I was seven years old when the Beatles recorded When I'm 64. The ancient age seemed unimaginable to me back then, as I'm sure it did for the 24 year old Paul McCartney. Or for John Lennon, who probably didn't have dying by assassination at the age of 40 on his Bingo card.
Well into the first week of my 64th year now, I distinctly remember reading the poem by A.A. Milne, Now We Are Six. I had yet to turn six when my parents bought me the collection of poems, but, from what I could tell, six would be great. The pinnacle even.
When I was Five, I was just alive. But now I am Six, I'm as clever as clever, So I think I'll be six now for ever and ever.
I don't recall much about being six, but I'm fairly certain it wasn't as great as A.A. Milne cracked it up to be, and I'm willing to bet I couldn't wait to be seven. At the very least, I'd be more clever, with nothing but good things ahead.
Sixty-four looms large now. Paul's musings about irrelevance seem a bit harsh, and Milne's musings about cleverness seem a bit short-sighted, but the future seems daunting in its increasing brevity. I've read that Paul has rethought the lyrics over the years, suggesting recently that he should move the goalpost to 94. Sigh. From the guy who yearned so wholeheartedly for yesterday, it's refreshing to see such a sanguine endorsement of the present, at any age.
My 64th year began well. I flew into the path of an oncoming hurricane and did not blow away, barely even got wet. In other weather news, a red tsunami never materialized and a democratic republic far more ancient and fragile than I am managed to live another day. Another two years, at least. My faith in humanity has been reinvigorated, though I realize there is so much work to be done. The good guys are neither irrelevant nor as clever as clever can be, and it's up to us -- all of us -- to determine what lies ahead.
As I travel toward older age with what appears to be accelerating speed, I cannot help but wonder what life will be like when I'm 64. Or 65, or 66. I'm neither clever enough to know, nor irrelevant enough to not care. I believe in yesterday; how else does one learn how to handle today, or tomorrow. As Paul has no doubt discovered, birthday greetings and bottles of wine and Sunday morning rides are here to stay. I've yet to learn to knit or mend fuses, but I'm always learning something, and there is never a shortage of sweet surprises.
When I'm 64, in less than a year, the one thing I know for sure is I'll still be a work in progress.
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