Thoughts on growing older

It's been almost six weeks since I posted last, but it has been a busy time.

On the writing front, my son and I have been hammering out a rewrite of our screenplay, Black Rock, which we hope to see filmed next summer (2010) in West Virginia. If all goes well, he will be directing it, too.

We're both excited, the production company that optioned it are saying money is looking good, but we are ready to move on to a new project.

I've been writing on my own, as well (for reports on that, check out my writing blog, A Moving Line). And I am flying to Lawrence, Kansas next Saturday for a two-week-long writers' workshop conducted by a science fiction great, James Gunn. Teaching fiction was his "day job" while he wrote and he still is involved in the operation of The Center for the Study of Science Fiction at the University of Kansas in Lawrence.

I dug around in my book storage boxes last week and found a copy of Future Imperfect, Gunn's collection of short stories published in 1964. I bought it new and it's still in pretty good shape, although the pages have yellowed. The price, printed on the cover for all to see was forty cents.

And that brings me to something I have been mulling upon.

It occurs to me that one of the reasons that it has been six weeks since I have posted is that the days go by so quickly. Does it seem that way to you? That the older you get, the faster times goes by.

My son was thirty-one June 11th.

Rachael and I have been in Seattle for eighteen months now and it seems like just yesterday that we made that non-stop trip here.

She just had another birthday Wednesday and when we went out for pizza to celebrate, she told me that she felt as if the years were picking up speed, as well.

We've been together ten years now.

I can't help but wonder where does the time go?

Shakespeare had MacBeth say:

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

I don't want to get all maudlin here, but I'm feeling a bit like that idiot tonight.

The election -- in passing

My grandpa used to say that time moves along.

My son called from Ohio today. We chatted about this and that, mostly about movies and writing, and then he mentioned how excited Dylan, my grandson, is about our new president elect.

"He went to the polls with me yesterday," my son said. "I let him push the button."

He said they had campaigned for Obama, too.

"We like what he stands for, what he says," my son said. "And he's only seventeen years older than I am."

And I remembered how excited I was, sixteen years ago, when I discovered that Bill Clinton and I were only months apart in age; finally, a president I could relate to.

Grandpa was right.

Like a fine wine

I called a friend in Florida this morning. Helen and I are of an age, and we both like to rattle on, so we were on the phone for a couple of hours; God bless unlimited dialing and roll-over minutes!

The conversation rambled, as I said, we both like to talk, but it kept coming around to the issue of age. At sixty-two, we are both starting to experience more than the normal aches and pains of life; Helen is having some mobility problems, due to her knees, and the eye doctor told me last week I am showing the first signs of cataracts. Bummer.

But one of the things that we spoke of is the idea of three ages. Maybe you've heard the theory, maybe not. It suggests that there are three ways of measuring a person's age: chronological, physiological and intellectual.

Chronological age is the easy one; it's the measure of how long it has been since we were born.

Physiological age is a little more complicated, but still easy to touch; it's how old our body says we are. We've all had the experience, I am certain. We see someone we haven't seen for a time and say, sometimes just to ourselves, "She (or he) looks so old!" The opposite is true, too; some people just age well, like a fine wine.

Intellectual age is the sticky one.

Growing up, we all heard our parents or grandparents or teachers say, "Act your age!" We talk about the Peter Pan syndrome or say that some one is young at heart.

There's an apocryphal story, usually attributed to Charles Addams, creator of the Addams Family, or scifi/horror author Robert Bloch, which says, "I have the heart of a teenager -- in a large jar on the top shelf of my bedroom closet."

Wherever his heart was, my grandfather used to say, "You're only as old as you think you are." I think he was right. I know it puzzles me why baretenders serve me these days without asking for proof of age.