If I flex just right, I can feel pretty much everything crack.  Set a horn section behind me and we'd be ready to swing, you zoot suiters.  If it hurt, that’d be something else, but it’s just noisy is all.  Still, I can’t help but feeling like one of those old, weather-worn barns by the side of the road -- leaning on for dear life.  

Sigh.  Whine, whine; complain, complain.  To be ten again. 

Ah, ten years old.  Old enough for responsibility and the perks that go with it, young enough to just be a kid when you want.  Remember ten? 

You wake in the morning with the world as your oyster, your plum…your nose, anyway…for the picking.  A quick breakfast of fifty-five bowls of cereal, slip on the jeans and shirt you’ve worn for three weeks straight, and it's off to school.  You have to ride slower than you want so your little sister can keep up (or she'll tell!); the only fear is that taking so long increases the likelihood that Bradley sees them.  You remember Bradley?

Two heads taller than anyone else, mean as stink, and bullet-proof because he’s got those pudgy muscles.  Bradley.  Can't tell your parents he pushed you off your bike the other day, cause then they'll go to his parents and that'll just make it worse. 

“Hurry up Lil' Sis." 

"Why, are you afraid of Bradley?”

She says it like someone you screwed on a business deal forty years ago, and now, finally, she's able to get you back after all these years.

"No, just hurry up!"

"You're afraid of Bradley, you're afraid of Bradley, you're. . . .”

You switch into sixth gear, intending on leaving her three days behind.  You push hard but slip off the peddle and fall, scattering your science project across the bi-county area.  Who picks up the first piece of it?  Yes, sir, Bradley.  Maybe ten is not the magic age. 

Maybe there isn't any "good" age.  Maybe thirty years from now, I'll be saying how nice it would be to be fifty again.  No Bradley to worry about, little creaks in the knees.  The good old days. 

Now, we don't need to see any, thank you, for a few years, but I do look forward to it.  Being a grandparent will simply be cool, won't it?  Based on, um, a strictly hypothetical scenario, it might look something like…

"Lookit all these shoes here," Grandma remarks as she walks by the back door. "What do y'all need all these shoes for? Why, when we were kids we'd keep two pair for a whole year. Church shoes and school shoes. Your play shoes were your sister's old school shoes."

"And do you know," Grandpa adds, "we didn't even wear shoes in the summertime? Couldn't afford to wear them out just playin'. Most families on my side of the 'holler had one pair of shoes for two generations at a time."

Usually a Grandma's offerings are a bit more reality based than a Grandpa's -- but who's going to call Grandma a liar, anyway?

Later, as everyone looks through old pictures, granddaughter spots an interesting photo of a handsome young boy.

"Who is that?" she asks.

"That's me," Grandpa says, "I'd bet I was about seven years old in that picture."

In this picture he is wearing a fine pair of boots.

"Hey Grandpa, you got some shoes on in this picture."

"Well, that musta been around Christmas time."

"But you've got no shirt on, and there are flowers behind you. Was it warmer during Christmas when you were a boy?"

"I guess. Let's put those pictures away before we dog-ear er'one one of 'em. And wash your hands when you're done. You kids don't wash your hands enough. Got all kinds of germs on your hands from everything..."

We parents stretch the truth a bit to make our point, but try to stay based in reality. Grandfolks have lived the realities, and lived them through several points in life. They know the future we hazily refer to in conversations with our kids. They can, therefore, tailor their stories a great deal, assuring an acceptable outcome. They have that right. This is documented in a little known amendment in the Constitution...so little known, it's not in most copies. Just the original, according to Grandpa.

Later, at supper, the work on the kids begins.

"Try a bite of those peas, honey," Grandma implores her grandson, "lots of vitamins in those."

Grandson has no intention of getting anywhere near those peas.

"Did you try those beans? They are goo-ood! Fresh picked from the garden this morning. Vegetables are important, they give you energy. Can't eat chips and ice cream all the time. Make you lazy."

Even though the day before you arrived, Grandma was at the store buying six tons of foodstuffs -- including two bags of Crunchy Salty Chocolate Frosted chips and two gallons of ice cream -- her points, on their own, are right on the money.

"Aaaaah!" Grandpa adds with a grumble, "just give me a fresh tomato, some cornbread, a sweet onion, and a glass of tea. I'll be fine. Don't need all those Ding Dongs and cookies all day long."

If Grandma's speech is an impassioned plea to the boy for his future, Grandpa's statement is an illustration of how easily her lesson fits into daily life. And at about nine that evening, as he leans over the kitchen sink, he'll gobble down his fourth chocolate fried pie, nervously glancing in the hallway between bites.  Someone else will be right next to him wolfing the last peach fried pie.

As bedtime rolls around, an American story tradition unfurls.

