Pennsylvania, 1976. The
end of a gorgeous early fall day, the 28th of September. Near a small foundry town in the southeast of
the state, on the balcony of a rustic chalet halfway up a hill covered in
resurgent young woods stood a small boy, nearly two years old. He was draping and tugging on a young woman
sitting beside him in a chair, while she tried to savor the achingly beautiful moment
by playing “Day is Dying in the West” on her violin.
Uncharacteristically she was annoyed and irritable with
him. Also generally uncomfortable all of
a sudden. Despite being nine months
pregnant at the time, it took her a while to realize that this was the onset of
labor. It was time.
Early the next morning (I think), I was born. Mom doesn’t remember my labor at all. The forgetting hormones did their work so
completely she couldn’t even tell my aunt the story a few hours after the
fact. She does, however, remember how
she hid me under the blanket so the nurses wouldn’t notice me for a while. Eventually they did whisk me away to the
nursery, and Mom was incensed that one of them picked me up and gave me a
smooch, calling me her baby. She also remembers two nurses coming in later
on and asking what she had chosen for a name.
“Jason” she said dreamily. One
nurse turned to the other, “I told you!” she gloated. Yes, my mother, always on the lookout for the
unique but classy name for her kids, had blundered into one of the biggest
naming fads of the seventies. In my
fifth grade class there were five of us:
Jason B., Jason T., Jason S., and the two Jason Ms.
A bit of water has passed under the bridge since then. I was speaking to that same mother this
weekend (they breezed down to visit the newly arrived grandchild), and she
introduced me to an old saying about the fortieth year of life: It is said to be “the old age of youth and
the youth of old age.” I guess whether
that is encouraging or not depends on whether you are a glass half full or half
empty kind of person.
I am the first kind.
I am actually quite satisfied to be at the end of youth. I feel that for the most part I have spent it
well. I have gotten some pretty good
work and play out of my most resilient years and have set the tone for a really
very satisfying existence, while at the same time leaving much to accomplish
and be eager about as I move into the presumptive second half of my allotment of
years. In love and family and life
opportunities I have been fortunate beyond what I can express.
When people have put the question to me, “What does it feel
like to be 40?”, I have been answering it with the realization that I am
unquestionably, irrevocably, no longer a boy.
I am now a man, like it or not.
And I like it, I have decided, since what it mostly means to me is not that
I can’t be silly or full of wonder, but rather that it is time to own up to who
I am and realize that who I am now is pretty much who I am going to be. I also mention that evolutionary biologists
tend to point the number 40 as the average age at which nature more or less
doesn’t care what happens to you anymore.
You’ve procreated if you’re going to, on average, and probably even have
seen your offspring into adulthood (this is in pre-industrial terms). Sure, you can contribute some wisdom to the group,
but you’re also still eating a lot of food without probably producing any more
copies of the genome. So now it’s mostly
a wash; nature has no reason to support your health with the amazing resiliency
of youth, so nearly every bodily system is beginning its long, slow (we can
hope) slide into oblivion.
Again, it helps here to be a glass half full sort. I take that dynamic to mean that I cannot
take my health for granted or neglect it from this point forward. It is up to me to make the most of what
nature leaves to me. To put it another
way, from here on out it’s all gravy!
Being 40 means, I feel, that it is time for me to live in gratitude.
And why not? Sure
there is the pressing threat of climate change, a grossly unfair and
ill-founded economy pollutes our society at its core, the presidential election
is between Donald Trump and Hillary Clinton, and high-tech warfare and energetics
flirt daily with disaster…but as I was driving alone in the car on Thursday
with the windows all the way down and cool air buffeting me with pleasure from
all sides I also had to admit that there is also this day. There is this life of mine, which despite all
of the problems and looming threats all around must be considered one of the
most privileged existences in one of the most privileged times in all of human
history. It is one of my highest
aspirations to transform that privilege into justice a little more every day,
but I would be a fool of the most ungrateful sort if I didn’t acknowledge and
celebrate the good life I am fortunate to live.
Among the many wonderful things about my life is the loving,
caring partner I have shared life with for 17 years, and who put a lot of
effort into celebrating this milestone with and for me. She has initiated my taking a trip with my
Dad and hers out to Nebraska to see the Sandhill Crane migration (a bucket list
item) with some fun adventures along the way.
That will happen in March of 2017.
She also solicited more than 40 people to write her with what they like
about me. She assembled their messages
into a very affirming document that I am sure I shall treasure. This is my opportunity to thank any of you
who contributed to that effort, since I will not likely have a chance to thank
you each individually: Thanks, friends
and familiars; it meant a lot!
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