A Pirate looks at Fifty
By
Rory Ryan-hcpress@cinci.rr.com
Jimmy Buffett recorded a song called "A Pirate Looks at Forty" and he wrote a book entitled "A Pirate Looks at Fifty." Good for him.
Today, Jimmy Buffet is about 65 or so. In fact, he will turn 65 this Christmas.
For those friends of mine who are approaching that 40-marker of life's navigational beacon, you have my sympathy. The 40 plateau was tougher than most. In fact, a friend of mine who's now in his mid-60s maintains that turning 40 was life's real kick in the teeth. (Or lower.)
Before 40, we were still among the young, relatively speaking. Before 40, middle age wasn't yet a reality of fate. Before 40, we could estimate that our life was not already half over. Before 40, the AARP public relations morons left us alone – and would for at least another decade.
So, reaching the half-century mark, as I have this week, really isn't quite that bad. Most of the bad stuff that comes with age arrived right on schedule at 40.
On the plus side, for my 50th birthday, my in-laws, Jim and Judy Graham of Cincinnati's Western Hills, gave me $50. One for every year I've been alive. (Now, I can't wait to reach 100.)
Looking back at a half-century of life, one thing that does amaze me is how damned fast it's all happened.
For instance:
• It seems like no more than 10 or 15 years ago when my good friend, Kirk Knoblauch, and I were instructed one fine spring afternoon by former Whiteoak High School guidance counselor Ted Ziegler to drive from Mowrystown the three short miles to the Y Restaurant and bring back lunch for the school administrators and a guest from a Dayton area college.
Kirk had an old Chevy Impala back in 1979 and someone (most likely, me; OK, it was me) had the bright idea of going over to Johnny and Judy's bar and grill in Sardinia instead of picking up lunch at the Y.
Mr. Ziegler and Principal Daugherty had given us $20, after all. Why waste the opportunity? After a couple of 3.2 beers (ask your dad about 3.2 beer), we sort of forgot all about our original destination and headed home without returning to school.
Since Kirk and I were seniors in pretty solid academic standing, and since this little stunt happened about two weeks before we were to graduate, all was forgiven. After I paid back the twenty bucks, of course.
• That same summer, after four seasons of starting for the Wildcats, I scored the final run for Whiteoak in a 2-1, extra-inning postseason tournament loss to the Fairfield Lions at what is now known as Shaffer Park. My pal, Larry Taylor, drove me in from second base with a single up the middle, with Dick Shaffer watching from behind home plate.
The two starting pitchers that day in late May 1979 were Donnie Thackston and Kevin Boyle. They battled through a 1-1 tie for 8 or 9 innings, before the Lions scored the go-ahead run. (We did not have pitch counts, back then.) Kevin and Donnie were great guys, and both left this earthly world way too soon.
Was it really that long ago?
• Immediately after high school graduation, Kirk and I loaded our fishing and camping gear, along with my dad's .30-30 Winchester, and headed for Stanley, Idaho in a 1972 Oldsmobile. There's an old saying that if you follow an Oldsmobile very long, be prepared to watch it break down before your eyes. This one, a Delta 88, broke down outside of the Medicine Bow National Forest in Wyoming. We improvised and overcame, though. No worries. (And, remember, this was in the Olden Days, long before cell phones, texts and emails. I think we each called home once.)
I still can't believe that glorious road trip was 32 summers ago.
• Pam and I returned to the Mountain West in the late 1980s, visiting places like Red Lodge, Montana and Sheridan, Wyoming. One thing we both learned was this: A 24-hour car ride should not be followed by a 10-hour horseback ride the next day. We were younger then, of course, and able to withstand a day on horseback just to capture a view – and several photos – from the Top of the World.
Since I've never flown, this was the first time I recall looking down at the tops of very tall evergreen trees and also looking down on storm clouds and lightning strikes. For me, it was too amazing to think about being terrified. We did, eventually, work our way down that mountain. There would be other mountains and hurdles of life – of course.
• Exactly one decade after playing my final high school baseball game, graduating from Whiteoak High School, and traveling across this great country at 17 years of age, in a span of just a few short months, I marveled at the arrival of our first child, Caitlin Maureen, who was born on Jan. 31, 1989, and tried to deal with the loss of my dad and best friend on May 9, 1989.