Well, the birthday has finally arrived.  I could probably wax on AND wax off for a couple thousand words to try and give folks an idea of what this seems to feel like...taste like...and what I think it 'means', if anything. 

But if someone's done it better, why not bow to them?  So, with a few minor changes, may I present a slightly revised version of my birthday song that goes by the name, "Fifty?"  With apologies to Alice Cooper...

They threw a little surprise party for me last night.  Awwwww!  Stayed up much past 10:30 PM, that's for sure.

Family and some great friends came - some thought it was appropriate to dress in black - and the 12 of us swamped this small but excellent restaurant in North Dallas (Beltline and just east of Preston; Fish on Fire).  Neat gifts and the sucker you see pictured.

There was a guy singing and playing various instruments, and as required, he led a rousing chorus of "Happy Birthday."  As I smiled like a goofball (what do you do while folks sing that song to you?  Where do you put your hands, etc?), I looked around the little dining room and it seemed as if most people were older than me. 

Suddenly I looked down at my hands and they were young, small, and the knuckles were scabbed up from climbing trees earlier in the day.  Aunts and Uncles from 40 years ago appeared in 1960's garb, drinking Hi-balls and smoking like fiends.  My mom walked over with a big chocolate cake and...

No, not really.  I don't remember any of that stuff anymore; family summer get-togethers, weddings, church parties.  It's just drifted away.  My oldest daughter can say, "Hey remember that Thursday in May, 1992, when we ate pizza and chocolate milk?"  I keep telling her to write all that stuff down before she forgets. 

Last night was fun, but no great revelation or poignant moment.  It was just people.  Eating supper, singing happy birthday to a guy.  I drank sweet tea and just enjoyed having all three of my kids and my son-in-law around for the night.  And yet, as there were pauses in the conversation and I sipped that tea, this thing occurred to me:

               Fifty!  Man. 

And now...five hours and counting.

     The countdown sits at two days until the fiftieth birthday.  Well, more like a day and three quarters.  Okay, it is technically 41 hours, 41 minutes…and counting.  Loudly.  It’s marching on with nothing possibly able to stop it.  

     It was about fifteen minutes ago that I walked into the bathroom at work.  Busy tonight, really busy.  I was dripping with sweat but felt good because that particularly marvelous cash register chick was working tonight and I’m thinking I’ll ask her out.  Maybe. 

     I splash some water on my face, and through my hair.  Feels good.  Take off my work shirt, splash water on my stinky pits, put my Led Zep t-shirt on and step back for a moment to survey. 

     Gosh what an ugly nose and these big old glasses and that thing on my tooth and what skinny arms and…there ain’t no way she’s going out with me.  No way. 

     I drop my head dejectedly, but only for a moment.  Bob will be getting off work in about fifteen minutes and I’ll go swing by, pick him.  We’ll do something cool.

     Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and exhale.  Opening my eyes slowly, in the hope that something…anything…changed on this skinny, gawky body, I peek back at the mirror.

     It is this morning.  There’s a 49 year, 363 day-old face staring at me, and the only thing skinny around here is my wallet.

     Longest fifteen minutes ever, I’ll tell you.  But that marvelous register chick is taking me out to supper tonight, along with at least a couple of our kids. 

     “Yeah,” he chuckled as he scribbled more unreadable junk on the paper, “When my patient turns fifty, I like to think of this as a rite of passage; a sign that you are entering – no pun intended – another segment of your life.”

     To quote Short Round in The Temple of Doom: “Very funny Doctor Jones.”

     My sadistic doctor was the only one laughing amongst the both of us, that’s for sure.  He was writing my letter of introduction, my invitation into the old men’s club.  Yes sir, I was officially, cordially, confirmed to meet that Irish/ Russian fellow…Colon Oscopy.

     I am all about preventative everything; really I am.  I get my physical every year, go to my dentist, change my oil and rotate my tires, and hide all the money I can when the missus goes to Kohl’s.  To me, however, this test is a head-scratcher.

     A few years back they were shooting this rocket probe off to hit a certain comet, but the comet wasn’t scheduled to be around for eight years.  The probe was to land on the comet, collect some space dust, measure this, cipher that, paint the thing red white and blue, salute it while humming Yankee Doodle Dandy, and then fly back to earth.  Backwards.  Something like that; here’s my point.

     WHAT THE HECK! 

     They can figure out exactly where, when, and how to aim a probe (Ooo; irony!) at something that won’t be here for eight years, and you’re telling me there’s no scanning device they can ‘woo-woo’ over me, ala Star Trek, and check me out?  There’s no blood test or cool, non-evasive machine that can do the deed?

* * *

     Made the appointment, sort of.  While talking to Dr. Oskopy, he says this: “…and as long as we got you doctored up, ought to do an endoscopy too.  Kinda check the traffic on I-35 north and south.”

