The Age of Men

I'm 43 years old, and other than physically (especially at the moment with this damn kidney stone), I've always maintained an image of myself as that skinny kid, that not quite eleven years old, joining up with the Boy Scouts. Everyone back then was huge, stunningly competent, deeply knowledgeable about everything, and largely (thank god), benevolent.

I'm sure that picture was off, but that's how I saw them. I've worked to be like that. To others my own age, especially as a kid, I had a reputation of maturity beyond my years. Little did they know.

Earlier this week I returned home for my grandmother's funeral, and there they all were, a group of men whom I can't help thinking of in that same way as that little boy scout.I shouldn't be surprised, but I am.

My uncles, old men now, still each a force of nature. My Uncle Jim, a retired Navy fighter pilot. Uncle Charlie, an engineer and jet engine designer, also an accomplished pilot. Mike Munter, tall and white haired, gifted with natural authority. Even Raymond Richardson, now in his nineties. My grade school principle, and my father's before me. He worked his farm, just down the road from us. Imagine Abraham Lincoln as played by Buddy Ebsen.

They're just men, each with their own failings. Not supermen, certainly. They don't know me now, but they knew the child I once was, each from their own perspective. I wonder if they have the same feelings of giants preceding them as well. I suspect they do, when I hear them talk about my grandfather, long gone, and others of his generation. I suppose it is the way of things.