On turning 60

My plan to write here regularly hasn’t quite worked out because, well, there’s real-life stuff to deal with. In fact, I didn’t even get around to finishing this post about a major life milestone: I turned 60 on April 19.

I have to say that 60 seems a bit surreal to me.

Not bad. Not scary. Just…weird. I’m probably healthier than when I was 40. I probably do more interesting things than when I was 50. But saying “60” is so vastly different than “59.” At 60, it’s even more important to let that shit go - because more and more shit seems to be piling up that demands “serious thought” and “quiet reflection” and even “deep concern.”

I don’t care about getting old. But what I do care about is all the people who were here when I wasn’t old that aren’t here anymore.

April 17, 18, and 19 were always kind of special for family. My great-uncle Charlie’s birthday was April 17. Charlie was a character. He was the first person who showed me how to swing a golf club. He liked Cracker Barrel Cheese and Cella Lambrusco. He was an accomplished wood carver. His favorite word was “sumbitch.”

When Charlie died, I wrote something about that lovable sumbitch and all those things. I remember the part about carving an elephant and a key - because you needed the key to stick up his ass to unlock the trunk. I think I left out the part about roasting and eating a guinea pig.

I wish I could find that piece. Because what recently struck me on turning 60 is all the things I forgot to remember.

Forgetting to remember is a terrible thing. I wish I’d written down all those old stories. I wish I’d saved more pictures. I wish I’d listened more and talked less, and if you know me, saying that is a damn mouthful, because I’m definitely too enamored with the sound of my own voice a lot of the time. (Like now?)

April 18 was my Aunt Doris’s birthday. We called each other every year. Man, I miss those calls. Fortunately, I still have some very precious video of both Doris and my Aunt Frances talking about school days, and church, and my Grandma Duncan ringing the church bell on V.E. Day.

Thank God I remembered not to forget that.

I was born the day after Easter 1965 - April 18, Doris’s birthday. Because it was Easter, my Pop had his 8mm movie camera with him, and that Easter Sunday survives in beautiful color, and they’re all there: Doris and Cary, both my grandmothers, my Aunt Frances and Junior, my Aunt Onnie and Bill, my Uncle Jimmy and Jackie, and cousins and great uncles and other family, right there on the mill hill in Pendleton, S.C. I missed being there by a few hours, but there’s my Mama in her Easter maternity frock, just about ready to welcome me to the clan.

This past Sunday - the day after turning 60 - was Easter again. Now the sprawling family gathers at my sister Lori’s house, four, five, hell, maybe six or even seven generations down the line. And I got to pull that Easter 1965 up on my iPhone and show it off to a bunch of kids so they could see what their grandparents looked like all those lifetimes ago.

Now that, friends and neighbors, is shit i don’t ever want to let go.