ageing

For years I have been told I do not look nearly as old as I really was.

Usually the number was 10 or 15 years younger. I had a full head of hair that was dark brunette. I felt  younger and that added to the myth.

Then about the time Miriam died my hair started turning gray. Not a lot and still not a lot, but not that dark brunette color any longer. My beard and mustache had long gone gray, but I wore them any way.

Now I notice little things. Nothing big and nothing fatal, just little things that remind me that father time can be pushed a little but he is still there looking over my shoulder.

I have a family member, that though a few years younger than me, has shown signs of age for some time, but this person is not going to admit anything. “There ain’t nothin’ wrong with me.” But there is and there is something wrong with me (maybe a lot of somethings).

After Miriam died I should have thought of downsizing from my small house. Instead I remarried (not sorry for that one), and we bought a house twice as large as my small house. This house came with half an acre of dirt.


Right now I am doing pretty well. I am making progress on all the projects around here, some of them are pretty ambitious. But I can feel subtle little things that remind me that time indeed is marching on.

The inevitable downsizing is coming.  One day our life possessions will fit into a single dresser drawer.