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alexpgpMy paternal grandfather died at the age of 49, before I was born, of complications following surgery.
My father died at the age of 51, when I was 8 years old, of a heart attack brought on by nature (hardened arteries) and nurture (copious quantities of alcohol and cigarettes).
My maternal grandfather died at the age of 65, when I was in my second year of life, of a heart attack, apparently. My mother and grandmother never spoke of an underlying cause, and maintained it was due to overwork, and I have no basis or reason to disagree with the proposition that the man was a hard worker.
Today, I turn 66, making me the first male to live to such a ripe old age in three generations. Go, me.
If there's anything life has taught me, however, is that racking up the years is not any kind of competition. Some live to be very old (John Gay, my great-great-great-great grandfather, who fought in both the Revolutionary War and the War of 1812, died at the age of 102), and many others—don't, for so many different reasons that the mind boggles.
Is life too short? Many would say yes.
I am trying to let myself be guided by Seneca in this regard ("It is not that we have a short time to live, but that we waste a lot of it"). I see the truth of his observation every day—more often than not, in my own life.
But maybe I waste a bit less time every day, and that's progress. Plus, wasted time aside, I'm nevertheless happy to be alive and grateful for it.
Having become the "old man" of the tribe (and having set the bar a bit higher for my offspring), I think I shall take a five dollar bill and go find a Starbucks somewhere. Our home coffeemaker doesn't do cappuccino.
Cheers...
My father died at the age of 51, when I was 8 years old, of a heart attack brought on by nature (hardened arteries) and nurture (copious quantities of alcohol and cigarettes).
My maternal grandfather died at the age of 65, when I was in my second year of life, of a heart attack, apparently. My mother and grandmother never spoke of an underlying cause, and maintained it was due to overwork, and I have no basis or reason to disagree with the proposition that the man was a hard worker.
Today, I turn 66, making me the first male to live to such a ripe old age in three generations. Go, me.
If there's anything life has taught me, however, is that racking up the years is not any kind of competition. Some live to be very old (John Gay, my great-great-great-great grandfather, who fought in both the Revolutionary War and the War of 1812, died at the age of 102), and many others—don't, for so many different reasons that the mind boggles.
Is life too short? Many would say yes.
I am trying to let myself be guided by Seneca in this regard ("It is not that we have a short time to live, but that we waste a lot of it"). I see the truth of his observation every day—more often than not, in my own life.
But maybe I waste a bit less time every day, and that's progress. Plus, wasted time aside, I'm nevertheless happy to be alive and grateful for it.
Having become the "old man" of the tribe (and having set the bar a bit higher for my offspring), I think I shall take a five dollar bill and go find a Starbucks somewhere. Our home coffeemaker doesn't do cappuccino.
Cheers...
