Vol. 3, No. 2 (February 5, 2000)

“Where has my life gone, Judi?” I asked my good friend (and former Saturday Ramblins editor), Judi Amey. She was in New Orleans recently on assignment from her magazine to cover a series of meetings and we were having dinner in a French Quarter restaurant. Being the good editor she is, she reminded me of the first rule of journalism: never lead with a quote unless the Pope says a naughty word.

You see, early in January, my “new year” began. I had a birthday. Which birthday you ask? Double nickels. Add the two digits of my age together now and it equals “ten.” I mentioned this to someone at work. She thought a minute and said, “Twenty-eight.” I immediately fell prostrate in front of her, begging her to marry me. It wasn’t too far from the truth because in another year, I will be 28 … for the second time.

I’m not supposed to be this age. My father is supposed to be this old. Actually, if my father were still living, he’d turn 97 this year. But that’s okay, fathers are supposed to be old. I’m not.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not discouraged or depressed by aging as some people are. It just surprises me. There was a time in my 20s when I believed I wouldn’t see my 35 birthday. I guess it goes with that old saying, “If I knew I’d live this long, I’d have taken better care of myself.”

My question to Judi “where has it all gone?” was precipitated by several things. A week before, on a Saturday night, I found myself with two elderly gentlemen in the laundry room of my apartment house. Saturday night and I was doing laundry with the old guys. Secondly, I sound like my father now when I get out of a chair. I used to wonder, as a kid, why he needed that grunt to get off the seat. I know why now. It’s a propellant of a sorts. I never leave my chair without it.

At one point of my life, if it was Thursday and I had no plans for Saturday night, I was depressed. Now, if it’s Thursday and I have plans for Saturday night, I’m depressed.

Okay, you’re never too old to rock ‘n roll, they say. I agree. Just stop the music between nine and nine-thirty so I can get home and get to bed.

The calendar tells me that January, 2000, is gone already. I have a feeling that this next millennium is just going to fly by. It’ll be 3000 before we know it. We’ll have to endure another 48 hours of Peter Jennings scanning the globe looking for Y3K disasters. Well, let’s cross that bridge when we get it it.

In the meantime, I’ll continue to contemplate, where has it all gone? It’s gone pretty good much of the time. I’ve got a scrapbook full of memories in my head, wonderful daughters who, after all the blood, smoke and tears, turned out to be pretty wonderful young women. I’ve gathered a few precious friends along the way who sustain my life with love and laughter. I had Lana who changed my life forever in ways I cannot write down, and now I have a close bond with her children. Our love for each other keeps Lana alive forever.

All-in-all, not a bad start for the first 55 years. If the next 55 are half this good, I’ll look forward to them. Just don’t keep me out after nine-thirty.

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