I have become my uncle
I’m back home after spending a few days in the Texas Hill Country, north and west of Austin. I gave the city a wide berth, staying in my usual tiny cabin tucked behind a cedar break down a dead-end road. The monster that is metropolitan Austin is churning up the countryside in every direction, but they haven’t made it to my hideaway just yet. I was doing some quirky history things out in the boondocks, which I may write about later. The highlight of my trip, however, were the dinners on three successive nights: the first with a college friend I have not seen in about 35 years, the second with a somewhat newer friend, and the last with a third cousin with whom I am close.
My old college friend is as neat a guy as there ever was. We seemed to just pick up where we left off so many years ago. He has led an interesting, fulfilling life. David has never married, for as he tells it, he knew he always would want to do what he wanted to do, when he wanted to do it. Better to be realistic about yourself than to try to shoehorn that approach into a marriage. He is about to retire from a good job, and is making plans to sell his house (with a ton of equity). I was surprised to hear what he was contemplating next.
He mentioned that he was seriously looking into a Del Webb community. He had to remind me that they were retirement communities for people over 55. I am familiar with Sun City in Georgetown, Texas, which I discovered, has a population of 16,000. I even dipped through there on my way home. There seemed to be three or four designs to choose from, but all tidy little one or two bedroom affairs with garage door front and center, entrance on the side, and a postage stamp-sized backyard.
I have never been able to manage a poker face. I do not remember if I actually said anything in response, but my facial expression must have said it all. And what was said was “Why are you doing THAT?” His response was, “Well, I am 67.” That hurt, for we are the same age.
In my mind, I am 37 at most. At coffee hour after church, you will usually find me with those guys in their 20s and 30s. I was simply incredulous that somebody my age would be thinking of moving into a retirement community—and my college buddy at that. Those places are for old people.
Later, I remembered a story we like to tell about one of my uncles. He was a colorful sort, to put mildly, and had led something of a swashbuckling early life. That attitude, however, stayed with him until the end. He was visiting his brother in central Texas, and that uncle very dutifully carried him around to visit all the older relatives who were still above dirt. Finally, this uncle turned to his brother and asked, “Don’t you know any young people?” We’ve been retelling and chuckling over it for 40 years. Apparently, I am no better.
I realize that we are all circling around the Airport of Death, but it just seems to me that if you take that step it means that you are entering your landing pattern. I think that I will rather just live until I die.