Growing Up

I've been thinking a bit about age lately. This summer, I turned fifty. I didn't think it would affect me - It is just a number after all, not that different than forty-nine, really. And yet, there are times when I can't help but notice that I am getting older. Most of these times occur when I am exercising, or more precisely, just after I have exercised. My muscles and joints ache more and for longer than they used to. This didn't happen overnight but I guess I'm just more aware that age is the culprit now. A couple of years ago, I would have blamed my sore knees on bad shoes. Today, I accept that my shoes are innocent. My body just aches sometimes. This hasn't stopped me from exercising. If anything, I realize I must exercise more regularly to limit my pains.

It's weird. My body feels older, but I don't feel older. I mean, I feel like I'm still the same young person inside. I'd still rather ride my bike than drive the car. I've worn essentially the same clothes (jeans, t-shirt, tennis shoes) for my adult life. I do not feel driven to suddenly don a sport coat and tie. I've gotten older but I haven't grown up. I still like to play. Maybe it's just my perception of middle age that's messed up.

My father was just a few years older than I am now when he died. I always thought that he was very grown up. He was a farmer. He and Mom grew crops, raised pigs and milked cows. Making a living as a small farmer is no easy task. It takes serious thought and careful planning. He did it for many years - starting as a young man. It was grown-up work and he did it well.

Our farm was a quarter section in southwestern Minnesota. I think most farms are bigger than that these days. To me, it was just the right size. Our equipment was old but fairly reliable. Unlike many farmers who have an allegiance to a particular brand of tractor, we had a nice mix. A small orange Case, a green John Deere, and a red Farmall. My favorite was the Farmall - probably because it was bigger than the Case and easier to start than the John Deere. Starting the John Deere required spinning a fly-wheel - a task requiring strength and I think a little magic. Dad was the only person I ever saw start that tractor.

The fall before Dad died, we added another tractor to our farm - an Oliver. It was green, but a different shade than the John Deere. It was bigger than the other tractors and had the distinction of starting by turning a key. When I think of the tractors on the farm, I tend to forget about the Oliver because I never really saw it in action.

I remember one evening, soon after we'd gotten the Oliver. I was wandering around the yard, looking for Dad. When I was bored, finding Dad was often the perfect antidote. Since the crops were in, I figured I'd find him in the yard or one of the buildings. But then I heard the roar of our new tractor. I followed the sound through the grove to edge of the fields. There, I saw Dad driving the tractor away from me down our field road, throttle wide open, kicking up a cloud of dust. When he reached the point where the road turned right, toward the meadow, he stopped and turned the tractor around. As he started back he opened up the throttle to full speed once again. I still remember how he looked: the wind blowing his hair, a subdued, satisfied smile on his face.

Maybe we never outgrow that need to play once in awhile.