     “Well,” I say, disgustedly, “might as well call in the other orifice doctor buddy’s y’all got, and do a report on I-30, 820 and that cross street behind the Kinko’s in Grapevine.”

     The doctor gets into the spirit and says, “Hey, maybe we get Raquel Welch and the Proteus…have us a Fantastic Voyage and map your insides.” 

     Very funny Dr. O. 

     In the bottom part of Florida, the sun greets you in the afternoon, hunkers down somewhere between the tip of your shoulder blade and the bottom of your ear lobe, and stays there.  And when I say the sun, I mean the actual star itself.  Did I say it was hot?  When you see "94 degrees, Miami" know that it's rounded down a bit.  Who'd go if they knew the real temperature? 

     However, thanks to a wonderful ocean breeze blowing nearly all the time, you’re tricked into thinking it’s just kinda warm - right up until your skin begins to peel off in layers in the shower.  So you have to be aware.

     Point is if you know how to manage the sun’s right-there-ness, be it on a Ft. Lauderdale beach or our Flower Mound backyard, things usually go well.  Nonetheless, and though personally I love the heat, it’s all still flippin’ warm, babe. 

     As this coming birthday barreled towards me in the last month or so, I awkwardly attempted to embrace it, and I really thought I did.  To my surprise, it’s taken up residence on my shoulder, perched like that FL sun.  It grins at me like an idiot, snickers now and then; frankly I think I heard it snort a time or three.  Never had a birthday sit there before, and ma’am, it’s beginning to weigh on me a bit.

     Sitting in my backyard the other day, enjoying 85 degrees with one of my dogs, I began a deep conversation with him. 

     “Harls,” I said, “daddy’s fiftieth birthday is coming on strong.  What do you think…”

     “Yeah, whatever,” he said, interrupting.  “Just pick up the ball and let’s play.  While you still….I say…WHILE YOU STILL CAN!”  He chuckled – and I don’t care what you say, I heard him snort as he laughed - and ran onto the grass to await my toss.   He’d stand there and put his front paw on his back, like it hurt, and pretend he was a hundred year old dog, playing fetch.  Then he’d laugh some more.  Everyone’s a comedian, you know?

     And so, dragging my limp aging body across the deck, weighed down by the million ton sun on my shoulder, we played ball. 

     This is getting serious.

     Mister John.

     My wife’s grandparents were Tennessee farmers turned gardeners when they passed.  Mister John Smith died at ninety-six, Miss Bertha at one hundred two.   My wife’s parents live there still and took care of the Smith’s until their deaths. 

     One of the last times we went to the Smith’s for supper, this marvelous thing happened.   When the food was ready Mister John came in from the garden, washed up, and made a beeline for a certain chair.  On his way, he made that scary, half crazy, happy face that old guys do so well and pinched the check of the youngest grandbaby staring wide eyed at everything, especially him. Sitting down in his chair, he immediately grimaced.  Something was amiss.

     “Where’s my spoon?” he bellowed. 

     Miss Bertha hushed him, and then hustled a spoon over.

     When we got done eating I told my wife, “Now that’s a proper old man!”  She rolled her eyes and said, “You better not yell ‘where’s my spoon’ when we get home…”

     “No, no,” I said.  “Well, yeah, that was pretty cool, but if you think about who he is, what he does, and how he carries himself, it’s impressive.  He’s not arrogant, he’s just who he is.  He could care less if you like him, hate him, or don’t really give a flyin’ fish about him.  He’s not selfish; the man just knows what he wants.”           

     “And you know what?  If he was forty, someone would be all over him to go to counseling or read this or that book.  If he was fifty, they’d say, ‘Oh, he’s going through that mid life crisis.’  If he was sixty, it would be, ‘He mourns for his youth.’  It ain’t none of that; he’s comfortable in his skin is all.  And I crave that.”                          

     There was a pause and my wife said, “Well you’ll be a fine old man, I’ll tell you that right now.”  And I know why she said that. 

     Because I will indeed be a fine old man one day.  Long as my datgum spoon is there.

     Even considering all those little heads bashed against sink faucets, along with our stifled laughter when we learned the oldest two fed the youngest one butter - telling her it was cheese - even that *horrors* grade school play we missed, they’ve somehow turned out just fabulous. 

     The ability to remember stories about and with them as they grew up will serve us well as our relationship rises to the next level – adult to adult.  Or, I can’t WAIT to use this stuff on them and my grandkids.  Muwahahaha!  Take your pick. 

     I’d like you to meet our oldest, Big Sis; our son, Brother – also known as Bubba – and Lil’ Sis.  Their relationship with each other will grow into whatever it will grow into, but about fifteen years ago… (Cue the Wayback machine)

     Ten-year-old Big Sis rushes to the radio while we're eating supper. She's caught the first strains of her favorite song. While she runs to turn it up, Brother speaks.

