When I’m 64

By Randy Haglund

I first listened to the Beatles’ Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band Album when I was still ten years old.

After I heard Paul McCartney sing When I’m Sixty-Four, it immediately became one of my favorites. Not that I could relate, it just seemed fanciful. It never occurred to me I might live to that ripe old age. In 1967 the cold war raged on under Brezhnev, and I was told Spokane—with Fairchild Air Force Base nearby—would be one of the first cities nuked. I prayed Christ would return before then, which seemed infinitely more likely than reaching three score and four.

But this September I turned sixty-three, and instead of feeling impossible, it seems inevitable. I don’t mean to sound pessimistic, but now that I’m old and cranky, it’s my duty.

For example, this year, on the Memorial Day weekend, my wife and I foolishly decided to tackle a project we’ve been putting off for at least three years. A large flower bed in front of our house had been taken over by a noxious weed called horsetail. It sounds innocent, but this ancient menace is purely demonic. Its roots delve to six feet deep, and when you try to pull it, it falls apart leaving its spores to multiply exponentially. Most chemicals are ineffective and people have been known to simply give up and abandon their property. Or even turn it into a rental.

Mccartney made “doing the garden, digging the weeds” sound like a pleasant task, but I think I’d rather visit the dentist or pass a large kidney stone. I’m not going to detail what the experts say is necessary to rid your life of this blight, but let’s just say, faced with our task, those maniacal people who enjoy weeding would likely find a new hobby.

But we went out to the flower bed on a pleasant Saturday morning and toiled tirelessly for fifteen minutes. Because of our advancement in years, this was followed by a period of much needed rest. Followed by a longer period of rest, and then lunch. After lunch we rested from the exertion of eating, at which point we decided our task could wait until tomorrow.

The weeds are still there, only in greater abundance, mocking me each time I pull into the driveway. We’ve decided to give up frivolous expenses such as gas and groceries in order to hire someone to do the job. If you know someone desperate to work cheap, let me know.

Other signs of my aging abound. It used to be if I saw a penny on the ground I would pick it up. I’m still that cheap, but now it just isn’t worth the effort. Not because of inflation—I still want the penny—and not because I don’t like to bend over. It’s the getting back up I don’t like. It has to at least be a nickel now.

Another song I enjoyed when in my youth was Poems, Prayers and Promises. When John Denver sang the line “It turns me on to think of growing old,” it brought a tear to my eye. It still does, but for different reasons.

As I approach sixty-four, I’m not sure my wife still needs me, but she still feeds me. For that, I’m grateful.

I’m reminded of an old proverb I’ve heard repeated by my elders many times.

“Getting old sucks.”

I have to admit, I’ve repeated the words myself in recent years. To which someone inevitably rejoins, “It’s better than the alternative.”

Put a sock in it.

***

Do songs from your youth bring back memories for you? Or do they just make you feel old? Tell us about it.