THE REARVIEW MIRROR (OF LIFE)

365 Days of Thanksliving — Day 144

Tonight’s blog begins like a participation sport. I know we’ve done this before, but… well, entertain me. Let’s play the Q&A game. Here it goes:

You know you’re getting old when ______________________ (fill in the blank). Have we played this game before? For some reason, I think we have. I guess I’m getting old. Hahaha. (Stop laughing, it’s not that funny.)

This afternoon at a funeral luncheon, I pulled up a chair next to a pack of farmers. We’re all about the same age, give or take a decade of hard labor. At some point in the conversation—wherein I was totally lost because it was all things farming and, HELLO, I’m a city boy—the topic of the “good old days” came up. Uffdah. 

The stories started rolling in like a summer storm:

• Staying out until the streetlights came on.

• Building tree forts that definitely weren't up to code.

• Playing outside all summer long without a GPS tracker attached to our ankles.

• Total lack of tech.

If you’re getting old, you’re already filling in the blanks. You can probably smell the hay and the sunscreen from here.

Fast forward to this evening. My wife and I decided to grab a bite for supper because, honestly, I just didn’t want to cook. We headed to Tommy’s in Springfield. It was good as always, but we sat in a different section, and I noticed two framed flour bags on the wall.

In my lifetime, I cannot recall a single time that flour came in cotton bags—let alone 100lb ones. I mean, we have kitchen towels we affectionately call “flour sack towels”—perfect for drying dishes or, better still, for rolling Lefse. (I digress. It's a spiritual gift.)

The print on the bags had begun to fade, but I could clearly see a red logo with a swan; the name read: Springfield Milling Company; 100% bleached milled-flour.

I asked our server if she knew the history. She was about our age, but unfortunately, she was as clueless as I was. Like the brick-making company on Hwy 14, the mill is a ghost. I Googled it—because that’s what we do now—and while I found a few traces, there wasn't much. My guess? The company went by the wayside before I was even a glimmer in my parents' eyes. Springfield Milling was in its heyday back in the actual good old days.

As we drove home, I couldn't stop thinking about that phrase: The Good Old Days. I chuckled to myself as I walked through our back door, thinking that you really know you’re getting old when you start unironically reminiscing about them. But then, as I was putting on my "comfy clothes" (read: elastic waistbands are a blessing from the Lord), it dawned on me: My beloved 80’s music is now considered “Classic Rock.”

Say what? Ah… NO. "Classic Rock" is The Who, Led Zeppelin, Hendrix, and Janis Joplin. You know, the people who actually played at the original Woodstock. To me, the 60’s and 70’s were the "old" days. But I suppose the 80’s, being 40+ years in the rearview, are now officially vintage.

Someone fetch me my cane.

Tonight, this old fart is thankful for all the “good old days”—the ones I lived through and the ones that came before me. Those days seemed less complicated, slower, and a bit more amiable.

Sure, people were still people (read: difficult); nations still waged wars; and evil still tried to wreck the joint. That all said, there was a rhythm back then I wish we could recapture.

Perhaps I’m just being nostalgic. Perhaps I’m just getting old. But today—maybe because of the funeral—I’ve been looking into the rearview mirror and thanking God for the miles already traveled. Such is life.

What are you thankful for today? (Besides elastic waistbands.)