It’s been almost two years since I passed the three-score and ten mark. Other milestones have not had much effect on my attitude, but the seventies unexpectedly became a more sobering mark. That’s partly because of a too-honest mirror. The kid I used to catch a glimpse of has left the building.   

I’ve had some remarkable examples of graceful aging among family and friends. For reasons I don’t fully understand, I’ve not embraced this phase of life as well as they have. I’m glad to be on the train, but wondering how it got to the station so quickly.  

One benefit of the journey, however, is that I’ve learned a few things along the way. An insight came this past spring after an inguinal hernia put a kink in my routine. As pain in the hinterlands sidelined my usual activities, the frustration of forced relaxation led to an epiphany: I was better at being young.

All hernias are not created equal, I’ve discovered. A small one developed on my right side several years ago and remained inconsequential. There was no discomfort and only a tiny bulge. It bordered a faded appendectomy scar I’ve had since the third-grade.

Dr. Baker took out my appendix at Taylor Regional Hospital in Hawkinsville. We kept it in a brown jar of alcohol under our farm shelter for a long time. It didn’t occur to me until later it would have made good fish bait. 

That childhood surgery has been mostly forgotten except for two memories. One is the smell of ether in the soaked gauze they placed over my nose.

Ether was the standard anesthesia in the 1950s and I inhaled with great appreciation. I had watched enough westerns to know the other options were a swig of whiskey or clenching a bullet with your teeth. As a Southern Baptist I would have had to bite the bullet.  

The other thing I remember about my short hospital stay is a reprimand from an elderly nurse, an ancient woman probably well into her 50s. After I was stitched up and wheeled to private quarters, I snuck out of bed, walked to the bathroom, and locked the door. An eight-year-old boy needs his privacy.

When the nurse came to check on me, she attempted a forced entry but thankfully had no key. She threatened to accompany me the next time unless I promised to leave the door unlocked. I agreed to her terms but my fingers were crossed. I’d have rather bled to death.

Medical science says the appendix is a useless organ. My thinking is it works like a book appendix and that’s why I have no sense of direction. I’ve been lost on countless highways, campuses, and even inside buildings. It’s frustrating at times, but also interesting.

In the late 1980s a meeting for Georgia bankers was held at a hotel in north Atlanta on Highway 41. Because of my directional challenges, I got off I75 south of the city and took the historic route. I ended up on a dead-end street of abandoned warehouses, waving at people who didn’t wave back. 

After a hasty U-turn, I stopped at a florist and ordered the cheapest arrangement they would deliver to the hotel. Following their pink van was a piece of cake. I would have arrived on time if they hadn’t made two other stops. 

I’m glad to report the hernia surgery worked out splendidly. Dr. Alicia Register at Crisp Regional has expertly repaired three ailing members of the John Bonner Sunday School Class at First Baptist Vienna. If you want to run faster and jump higher, visit us for two consecutive Sundays and you’ll qualify for a referral.

Maybe one day I’ll cover a few more things I’ve learned along the way. Meanwhile, feel free to offer suggestions on how to approach the aging process with more enthusiasm. I really miss that kid in the mirror. He left sooner than expected and didn’t even say goodbye. 

There’s a lot I’m unsure of about this latter phase of life, but one thing I can say with certainty: I was better at being young.