On Turning Two Score and Five: A Birthday Kef

I do not feel old. Perhaps because there are no real physical infirmities. Unless one counts as a physical infirmity that male phenomenon wherein the nails on one's big toes turn into some thick, hard material with the molecular properties of ceramic. Otherwise, everything seems to be in working order: reflexes still sound, the eyes still emitting that mischievous twinkle, still sporting original teeth and hair. Despite a few bad habits that I don't care to discuss, I have mostly been the picture—nay, the mural—of health. And I must say, in all modesty, that I really don't look my age. James Gandolfini is eight months younger than me, and let me tell you, I'm doing way better than that guy. (No offense, Jimmy; I love you, man.)

Given the average male life expectancy and adding another dozen or so years to that because 1) medical science will continue its inexorable march toward Star Trek-level effectiveness, and 2) I'm just a lucky son of a gun, I am nevertheless at what one might call the mid-point. And it does indeed seem to be the place where one, as Shakespeare wrote, "hast nor youth nor age; but, as it were, an after-dinner's sleep, dreaming on both."

This may explain certain—what shall we call them? tendencies?—that I have noticed of late. The most persistent one seems to be a propensity, whenever I sit down to write, to lapse into waxing elegiac about the passage of time, about things winding down, and life as it may or may not have been in some past. Am I, I wonder, lapsing into a kind of premature dotage? Or, I wonder, am I beginning to crave it? Somewhat recently, while lingering long in the twilight chapters of David McCullough's biography of John Adams, I found myself drifting into nostalgia for an age I have not reached, in an era I cannot live.

First, the similarities I share with John Adams struck me. Adams lived to be 91 years old. I find this an amiable bit of synchronicity, because in just a few months time, I will be exactly half that age. Mere coincidence? I don't think so. Not when one considers that I fully intend to live at least until the age of 91. There are far too many parallels here to just brush this off as foofaraw.

So I have only to fashion what type of grand old citizen I will be. And Adams (or McCullough's rendition of Adams) has supplied a convivial model. I wondered: have I positioned myself properly to fully exploit what will no doubt be a fecund period of sagacity, like Adams? (I've never had a fecund period of sagacity, and I really think I'm entitled. Particularly in light of have endured several fallow periods of chowderheadedness over the course of my journey.) Will I embody that same kind of joie de vivre, that same bonhomie, that game oldster's je nais sais quoi? And if I do, will it really only be expressible in French phrases? Will I manage to remain altogether crusty and lively and yet sweeping in my overall embrace of humanity?

And why don't I own a horse, I wondered, with a tinge of bitterness, though I'm not quite sure toward whom or what this bitterness was directed? I would need a horse at some point, something to take on a pre-dawn trot to survey the homestead. Because of course there would be a homestead. No, a farm. Acres and acres of rolling Pennsylvania hills, against a backdrop of that bucolic fiddle music from Ken Burns's Civil War series that's getting piped in from somewhere. How nice it would be to own a farm so I could talk about my crops and fruit trees, and what my farm animals are up to. I could write letters about the change of seasons and putting up jars of preserves, and maybe a charming essay about mid-wifing a calf, or the rollicking obstinacy of a pig I just bought. (In keeping with the spirit of this reverie, I'd have to name the pig Alexander Hamilton, of course; everyone would call him Hammy for short. I'd just refer to him as "The Bastard.")

I'd get up very early every day and work on the new stone wall I'm building at the front of my property, then go in at eight and have some breakfast (a glass of homemade hard cider and some eggs and maybe a beefsteak). Then I'd sit down at my massive oak desk for a few hours and compose letters to friends and tradesman on politics and agriculture. Some people from the nearby town might come to call and I'd receive them in my study. We'd smoke a cigar and talk about the news of the day. They'd ask my advice on civic matters. I'd chuckle warmly and change the subject. In the afternoon, there'd be more farm work to do, of course. Then back to my study, where I'd work over my papers until dinner. (I'm not sure what these papers would be about, but I'd try to make sure there was something astute at least on every page.) We'd sup on delicious beasts from my farm—guinea fowl or some choice cut from Alexander Hamilton—and then I would sit reading in my favorite chair next to the fire. Soon it would be time to retire for the evening. I would sleep the sleep of the just.

