In my younger years, I was like most my age in thinking 70 was pretty darn old and over the hill.
I won’t completely disagree with my younger self as I hit 3:43 pm PDT today completing that many post-womb orbits around the sun. On the other hand, I still feel young in a lot of ways. Kari might even say—in a sad yet lovingly tender tone—adolescent at times. I won’t completely disagree with her either.
A variety of experiences have heightened my perspective of this milestone.
First, when filling out my birthdate on online forms, scrolling back to the mid-1950s is taking many more screen swipes than I’d like.
An observation that many in my Buena High School Class of ‘72 are turning 70 this year. How? (Our original and continuing theme “Still Crazy After All These Years” ~Simon & Garfunkel.)
Next, I’ve recently noticed a handful of social media posts from California based news departments covering the DMV’s rule that drivers over the age of 70 now will need to retest to successfully renew their license. The responses from the younger generation were resounding in agreement. Some even proclaiming that no one over 60 or even 50 years old should be allowed to drive. My license doesn’t expire until 2028. I’ll cross that bridge when I arrive. Of course by following all the relevant Vehicle Code bridge laws.
A sobering reminder was remembering that my father died at age 73 and my mother died at age 74. I’m optimistic that I’ll make it longer than that, the good Lord willing. I’d like to think my overall health is better than my parents. Dad wasn’t one to pass on a social drink very often (as a semi-retirement job he owned a popular bar in Ventura), and until I was in Kindergarten he smoked two packs of cigarettes every day before quitting cold-turkey. Mom had M.S. It reared it’s ugly presence later in life than normal, and then it came on with an overwhelming push.
Healthcare is also better now than then, so I’m pushing to make it to 88. Why 88? It’s not what you may think. There are those in our society who strive to redefine every friken’ word, saying, or flag, including those who now claim that 88 is a racist number. Why? Look it up. It’s really stupid.
My reason is simple. Kari and I were married July 16, 1988. The numbers 7, 16, and 88 have always been reoccurring numbers in our lives (except for passwords and disappointingly so far—the lottery). For example, all those years while working away from home, my goal was to call her each night at 7:16. When I fill up with fuel, I try to end it on the cents at .88. Yes it’s silly, but it’s me.
I start today on the coast like I did 70 years ago, yet instead of Newport Beach I’m in Cayucos. The Pacific Ocean air is my favorite.
On to orbit 71 and whatever it brings. Hopefully good health, staying in contact with family and friends like you, and maybe even a chance to spend at least a little time with you.
I’ll leave you with a couple photos that I discovered and scanned just last week.
Mom bringing me to my first home along the Pacific Coast Highway in Newport Beach, Calif.
Old may be a state of mind, yet now I’ve got the urge to go yell at some young punks to get off my lawn, take a nap, or go for a slow drive and hold up traffic.
Happy trails.