I look back at how the 27-year-old version of me handled all of it, and cannot help but wonder how the 50-year-old that I've become would manage. What I've come to believe is that the 27-year-old was a little better equipped to ride life's roller coasters. If nothing else, he was a lot more flexible.
Caitlin's pediatrician gave us another bit of anxiety when she told us to take our daughter to Children's Hospital in Cincinnati. We were told Caitlin needed a brain scan because her head was a bit large. (She did have a good brain, you know.) As it turned out, everything was fine. But try telling that to a young father who hadn't had the best of news from Cincinnati hospitals at that time.
The sudden jolts, life's lightning bolts, if you will, are best left to the younger hearts. Anything more exciting or alarming than a Notre Dame football victory is enough for me, these days. If it's all the same to the Good Lord, I'd prefer my family and friends stay happy and healthy. That's asking the impossible, I understand.
• Meghan Kathleen joined her Irish sister on August 13, 1990. This time, I did not purchase five gallons of milk in order to be sure the new arrival had plenty of nourishment. It's been almost 23 years since I made that mistake and I still can't live it down. Who knew that newborn babies didn't drink the same milk that I do? (At least I didn't buy five gallons of chocolate milk.)
Caitlin and Meghan were so close in age that strangers often thought they were twins. (WE'RE NOT TWINS! – inside joke.)
No, they were not and are not twins. But they are very good friends. They were roommates growing up and roommates at Wilmington College. In fact, they are two of the youngest siblings to earn degrees at Wilmington College and at Southern State Community College.
They earned associate's degrees before graduating from North Adams High School, and they earned bachelor's degrees before they were old enough to buy a drink. (Unlike their old man who learned to buy a drink before he could spell bachelor's degree. By the way, the tricky part is the possessive apostrophe.)
I am proud of all they've accomplished and I wish them happiness and success in everything they do. And if they stumble along the way, so what? Doesn't everyone? You can bet I've tried to minimize the missteps, but no one can ever guard against every curveball that life throws your way. The tough part for this father is to accept that fact. (Hell, who are we kidding, here. I'll never completely accept it!)
When she was very young, Meghan gave her parents a real scare by accidentally placing the nose of a stuffed animal inside her own nose. The rounded metal object somehow worked its way far back (up?) in her nostril. After visits to two hospitals and a 170-mile drive, Meghan was good as new. And I think my mother may have re-sewn or re-glued the metal nose on the stuffed animal.
I'm glad I was not 50 then. Again, that was a little too much for an old man's heart.
And then there was the time Meghan broke her arm in two places after the Festival of the Bells – the last year it was at the fairgrounds. They say you can't get from Seaman to Mercy in less than 30 minutes. (Note to editor: Somehow, that previous sentence doesn't seem quite right.)
As I was saying, we made it to Clermont Mercy Hospital in about half an hour, maybe less. My wife, being the registered nurse that she is, tried to tell me this was not a life-or-death situation. Meghan's father, being the worrier that he is, only heard the cries of his daughter. We put the emergency flashers on and pulled into the hospital in Richard Petty time. I still appreciate the state trooper we passed for not pulling us over that night.
I was about 36 then. If Meghan broke her arm today, I'd probably tell her to just ice it and call the doctor tomorrow.
• If Caitlin and Meghan didn't do enough to scare the life out of their father (sir), then Colin would. He arrived in December 1994 a day after Christmas. Colin's arrival was a testament to his own willpower and determination. Pre-birth, he'd managed to tie the umbilical cord around his neck and, just for good measure, he'd placed a knot in it, too. Pam was rushed into surgery at Highland District Hospital and, well, as Shakespeare said, All's well that ends well.
Sure, just tell that to the old man in the waiting room. The 33-year-old me did all right, I suppose.
As Colin was growing up, he and Dr. Mark Davis, one of the best ER docs at HDH, were on a first-name basis. A broken arm here, stitches there, the scar on the top of the head. All my fault, of course; or so Colin tells it. He survived. He is tough.
When Colin got older, he tried his hand at sports. In a strange turn of events, one day when I went to pick him up after basketball practice, I became his coach.