My grown children and their families would come to the farm for a visit. This would be a momentous interlude. The farm would be a-buzz with activity. Ah, the vitality of youth! My son would help me with the stone wall, and my daughter would get up early and go horseback riding on her favorite mare, Spitshine. I'd bring up a wheel of my favorite cheese from the cellar. In the evenings, there would be spirited games of Whist, or Caution, if anyone could manage to find the rules to these old-fashioned spirited games. Perhaps a thunderstorm would blow in and light up the night sky, the apple trees. I'd tap out the extinguished contents of my pipe against the fireplace hob and then launch into an inexplicable tirade, denouncing ethanol and Protestantism. Perhaps I would verbally abuse one of the servants. I might upset a chafing dish and then blame it on the cat. The local physician would be summoned, but I would loudly pronounce him a quack, and my cane would find his flaccid backside as he went scurrying out the door. Oh, don't call in the local pastor: things would be tenfold worse for him! My wife, distraught but stalwart, would prepare a poultice or plaster of some sort—mythological panaceas, I'd grouse, but allow her to apply them anyway. My condition would grow grave. At times, I would mutter to myself in low German or demotic French. I'd read Kierkegaard and Hobbes, and perhaps John Stuart Mill or Maeve Binchy. My oldest friend, my comrade since childhood, would come to pay a call, and find me in my chamber, propped up against the pillows, my favorite pet bunny, Zorba, sitting with me on the bed. We would discuss the state of the world in dismissive terms, or debate the merits of running a 3-4 defense. "Who will the Steelers draft?" and "What hear you of Napoleon?" I would seem much the same to him, my friend, as ever, but then he would detect a note of distraction, something not quite right—I might suddenly look off vacantly, or unexpectedly call for soup.

Soon, summer would give way to autumn. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, my condition would begin to improve. My appetite would return. I would resume my habit of rising before dawn and taking a long ride on horseback. It is harvest time now, of course, and that never fails to put a hop in my step: the smell of apples and woodsmoke, leaf mold and… more woodsmoke. That particular brand of October light; the autumnal palate of these Pennsylvania hills, as resplendent as in the early days of the republic. Ah, yes, the master seems better now—perhaps it was just an anomalous bit of spleen, that brief episode, brought on by humidity or tight shoes. Brisk autumn has put the apple color back in his cheeks, the old boy! What is with the apples? Soon, I take up my pen again, back to my routine more or less—more letters on socialism and agriculture. Or was it philosophy and agriculture? No one can remember. Screwing a new nib onto my pen, waiting for the soft inner whirring of words to begin their patient, steady sluice, I'd write to my dear old friend: "By now, most all the others who were our mates back there at the university are gone. All the old crowd has passed on. There's only you and I remaining, my friend. And a fine friend you have been through lo these many years. I remember when we were just starting our law careers, standing before the bar, two green country lawyers, trembling in awe at that majestic city: Pittsburgh! Shine on, O you metropolis! The City with the Big Hips, entertainingly crotched in the watery cynosure of rolling rivers. Oh, the blood still stirs! No, I will not dredge up the wenching, or that little episode of yours involving the fiddle and the seller of meat pies—those are a young man's follies. No, let us content ourselves in these remaining years with repose, and gentle reflection. See that pumpkin there? What does it remind you of? Politics and pumpkins are a young man's game. Or, a young man's game and gourd."

Occasionally would I outfit the coach-and-four and travel to our local metropolis on business, to draw up legal papers or to attend to some boat christening. But the limelight would hold fascination for me no longer; no more bloviating in the public square. No, I am content here, I maintain, living like a mud wasp or an oyster, gorging myself on lobster and taking a turn about the lake, wondering if I shall see another spring. Dredging up memories and contemplating motives. Happy that the pantry is well stocked, the hams nicely smoked. There I am, back at my desk again, donning my half-moon reading spectacles and examining the daily mail: long, handwritten letters from the children; invitations to speak at this civic function or that candle party; my copies of Le Monde, Animal Husbandry Today, the Victoria's Secret catalog…