Old Blue Eyes

For those of us who grew up musically in the late 60s and 70s, Frank Sinatra was the bane of our existence.

Now that we’re older, it’s funny how many of us have become fans of Old Blue Eyes and have a favorite song or two from his massive recording catalog.

I’ve been thinking lately about the opening lyrics to one of my favorites, “September Song.”

"Oh, it’s a long, long while from May to December.
But the days grow short when you reach September"

I guess that turning 65 – as I will later this month – is equivalent to September. I’m not sure how I feel about that.

I’m certainly glad to be bringing the curtain down on 64. Health issues – none of which turned out to be serious – and professional disappointment, courtesy of returning from vacation to find that I had been reorganized out of a job that I was successful in and hoped to stay at for the next few years, were among the low lights of the last 12 months.

On the plus side, I’m grateful to the colleges where I teach for giving me the opportunity to live a life long dream and return to education as a professor. I’m still learning the real estate business and excited about what I might be able to accomplish during summer break.

Nonetheless, I’m struggling a bit with turning 65 and the impressions I had when I was younger about what it would be like.

My grandfathers were 65 and I thought they were really old. I’m a grandfather now and hope that Mariana doesn’t see me the same way. When I look in the mirror, I see someone who’s 42. I still listen to cool music and haven’t joined the Republican Party, either.

But, I don’t hear as well as I used to; my hands shake on occasion, and the line of pills that I need to take every morning is getting longer.

And I definitely can't wrap my head around the fact that I started Medicare on April 1.

But, overall I’m lucky and for that I’m very grateful.

So the question is how do I live my September through December?

I won’t spend it crossing days off the calendar based on some perceived family time clock. I didn’t know it at the time, but my Dad spent his 65^th year concerned about his fate, since his Father passed away suddenly at that age. Sadly, my only memory of Grampa Harry is his telling me to be a good boy and go get my Mother as he was being stricken.

One of the many traits I inherited from my Dad is that retirement is not part of my DNA. So, I know that I’ll continue to work as long as I can. Dad was still a full time employee at MIT when he passed at 78. (Mom is 90.) Fortunately, I’ve transitioned to two careers where age discrimination is not an issue.

I was never a David Cassidy fan and certainly would not consider him one of the great minds of our time, or any other. But his final words, as reported by his daughter, are ones I’m going to keep in mind:

"So much wasted time."

In the years ahead, I hope to never end a day thinking about time misspent. Opportunities lost. Moments that should have been lived better. I’m going to look for the joy in life, not things to get angry or upset about.

As Old Blue Eyes crooned, these days are “precious.”