Looking back, that was probably a lot harder on Colin than it was on me. I was pretty rough on him. I remember that I taught him how to take a charge. At 110 pounds, he once took a charge against an Adams County player who weighed about 240. The referee (Pete Hollon) was working the game solo and voluntarily. He didn't see the play. I did.
Colin positioned himself perfectly and the other player drove right through him. Both players were sprawled on the floor and the referee turned and whistled Colin for the foul. I swear I jumped 10 feet. Scott Rankin grabbed me. Pete said he didn't see it. Colin was OK. The 240-pound kid missed both free throws, so it was all good. (A "smart" foul, as it were.)
God did not place me on this earth to coach basketball. I learned this not at 50, but at 45.
Colin played three years of basketball and is now getting ready for his third year of baseball. But two things stand out much more than sports that his educators have told me. North Adams science teacher Randall Dunkin told me a year ago that "Colin is a lot smarter than you think he is." (I may have replied, "Thank God." Sorry, Colin.)
Prior to that, one of Colin's teachers at the Hillsboro Christian Academy, Amelia Robinson, told me: "Colin is a good person. We need more Colins."
Not a bad thing to hear about one's son, I suppose.
Reaching 50 has its advantages and some of them are seeing the successes of your children. Others are seeing the successes of good friends.
I have been blessed with a number of lasting friendships, some from high school, some from college, and some from work. Most often, the one common denominator is our shared ability to laugh at ourselves from time to time. Maybe they're all laughing at me, but that's OK. There are a few prerequisites of lasting friendships, among them are a sense of humor, respect, and understanding.
If we can't laugh at ourselves once in a while, and if we can't respect others, and if we can't seek to understand life's curveballs, how can we ever expect to build lasting friendships?
If I have learned nothing else in 50 years, I've learned this: If we cannot respect, we cannot like; if we cannot like, we cannot love; if we prefer to judge, we cannot forgive.
My first 50 years have been very good. I thank my parents. I thank my wife and children. I thank my friends. It's been a good ride and I hope it continues.
Yes, I am a pirate, 200 years too late. I'm an over 50 victim of fate...
Thanks, friends.
Rory Ryan is publisher and editor of The Highland County Press.[[In-content Ad]]
Today, Jimmy Buffet is about 65 or so. In fact, he will turn 65 this Christmas.
For those friends of mine who are approaching that 40-marker of life's navigational beacon, you have my sympathy. The 40 plateau was tougher than most. In fact, a friend of mine who's now in his mid-60s maintains that turning 40 was life's real kick in the teeth. (Or lower.)
Before 40, we were still among the young, relatively speaking. Before 40, middle age wasn't yet a reality of fate. Before 40, we could estimate that our life was not already half over. Before 40, the AARP public relations morons left us alone – and would for at least another decade.
So, reaching the half-century mark, as I have this week, really isn't quite that bad. Most of the bad stuff that comes with age arrived right on schedule at 40.
On the plus side, for my 50th birthday, my in-laws, Jim and Judy Graham of Cincinnati's Western Hills, gave me $50. One for every year I've been alive. (Now, I can't wait to reach 100.)
Looking back at a half-century of life, one thing that does amaze me is how damned fast it's all happened.
For instance:
• It seems like no more than 10 or 15 years ago when my good friend, Kirk Knoblauch, and I were instructed one fine spring afternoon by former Whiteoak High School guidance counselor Ted Ziegler to drive from Mowrystown the three short miles to the Y Restaurant and bring back lunch for the school administrators and a guest from a Dayton area college.
Kirk had an old Chevy Impala back in 1979 and someone (most likely, me; OK, it was me) had the bright idea of going over to Johnny and Judy's bar and grill in Sardinia instead of picking up lunch at the Y.
Mr. Ziegler and Principal Daugherty had given us $20, after all. Why waste the opportunity? After a couple of 3.2 beers (ask your dad about 3.2 beer), we sort of forgot all about our original destination and headed home without returning to school.
Since Kirk and I were seniors in pretty solid academic standing, and since this little stunt happened about two weeks before we were to graduate, all was forgiven. After I paid back the twenty bucks, of course.
