Of a Certain Age

It rained today; is still raining, in fact. The moose have been here several times to raid the tomatoes, eat the tops off the asparagus plants and strip some tasty leaves off the various bushes. Things are changing color, the yard is filled with fog and mist, and the horizon is showing itself as foliage thins. Soon the hours will flip and we’ll be staring up at the heavens, hoping to catch the colors of winter. It’s when Bela Fleck and his music lifts me up with rhythm and upbeats, sends me looking for some community dance class.

I have fourteen projects on my whiteboard to complete in the next couple of weeks, with an hour and a half each Monday and Wednesday devoted to some lecture at the university, three hours buried in a lab on Fridays, and a 9-hour class on Saturdays to fill my winter schedule. I’ve yet to buy the studded tires I want for my little pickup, but I did get the fridge I wanted. It lives in the shop because it’s too big to get through the house door. I don’t have room for it in there, anyway, so it serves to hold the favorite brand of lemonade Mom likes, a few soft drinks, fruit and veggies. I’ll be glad for the extra space come the holidays, when I can indulge in a little extra baking, roasting, fixing, mixing and leaving over for a week or two rather than sending everything home with guests for lack of room.

Right now I’m listening to a mix of Santana and George Winston, a little Radical Face and Chopin thrown in for good measure. For a while, the notes put me in a funk but fast-forward and the toes are tapping again. I actually turned the heat on, set the Monitor to keep things a toasty 68 degrees. Heat rises to my office above the shop, and I enjoy the good light and view from the best vantage point on the property.

It’s short tonight, though I felt the need to express how I’m feeling my mortality, the slide into a pool of numbers that have little meaning because there aren’t enough left of them to start anything. There are plenty left to finish what was begun years ago. There will always be time to finish something. I’ve always had projects set aside, a variety to choose from that will last for as long as the interest. Never one to worry about what’s fleeting, I appreciate being able to take up and commit a certain amount of good effort, then set the thing aside to rest and build life when I can visit again. A basket here, a book there, maybe a canvas whose background can be blended into new vision or maybe a tree will grow above the horizon I’d set in a year ago or more. I like picking up where I left off, feeling what I did when I stopped. Do others feel that when they return to something neglected or saved? I do. I try to stop when things are good, unfinished, saved to be savored again when the need arises. I guess there’s some good thing in that, though some might not get it. Oh well.

You might find Snuffy Walden on YouTube. If you do, find “Who Lives Up There.” It’s how I got to this point on the page. Peace, autumn, and rest. Do yourself a favor and be curious. Good night.


3 thoughts on “Of a Certain Age

  1. Your not alone in your thoughts on time running out. Almost every evening I think of new projects and never get to them because I am still working on old ones. I have one ‘legacy’ project that I pray I will be allowed to finish, for a man should not end his road of life without something important being accomplished.

    • They’re BACK now, but too dark for a good picture. I walked out and pulled the tomato cage back, for crying out loud. Of course, the shop door was about 8 inches away…

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