Aging is weird. It seems like yesterday every part of me was elastic, flexible, resilient. Now getting out of bed wrong can be a day limiting event.
I’m mostly ok with it. It mostly has more rewards than drawbacks. And truthfully, the gestation period for aging is long enough for me to come to terms with any particular change as long as I do the daily work of processing.
But some days the processing includes all the stages of grief but particularly denial. That and bargaining. I bargain a lot with my aging.
So when I open Spotify on any random day and find myself listening to Phil Collins, Glenn Frey, Genesis, Toto — the “Don Henley Radio” mix — I try not to think about it as the loss of my musical elasticity, of which I have some but much less than I did.
I chalk it up to acceptance of aging. And I am content.
One of my current side quests is to reforest as much of our 0.4x acre lot as I can. Once you factor a house, driveway, etc, there’s not a ton of space left but we’ve managed to plant a fair few.
I’ll be introducing them to you over time, probably on days when I can’t think of anything else to write about. Today, meet our favorite maple volunteer.
This tree started as a weed in the back of the grove, discovered the spring of 2018 after we put up our fence. Here is a picture of it not existing yet inside the fence in November of 2017.
There’s no maple there yet.
What’s amazing to me about this tree is how freaking big it got in seven years. That seems extraordinary to me by any standard. We’ve done a little encouraging over the years to help it grow. Mostly pruning lower branches and saying nice things to it. Still, that bugger is big enough that I’d have to cross the street to fit it all in frame.
So why am I sharing this tree? That’s an excellent question with a moderately ok answer…
I love that THIS tree exists, and I want it to have a place among the river of documented human awareness. Beyond satellite photos or Google street view drive-bys or realtor photos of the house next door, I want THIS tree to have a moment of acknowledgement for being extraordinary, for growing to a magnificent height, for delivering shade and shelter, for the dappling of light and the whisper of wind through its leaves.
It doesn’t need a moment, but it deserves one.
And the boy loved the tree very much. And the tree was happy.
So of course I decided today—right now is the time to start a new blog. I blame a higher-than-is-wise dose of Benadryl. Also, it’s Sunday.
I’m not even sure ground bees is what they’re called to be honest, but their classification seemed really unimportant as I sprinted away from the lawn mower, even less so now as I’m typing and could easily look them up and provide actual, valid information.
That would set a standard for this site I’m not willing to commit to (yet).
But I’ve been wanting to get back into casual writing and since the yard work was halted on account of the insect muggers, here I am.
I won’t tell you to expect thoughts on family, marriage, fatherhood, music, leadership, work, accessibility, baseball, technology, or life. My track record for new blogs has been abysmal in the last twenty years. It’s even money that this will be my only substantive contribution.
Still. I like to think that I’ve reached the level of maturity and discipline (and wisdom and knowledge) to deliver something worth reading on a semi-regular bases. I’ve certainly started proof reading before hitting publish which is a previously unattained level of refinement, so there is hope.
Until later -🦉
P.S. Immense gratitude to my friend and colleague Tyler Hall for the website home.
P.P.S. Since I don’t have footnotes set up here yet, pretend the Sunday reference in paragraph one links here to elaborate with the following:
In the end, it was the Sunday afternoons he couldn’t cope with, and that terrible listlessness which starts to set in at about 2:55, when you know that you’ve had all the baths you can usefully have that day, that however hard you stare at any given paragraph in the papers you will never actually read it, or use the revolutionary new pruning technique it describes, and that as you stare at the clock the hands will move relentlessly on to four o’clock, and you will enter the long dark teatime of the soul.
