“Do you know that Mozart had already written three operas by the time he was your age?” The Teacher asked his student.
“Do you that by the time he was your age.” The Student replied. “He was dead?”
Being old isn’t what it used to be. Life expectancy was 65 when they started Social Security in 1940, and now it’s closer to 77. My Mother was 85 when she died and Dear Old Dad was 65. Either way I have a bit less to go than I have come already. In the off-chance that I end up setting some kind of record, I would still have 70 years to go. Baring some sci fi breakthroughs, on the whole I’d rather not break any records.
On the other hand, I may not see the sun set again. Life is a fragile bit of business and all manner of catastrophe is laying in wait. I might be hit by a truck or taken out by a stray bullet. Life is a risky business.
And yet, here I am.
I still pretend that I have all the time in the world. I have two fairly recent novels started and waiting patiently on the hard drive. I am still planning on getting some photo work of my own in the new year. I still have plans to visit a few more states and maybe a few more countries. But all of these plans are a tad nebulous.
For the most part life has been good. Fifty years ago everyone knew they were going to die in a nuclear holocaust, now, well, not so much. Our worries are more mundane and personal-or maybe they always were.
My Father-in-law did everything right. He got married when he was young, had three kids, had a Career, and retired with enough money to live off the interest. Then he was dead at 61. Me? I’ve been married a while, but didn’t get married until I was 28. I have no kids and no plans to have any. I still live paycheck to paycheck, when I have paychecks. I’m not likely to retire anytime soon. But I still think I am happier than he was, he loved a good fight too much, and I really don’t care that much about anything.
It’s all good.