     "Dad is that rock and roll?"

     "Not even close," I tell him, "that's called top forty, and that's the kind of music your big sister likes." I think for a minute, and announce, "You know, we all like different kinds of music. Lil' Sis here likes ballads, sweet songs, country music, Mom is into dance music – makes me throw up in my mouth a little bit just thinking about it - Big Sis loves that top forty, and I guess I’m an old metal head.”

     “What am I?” Brother asks with interest.

     Lil' Sis, recalling the constant psychological torture she suffers at her brother’s hands, puts down her fork and flatly states, “You’re a knucklehead.”

     On this night she gets to chalk one up for the good guys, because even Brother laughs.  Lil’ Sis; an average and yet extraordinary kid who happens to be our lastborn.

     Ah, to be the baby in the family. It's like the first of three cars through a yellow light, slipping into the right line at the bank, or cracking the seal on a new jar of jelly. Great stuff, but when they’re shouted out to the world, prefaced by an excited, “Hey look at this…” there’s nary a reaction. Everyone’s already done it and long forgotten the special feeling attached.

     Being the baby forces a focused outlook on life. Not necessarily profound, not even wry, but a perspective that pushes for two things - recognition, and to be in on whatever is going on. 

     Whatever you do, don't shortchange the baby. They may not remember what you told them to do in the kitchen three minutes ago, but they can keep track of minute details in the comfort zone of their life, and do so like a mob accountant. When she was very little, it went something like this: ". . . and I will not eat green eggs and ham, Sam I am." (For the four millionth time.) And I will not eat them in a house, with a mouse, in a box, in a train . . . “

     “HEY, YOU DIDN'T SAY ‘WITH A FOX’!”

     Sorry. Man. 

     She’s officially an adult now, moved away from the “How come she gets?” and “When do I get?” phases but not yet from the house.  Something is on the horizon and I eagerly look forward to whatever is next. Did that sound convincing?      

     “Lil’ Sis,” I holler from my chair the other day, “did you do those dishes?”

     What she hears is, “Hey Cinderella, if you think anyone else is gonna do a shred of work while you still live here, you are plum loco…so get at them dishes, hear?”

     She makes the most awful moaning sounds and shuffles off to the kitchen while muttering, “What did you guys do before I was born?”

     Lived a horrid life, baby. Just horrid.

     The march of the youngest child; onward they travel, carefully testing the packed-down ground in front of them and peeking around the well-worn corners of life. We watch them with impatience much too often but only because we’ve forgotten the joy of new things. They laugh heartily when it’s convenient and generate copious amounts of alligator tears when necessary. Or is it laugh when necessary and tears when convenient? The baby can live life tough as nails or sweet as Atlanta Coca-Cola. Probably a combination of the two - if necessary.

     It is - as with all His creatures - their way; it's what makes them unique.  However they operate we should thank God for them, if only to remind us of simple joys…and the importance of remembering all the words.

     "We had to sheet rock off our garage, eliminate the living room, and buy the neighbors extra lot, but we squeezed it all in," he said, puffing his chest out.

     I bet DFW looses radar for a split second when he turns it on.  We took a tour of all the components, one by one, and then he leaned close to let me in on the secret of the century.

     "Kevin, the most important thing a man can do to ensure a great evening is eliminate impedance.  That's the key."

     "Oh,” I said, blushing a bit, “I hear that...um...I think some of them little blue pills will . . ."

     "No, no, impedance.  The apparent opposition in an electrical circuit to the flow of an alternating . . ." 

     He went on for ten minutes, taking me boldly and then losing me where no man had before. 

     The next day after I told the missus, "It's pretty technical stuff, kinda hard to explain," she smiled and said, "Okay Mister Wizard," and we headed for the store.

     We looked around, twisted some dials, pushed some buttons and found a salesperson.  After introducing himself, Frank rolled into his spiel.  Finally he finished with, " . . . and the really important thing is not being so concerned about your impedance.”

     It used to be easy.  You wanted a stereo, you’d crank one up and if it was loud enough, you bought it.  You needed a car, you looked at the motor, gave the tires a kick.  The power company gave you bulbs when yours burned out (yes, that’s what I said!) and when the type on your typewriter got hard to read, you put another ribbon in.  Now you need to be an astronaut to fully understand your oven! 

     But with jaws firmly set, we’ll step headlong into the technological future.  In a way, we're a lot like first generation immigrants at the turn of the last century – we’d just as soon hit something harder to make it work, “…ah, who needs that,” ends a lot of our sentences, and when it comes to really new things, we need our kids to translate for us.