• That same summer, after four seasons of starting for the Wildcats, I scored the final run for Whiteoak in a 2-1, extra-inning postseason tournament loss to the Fairfield Lions at what is now known as Shaffer Park. My pal, Larry Taylor, drove me in from second base with a single up the middle, with Dick Shaffer watching from behind home plate.
The two starting pitchers that day in late May 1979 were Donnie Thackston and Kevin Boyle. They battled through a 1-1 tie for 8 or 9 innings, before the Lions scored the go-ahead run. (We did not have pitch counts, back then.) Kevin and Donnie were great guys, and both left this earthly world way too soon.
Was it really that long ago?
• Immediately after high school graduation, Kirk and I loaded our fishing and camping gear, along with my dad's .30-30 Winchester, and headed for Stanley, Idaho in a 1972 Oldsmobile. There's an old saying that if you follow an Oldsmobile very long, be prepared to watch it break down before your eyes. This one, a Delta 88, broke down outside of the Medicine Bow National Forest in Wyoming. We improvised and overcame, though. No worries. (And, remember, this was in the Olden Days, long before cell phones, texts and emails. I think we each called home once.)
I still can't believe that glorious road trip was 32 summers ago.
• Pam and I returned to the Mountain West in the late 1980s, visiting places like Red Lodge, Montana and Sheridan, Wyoming. One thing we both learned was this: A 24-hour car ride should not be followed by a 10-hour horseback ride the next day. We were younger then, of course, and able to withstand a day on horseback just to capture a view – and several photos – from the Top of the World.
Since I've never flown, this was the first time I recall looking down at the tops of very tall evergreen trees and also looking down on storm clouds and lightning strikes. For me, it was too amazing to think about being terrified. We did, eventually, work our way down that mountain. There would be other mountains and hurdles of life – of course.
• Exactly one decade after playing my final high school baseball game, graduating from Whiteoak High School, and traveling across this great country at 17 years of age, in a span of just a few short months, I marveled at the arrival of our first child, Caitlin Maureen, who was born on Jan. 31, 1989, and tried to deal with the loss of my dad and best friend on May 9, 1989.
I look back at how the 27-year-old version of me handled all of it, and cannot help but wonder how the 50-year-old that I've become would manage. What I've come to believe is that the 27-year-old was a little better equipped to ride life's roller coasters. If nothing else, he was a lot more flexible.
Caitlin's pediatrician gave us another bit of anxiety when she told us to take our daughter to Children's Hospital in Cincinnati. We were told Caitlin needed a brain scan because her head was a bit large. (She did have a good brain, you know.) As it turned out, everything was fine. But try telling that to a young father who hadn't had the best of news from Cincinnati hospitals at that time.
The sudden jolts, life's lightning bolts, if you will, are best left to the younger hearts. Anything more exciting or alarming than a Notre Dame football victory is enough for me, these days. If it's all the same to the Good Lord, I'd prefer my family and friends stay happy and healthy. That's asking the impossible, I understand.
• Meghan Kathleen joined her Irish sister on August 13, 1990. This time, I did not purchase five gallons of milk in order to be sure the new arrival had plenty of nourishment. It's been almost 23 years since I made that mistake and I still can't live it down. Who knew that newborn babies didn't drink the same milk that I do? (At least I didn't buy five gallons of chocolate milk.)
Caitlin and Meghan were so close in age that strangers often thought they were twins. (WE'RE NOT TWINS! – inside joke.)
No, they were not and are not twins. But they are very good friends. They were roommates growing up and roommates at Wilmington College. In fact, they are two of the youngest siblings to earn degrees at Wilmington College and at Southern State Community College.
They earned associate's degrees before graduating from North Adams High School, and they earned bachelor's degrees before they were old enough to buy a drink. (Unlike their old man who learned to buy a drink before he could spell bachelor's degree. By the way, the tricky part is the possessive apostrophe.)
I am proud of all they've accomplished and I wish them happiness and success in everything they do. And if they stumble along the way, so what? Doesn't everyone? You can bet I've tried to minimize the missteps, but no one can ever guard against every curveball that life throws your way. The tough part for this father is to accept that fact. (Hell, who are we kidding, here. I'll never completely accept it!)
