“Ah Youth, Forever Dear, Forever Kind.”
--Homer
At the end of my jog this morning I ran into a group of Navy recruits from Great Lakes Naval Station and chatted with them for a few minutes near the train station in my neighborhood. (If you know me, you’ll know I’m an extrovert—I’ll talk to a telephone pole if left alone too long.) They were so polite and shy, but what struck me most is that they are so very young. They’d missed their stop—the Botanic Gardens—and were wandering around the train platform trying to figure out where they were. So young, indeed, with so much future ahead of them. I helped them find their path to the Garden and secretly wished I still had their enthusiasm and energy—especially their youthful energy.
A couple hours later I got a text from my brother Bill with a YouTube video of his youngest son playing drums. Watching it I literally teared up with pride and amazement. I was witnessing pure talent. My nephew is an amazing musician—and a wonderful, kind young man—and his future is so very bright. I couldn’t be prouder to be his uncle.
I’ve never been as good at anything in my nearly 48 years as my nephew is at the drums today as a teenager. Perhaps just as amazing: he is so young he doesn’t even know how good he is. And I’m finally old enough to recognize and appreciate his talent. Maybe that is my talent…
What is Middle Age? And Am I Truly in the Middle?
At 48, actuarial life tables created by the US Census and Social Security Administration indicate I’m likely to live another 30.7 years. I’m not just middle aged, I’m firmly on the downward slope.
I was once told I’m an old soul. Apparently so is my prostrate as I have to visit the men’s room about 30 times a day. I’m almost 48 but I have a 70 year old prostate, and the liver of a 55 year old. My lower back died briefly in 2016 but was resuscitated by a half a bottle of Advil and several glasses of whiskey. If you could calculate the average age of my various parts, soul included, I’m certain I’m much closer to 60. I’d be much older but my sense of humor is still rather juvenile. (Who doesn’t love fart jokes or the movie Spaceballs?)
It’s abundantly clear by now that I’m not going to write the great American novel. I’m not going to see my paintings or etchings in a gallery or museum. And I won’t get discovered any time soon as the heir to Kris Kristofferson or Willie Nelson. Like Peter Schaffer’s Salieri (in his classic play Amadeus), I’m the patron saint of mediocrity—good enough to know how bad, or at least mediocre, I am at most things. And good enough to recognize true talent.
But recognizing my limitations doesn’t change my passions. And my limitations don’t prevent me from creating. And at middle life, I’ve decided that’s what I am going to do—I’m going to redouble my efforts to write and draw and play music and do the things that give me pleasure. The things that matter to me, regardless of their worth to others.
Now…back to watching Spaceballs! (And thank you, Mel Brooks...May the schwartz be with you!)
