Where does the time go?

I turned 80 on Tuesday. I don’t believe it.

Mathematics and the calendar prove it’s true. But in my mind I have a concept of what it should be like, and I can’t believe I’m there yet.

I’m the patriarch of the Morain clan. In that role I get a little deference and lots of needling. It’s now pointed out to me that I’ve entered my ninth decade. Kathy, who won’t reach the 80 milestone for well over another year, reminds me from time to time that I was born before Pearl Harbor. Then she smiles.

My young grandkids, who like most kids seem to see age as a big deal, occasionally have questions about my tenure. When we finish they usually look at me thoughtfully and silently. I don’t think I want to know what’s going on in their minds at those moments.

When I returned to Jefferson in 1967 to join Dad at the Bee and Herald, most of the obituaries we printed were of people in their 70s. By the time I retired in 2012, most of them were in their 80s, and the average age appears to be rising.

I don’t know how I should feel about turning 80. Based on my health history, I suppose I should be considerably less hale than I feel. I’ve had open heart surgery to repair my mitral valve and bypass a mostly blocked coronary artery. The upper lobe of my right lung was removed to eliminate a cancerous tumor, and the subsequent chemotherapy lightly scalded my kidneys. My left ankle was rebuilt after I shattered it from a fall off the third-story roof, which also compressed a couple of vertebrae. My right hip has been replaced. I have low-grade arthritis in several joints, and a partial tear in my right rotator cuff (I’m right-handed).

I take four pills in the morning, three after lunch and four more at bedtime.

And I have some irritating trouble recalling names and coming up with the right word when I speak and write. Kathy will ask me to do something, and five minutes later I’ve forgot what it was. She also tells me I’m hard of hearing. I have to keep my schedule in my desk calendar because my memory is apparently leaky. So is my plumbing.

But I feel fine. Am I supposed to? I don’t know.

I’m 40 years younger than our house. That ought to be worth something.

All in all, I’m lucky. I mow my lawn with a walk-behind mower. I cover local government meetings for the Herald. I’m involved with several local and state organizations. I can drive all day on long trips with no adverse consequences.

I’m challenged technologically, but that’s not a recent development — I’ve always been that way. I was the last one at the newspaper office to convert from typewriter to computer. I still have a fliptop phone. When I have computer-related problems, which plague me chronically, I pester one of our kids or grandkids for the solution, and they always come through.

A few weeks ago, while Kathy and I were watching granddaughter Norah’s soccer game in Adel, 6-year-old grandson Colin was sitting on my lap in my bag chair. We were discussing weddings (granddaughter Laura, 24, is engaged). Kathy was filling Colin in on the roles in a wedding party.

Kathy: There’s often a flower girl who walks down the aisle spreading flower petals.

Colin: Could I carry flowers?

Kathy: Well, usually a boy carries the ring down the aisle on a little pillow instead. He’s called the ring bearer.

Colin (after a few minutes of thought): I’m going to get married in my 20s. (Turning to me): How old will you be when I’m in my 20s?

Me: Well, you’re 6. When you reach 20 that will be 14 years from now. I’m 79, so in 14 years I’ll be 93.

Colin (after a pause): Will you be my ring bearer?

I said yes, and I’m going to hold him to it.