Being inducted into the ‘club’

I turned 60 over the weekend, St. Patrick’s Day to be specific. Okay, I’ve said it, and that’s probably the first step to recovery: acceptance of getting old.

This “impossible” birthday had been sneaking up on me for some time now, and I wanted it to come and go with no fanfare like it hadn’t really happened. Shutting down and ignoring are useful tools taught to us by the fathers of my generation. But my wife had other ideas.

When I stepped into the room of the surprise party, it was a little embarrassing but also flattering as I found out.

I had friends there from as far away as Saskatchewan, Calgary, and Killam; well-wishes from Sacramento, BC, and Ottawa. My dad drove all the way from Lethbridge (and he’s pretty old now), and three of my nephews came all the way up from Calgary. All three of my sons were there, the in-laws, daughter-in-law, and of course my beautiful wife.

Visiting with them and sharing some laughs certainly made the day pass by like a celebration instead of the moratorium on time, which I had planned.

“Welcome to the club,” said one friend.

Club? There’s a club? . . . contd.