethings do that, like I did at their age. I want to drive slowly — the speed limit, that is — while the young folks zip past, yakking on their cell phones, risking their lives to save two minutes.
I want to do a day’s work, come home, eat supper and relax. Sit back. Enjoy. Occasionally reminisce.
And maybe discover that I’m not all that different from my dear old dad.
posted by Ernest Herndon | 1:45 PM
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