The definition is straightforward enough: aging is the process of growing old. A process which, according to Wikipedia.org, refers especially to human beings, many animals, and fungi. It’s nice to know that fungi share the same inexorable journey, that we’re not alone in this.

The process unfolds differently for different people. Some decide to go kicking and screaming, others seem to be on a fast track. And, for various reasons, others never get much of a chance.

There is a whole industry built on delaying the process. It often involves the rich and famous and a substantial outlay of cash for various elective surgical procedures, the results of which, in my opinion, often skew toward disfigurement rather than improvement.

Short of the aforementioned surgeries, I am going to fight the process tooth and nail. My preference would be to not age at all. Well, except as this leads to patience and wisdom, and the opportunity to partake of a nice double cask single malt 12-year old Macallan.

And one more thing- there is a certain unavoidable absurdity attached to growing old: why does it happen at all?

I learned the other day that, apparently, I am a pluviophile- I’m fine with a rainy day. And this is true. I have nothing against clear skies, except in the middle of July when a hot day feels like a walk on the sun and has me wondering if the lawn is about to burst into flames.

I like watching rain come down. I never grow tired of this. There is something comforting about it. It makes me glad to know the gardens are getting a drink and reservoirs are being filled. It means a free car wash and full rain barrels.

Of course, I am not a farmer who needs to bale straw and cut wheat or plant a field. Farmers probably have a more practical understanding of rain, whereas mine is somehow more … selfish.

Anyway, pluviophile. Who knew?

Whether or not Mark Twain ever said it or said it first, I’ve never understood the cynicism. Golf is a game never quite mastered, even though the pros are capable of putting on displays of artistry and polish that could make one think otherwise. Besides, whoever described the game as “a good walk spoiled” must have been playing before the days of electric carts, which pretty much take exertion out of the equation.

In any event, golf is way more than chasing a little white ball around a field. It takes a varied skill set to play it well. It is physically and mentally demanding. It challenges a person’s inner cheater to come clean, to “play it where it lies,” to take the penalties and mark the actual score.

And whatever walking does ensue is often done with friends and family, amidst scenic vistas. It’s a welcome departure from the usual routine.

All in all, time well spent.

Some things I’m thankful for:

Cut and paste, the Undo icon, coffee shops, opening a bag of coffee, grinding coffee beans, making coffee, the aroma of coffee brewing, drinking coffee, making coffee for someone else, the thought of coffee; music, pianos, a good laugh, keeping the windows open at night, hearing the birds singing in the morning, a car that runs, a lawn to mow and a lawnmower that works, a garden to tend, a watch that keeps accurate time, refilled rain barrels, fresh strawberries, a crunchy and slightly tart apple, popcorn, cereal and milk at my disposal 24/7, college friends I’m still in touch with, a day without an agenda, a cold IPA in a frosty mug, a glass of wine while I cook, a puzzle by Uncle Charlie, Shady Maple, technology, trees, the Grand Canyon, Maine, the smell of the ocean, crab meat salad in a grilled roll, my camera, visits to and from our kids and their spouses; Mom, sisters and brothers, aunts and uncles, all my in-laws.

And, that she said “yes” on that October afternoon in 1980.  It still amazes me.

There’s more, but that’s enough for now.

I know- another flower pic. But this isn’t just any flower.

In most instances, in order to see a flower bloom, you have to have: a lot of time on your hands and the patience of no one on earth, or access to time lapse photographic equipment. Or YouTube.

This is an Evening Primrose. The bloom on the right looked like the bud on the left about a minute or so before the picture was taken. The color is a bit washed out because they bloom at dusk. They emit a pleasant fragrance with a hint of… pepper?

Hardly any waiting. The perfect flower for today’s instant-everything crowd. And low-cost entertainment.

Actually, a nice way to spend a few minutes at the end of the day.

A plateau, geographically speaking, is defined as an area of relatively level high ground. The South Rim of the Grand Canyon, for example, is part of the Colorado Plateau, at an average altitude of about 7000 feet above sea level.

Plateau can also be defined as a state of little or no change following a period of activity or progress. “Progress” is a relative term, but it seems possible that a person could “plateau” in terms of their beliefs about any number of things. Perhaps doubt creeps in. Or one somehow just comes to know all one needs to know. It’s this sort of plateau from which a person is tempted to lob all manner of ill-informed, narrow-minded sludge and venom.

The view from the South Rim is expansive and breathtaking. I’ve never been to the North Rim. I see, though, that on average it is about 1000 feet higher.

It would be good to check that out some day.

A memory from school days long ago is the daily wake-up calls from my mother, who would faithfully and gently shake my shoulder and tell me it was “time to get up.” Getting up was a matter of necessity, not always welcomed. I’m sure there was a sense of routine about it, though I don’t remember all those details. In broad terms, it was getting dressed, a quick bowl of cereal, brushing teeth, and then out the door to catch the bus.  One morning, a pheasant crashed through one of the living room windows and landed on the floor half-way across the room. That was not part of the daily routine.

In any event, early morning has become the best time of day, especially at this time of year when the birds start singing at 4:30 or so, and the din of morning commutes is still a ways off. The mind is relatively fresh, even before coffee!

On my way to a meeting the other evening, this came into view as I left the house. Cumulonimbus, I think. It loses something when it’s reduced to a thumbnail on a page, but it was downright breathtaking in person. Pure majestic, imposing, billowy awesomeness.

This is what it looked like from a little further down the road. Wonder what was going on underneath it.

Sometimes all you have to do is step outside.

We didn’t get to pruning the rose bush in our yard this year. I’m sort of glad about that. It’s an explosion of blooms, and pleasing just to look at.

 

We received maybe 6 or 8 strawberry plants last year, and the runners from these eventually rooted, adding another 6 or 8- somewhere in there. As of a few days ago, they are beginning to yield their fruit.

A modest yield thus far, but we’re just getting started. We’ve never grown strawberries before, so there is much giddiness. Fresh from the garden- a real treat.

UPDATE: The squirrel assault has subsided somewhat (I think the signs worked). But we also planted a round bed of Evening Primrose last year. It’s growing nicely and we look forward to the show. And so does the family of rabbits that will at some point emerge from said bed. Yikes.