When she was very young, Meghan gave her parents a real scare by accidentally placing the nose of a stuffed animal inside her own nose. The rounded metal object somehow worked its way far back (up?) in her nostril. After visits to two hospitals and a 170-mile drive, Meghan was good as new. And I think my mother may have re-sewn or re-glued the metal nose on the stuffed animal.
I'm glad I was not 50 then. Again, that was a little too much for an old man's heart.
And then there was the time Meghan broke her arm in two places after the Festival of the Bells – the last year it was at the fairgrounds. They say you can't get from Seaman to Mercy in less than 30 minutes. (Note to editor: Somehow, that previous sentence doesn't seem quite right.)
As I was saying, we made it to Clermont Mercy Hospital in about half an hour, maybe less. My wife, being the registered nurse that she is, tried to tell me this was not a life-or-death situation. Meghan's father, being the worrier that he is, only heard the cries of his daughter. We put the emergency flashers on and pulled into the hospital in Richard Petty time. I still appreciate the state trooper we passed for not pulling us over that night.
I was about 36 then. If Meghan broke her arm today, I'd probably tell her to just ice it and call the doctor tomorrow.
• If Caitlin and Meghan didn't do enough to scare the life out of their father (sir), then Colin would. He arrived in December 1994 a day after Christmas. Colin's arrival was a testament to his own willpower and determination. Pre-birth, he'd managed to tie the umbilical cord around his neck and, just for good measure, he'd placed a knot in it, too. Pam was rushed into surgery at Highland District Hospital and, well, as Shakespeare said, All's well that ends well.
Sure, just tell that to the old man in the waiting room. The 33-year-old me did all right, I suppose.
As Colin was growing up, he and Dr. Mark Davis, one of the best ER docs at HDH, were on a first-name basis. A broken arm here, stitches there, the scar on the top of the head. All my fault, of course; or so Colin tells it. He survived. He is tough.
When Colin got older, he tried his hand at sports. In a strange turn of events, one day when I went to pick him up after basketball practice, I became his coach.
Looking back, that was probably a lot harder on Colin than it was on me. I was pretty rough on him. I remember that I taught him how to take a charge. At 110 pounds, he once took a charge against an Adams County player who weighed about 240. The referee (Pete Hollon) was working the game solo and voluntarily. He didn't see the play. I did.
Colin positioned himself perfectly and the other player drove right through him. Both players were sprawled on the floor and the referee turned and whistled Colin for the foul. I swear I jumped 10 feet. Scott Rankin grabbed me. Pete said he didn't see it. Colin was OK. The 240-pound kid missed both free throws, so it was all good. (A "smart" foul, as it were.)
God did not place me on this earth to coach basketball. I learned this not at 50, but at 45.
Colin played three years of basketball and is now getting ready for his third year of baseball. But two things stand out much more than sports that his educators have told me. North Adams science teacher Randall Dunkin told me a year ago that "Colin is a lot smarter than you think he is." (I may have replied, "Thank God." Sorry, Colin.)
Prior to that, one of Colin's teachers at the Hillsboro Christian Academy, Amelia Robinson, told me: "Colin is a good person. We need more Colins."
Not a bad thing to hear about one's son, I suppose.
Reaching 50 has its advantages and some of them are seeing the successes of your children. Others are seeing the successes of good friends.
I have been blessed with a number of lasting friendships, some from high school, some from college, and some from work. Most often, the one common denominator is our shared ability to laugh at ourselves from time to time. Maybe they're all laughing at me, but that's OK. There are a few prerequisites of lasting friendships, among them are a sense of humor, respect, and understanding.
If we can't laugh at ourselves once in a while, and if we can't respect others, and if we can't seek to understand life's curveballs, how can we ever expect to build lasting friendships?
If I have learned nothing else in 50 years, I've learned this: If we cannot respect, we cannot like; if we cannot like, we cannot love; if we prefer to judge, we cannot forgive.
My first 50 years have been very good. I thank my parents. I thank my wife and children. I thank my friends. It's been a good ride and I hope it continues.
Yes, I am a pirate, 200 years too late. I'm an over 50 victim of fate...
Thanks, friends.
Rory Ryan is publisher and editor of The Highland County Press.[[In-content Ad]]