Autumn leaves
Originally uploaded by Brite Lights photos.
I remember that old Frank Sinatra tune, "It Was a Very Good Year," and how he walks through his life, in song. Then there was George Burns' "I Wish I Was 18 Again."
That, I do not wish, though I could shave a few years off the 57, nearly 58 I'm carrying, particularly those years that have given me a bad-enough knee that I'm looking at surgery, enough little skin spots that I have to put on some kind of special cream from the dermatologist, and a creaking set of discs in my neck that give me pause every time I swing my neck around.
I always disliked fall when I was in high school - summer was my time. Fall always meant more clothes, shorter and shorter days, and the inevitable winter.
And boots. Goddamned boots!
It wasn't until I read about how the lack of sunshine can affect you (Seasonal Affective Disorder?) that I caught on to why I found winters tough. It also explains living in California and my love of the south of the border. (OK, I like the margaritas there, too. Ok, senoritas, too..)
Summer was always ahead though, however far. I always knew the ice would break eventually on the lake and I would be sliding my boat back into the water and water skiing was in the future (along with summer school, most likely).
When I look ahead now, I see summer, too, but for me anyway, the days are more precious than ever.
I made a mistake two years ago of guessing that I might live to be 75 (a very big might with my family history). I know that in 2005, that's not that old, but I decided to run the numbers.
Don't do it.
I broke it down from 20 years into months, weeks and days. Even a generous interpretation of the figures says if I want to finish unfinished novels, sail across to the South Pacific, or rescue any damsels from the clutches of evil I damn well better get off my ass and get to it.
Where did I put my sword anyway?
That's the trouble with the autumn of life, you also begin to lose your memory. (Or did I write that earlier in this blog?)
Here's the song for today, kids, from Frank Sinatra:
It Was a Very Good Year
When I was seventeen
It was a very good year
It was a very good year for small town girls
And soft summer nights
We’d hide from the lights
On the village green
When I was seventeen
When I was twenty-one
It was a very good year
It was a very good year for city girls
Who lived up the stair
With all that perfumed hair
And it came undone
When I was twenty-one
When I was thirty-five
It was a very good year
It was a very good year for blue-blooded girls
Of independent means
We’d ride in limousines
Their chauffeurs would drive
When I was thirty-five
But now the days grow short
I’m in the autumn of the year
And now I think of my life as vintage wine
from fine old kegs
from the brim to the dregs
And it poured sweet and clear
It was a very good year
It was a mess of good years.
It was a very good year
It was a very good year for small town girls
And soft summer nights
We’d hide from the lights
On the village green
When I was seventeen
When I was twenty-one
It was a very good year
It was a very good year for city girls
Who lived up the stair
With all that perfumed hair
And it came undone
When I was twenty-one
When I was thirty-five
It was a very good year
It was a very good year for blue-blooded girls
Of independent means
We’d ride in limousines
Their chauffeurs would drive
When I was thirty-five
But now the days grow short
I’m in the autumn of the year
And now I think of my life as vintage wine
from fine old kegs
from the brim to the dregs
And it poured sweet and clear
It was a very good year
It was a mess of good years.
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