A Pirate Looks at 50

This is going to be a long and rambling post, I think, most likely written over several days.  I'm beginning it today - July 5 - at Bongo Java, appropriately enough.

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As I count down the days to my 50th birthday on Saturday, I'm in a contemplative mood.  I find myself shaking my head in amazement, wondering "how did I get here?"  And, more importantly, "where the fuck is here?"  

Truth be told, I never thought I would reach 50 years of age.  My father, Howard Newman, died at age 30 of hepatitis which, of course, is not anything hereditary in nature.  Still, I had a sense of my own mortality - of the frailty and uncertainty of life - at a very early age.  Without question, it colored my world view.  I'm a little more pessimistic than most people, I suppose.  And I know that nothing lasts forever.  Nothing. 

I've never enjoyed my birthday or the idea of getting older, although I've mellowed a bit on that front the past few years.  30 and 40 were really difficult birthdays for me, as I recall.  I was out of the country on both birthdays.   Scotland and Tortola, I believe.  I think part of my problem is the fear of the unknown.  What I mean is that with my father having died so young, I never had any idea of what life would be like for me after 30.  Life after 30, for me, was uncharted territory.  I wasn't afforded the opportunity to watch my father age - gracefully or kicking and screaming - so I had no frame of reference for what aging would do to to my mind, my body - to me.

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And so I find myself, tonight, 46 minutes before my 50th birthday, sitting in a nice leather chair in a cabin in Sewanee, Tennessee, listening to the rain fall outside and on the tin roof.  The boys are in bed.  Jude and I just finished playing Gin (rummy) for the first time in what seems like forever.  God, we used to play a lot of Gin before the boys were born.  We had titanic Gin battles on airplanes, in foreign countries (Costa Rica, Tortola and Scotland), in Florida and in Las Vegas.  

I remember playing Gin more than once at Cabana - a restaurant in Hillsboro Village - at the same partially hidden, small table in the back, garage doors open as we watched traffic roll by on Wedgwood. 

I also remember playing Gin at Frothy Monkey after dinner one night more than a decade ago, not too long after we had moved into our house on Elliott Avenue.  As we played, I heard a song I fell in love with by Matt Kearney - "Bullet" - and I thought I was the luckiest guy in the world to be married to Jude and living in the 'hood.  And in many ways, I was, I guess. 

I arrived at the cabin before Jude and the boys, not even bothering to change out of my suit before I escaped from the office.  They weren't too far behind me, though, and I just had time to put on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt before they arrived.  I heard a noise out front and walked up the hall into the den, where I looked out the inside of two front doors.  

There, on the front porch, were J.P. and Joe, suitcases in tow.  J.P. was peering cautiously through the front door, craning his neck as he tried to see into the entry way, through the other front door and into the house.  When he saw me, the pensive look on his face immediately dissolved and a giant toothy smile enveloped his whole face.  It was as if the sun had just slipped out from behind a cloud, the light blinding in its intensity.

There was a moment - and it was only a brief moment but a moment still - when J.P. was looking through the front door at me, smiling, and the meaning of life was revealed to me.  For that moment, I saw happiness, innocence, trust, anticipation, excitement and love - pure, unadulterated love.  And I lived a lifetime in that brief moment.

Suddenly, it didn't matter that I was turning 50.  Nothing mattered but that my 8 year old son - J.P. - loved me.  And that my 4 year old son standing beside him - Joe - loved me, too.  That's it.  That's the meaning of life.

I stepped outside on to the front porch.  J.P. and Joe both grinned at me.  I hugged them, then helped Jude bring the luggage inside so the boys could explore the cabin at Mugg's Pond.

As I write this, I realize that as it turns out, I am the luckiest guy in the world.  Still.

Happy 50th to me.

PRN