Ruminations on a Birthday

I came into this world in the early morning of November 1st, 1950.  I was born at Millard Fillmore Hospital in Buffalo, NY.  The hospital is gone, but I'm still here.

I'm at the point in my second or third childhood were I start thinking adult thoughts about death and adult diapers.  I have reached the age at which point my paternal Grandfather died.  I have exceeded my maternal Grandfather's timeline by two years.  I guess that makes me a winner, although I still have a ways to go to reach my Dad's expiration date.

I had no big plans for the day.  No parties, no fancy dinner, just another day.  A phone call from Mom, Facebook well wishes from my brother and a few friends, Happy Birthday sung by my wife early this morning.  Like I told an elderly gentleman I held the door for at the Post Office as he hobbled in, at least we're ambulatory and that sometimes is the best thing one can wish for.  I found out a former coworker, younger than myself, had passed away.  I'm glad not to be a Facebook post accompanied by nice things said by people who hardly knew me.  I've watched friends and family die and I have no wish to join them anytime soon.  I have some minimal choices in the matter; like trying to eat healthier in order to prevent the things that seem to hasten the demise of the male heirs in my family.  Yet there is no way to prognosticate your end, just hope that its postponed to a day that will be determined sometime in the unforeseeable future.

67 isn't really old, unless you're in your twenties or thirties.  Then it seems ancient.  I never imagined myself being 67 when I was younger.  Both my Grandfathers died before I was 21.  I could not contemplate or imagine finding myself at that point.  I couldn't have imagined spending 30 years at the railroad.  I always wanted to be an artist of some sort, and I was fortunate enough to have a crack at it a few times.  Those are times and memories to be cherished.  The railroad part of my life came in two pieces.  The first came out of a desire to live out a young boy's fantasy that lasted 12 years.  The second came out of desperation when the art career never quite panned out.  That lasted until I retired at 62.  I enjoyed that work too, and I was good at it.  The hours were long and I sacrificed much of a life outside of work to do it, but the reward of a decent pension make that sacrifice seem worthwhile.  I am four years into a new life where I can pursue the creative parts of me that the railroad couldn't kill.

Along the way, even with the railroad, I was able to keep the flame of creativity going.  I was always able to do something that fed that fire.  I have a great deal I am proud of and can look back without regret and say that I did the best I could, not matter what I did, given the circumstances.  We all have regrets about the other choices we might have made, but I prefer to think I played the best game with the cards that were dealt.  I married a decent, loving and understanding woman who has tolerated and supported me.  What more can one ask for.

Tomorrow I will go the breakfast with a group of railroad retirees, many who are significantly older than me.  Its nice to hang out with a bunch of old railroad farts who can tell stories and laugh about the life they left behind.  I hope to be going to many more breakfasts as our ranks are replenished by new retirees and I can become an old fart too.