Halfway to sixty-nine

In my household growing up, we observed “half birthdays.” It wasn’t a full-on cake-and-candles thing — what would a half-candle look like, anyway? — but it recognized the march of time.

I think it was merely a way to appease us kids, back when we couldn’t wait to be another year older.

Yesterday, the second day of January, 2026, I turned sixty-eight-and-a-half years old. It put me on the glide path to 69 come July.

And that brings to mind a family visit to Cambridge, Ohio on the occasion of my maternal grandmother’s 69th birthday. She was born in 1894, so it would’ve been 1963 and I hadn’t yet turned six.

What I remember quite vividly is that, at the time, “69” suddenly defined “old” for me. While it’s true that she already was a semi-invalid by then, it imprinted on me that this (69) must be what it’s like to be really old.

My perspective on such things has evolved over the years, of course. But whenever I take note of my own age these days, I still recall my impression as a five-and-a-half-year-old.

All that said, I no longer concern myself with birthdays or the yardstick of years. What matters now is the sunrise, not the calendar.

Every day. Every moment. Every breath.

So, then, as the saying goes, are you “as young as you feel”? Oh, hell no — that’s a load of simple-minded crap. You’re as old as you are.

But y’know what? How old you are is immaterial to this sunrise, this moment, this breath.

Read that again. Now live like it.

The Friday forecast called for rain to begin around 10am. It showed up over two hours ahead of schedule, however, and continued into early afternoon.

That settled the dust. It won’t bust the drought.

I had a couple of projects in mind for the day — adjust my new wood-yard layout slightly, and deal with rock outcrops on the trail to the east slope. Neither was made impossible by rain, but I chose the wiser path and stayed indoors with Miss Smudge.

Skies dried eventually. I cut my aspirations by 50% and settled for making a minor change at the wood yard.

Large rounds soon will be coming out of the woods. Between the trunk of that wind-downed oak and (later) the standing-dead Mother Lode I discovered last week, it’ll be a considerable amount of wood. I need a place to put it, off the ground, until I get around to splitting it (one way or another).

The solution was both obvious and simple — put the new arrivals where the fat oak rounds already were. All I had to do was make more room.

I pulled up what occupied the space between the gravel turnaround and the road, raked away matted leaves and other organic material (which hold moisture), set three of my empty pallets in place and leveled them.

I think this’ll do just fine.

The location fits what I imagine the workflow will look like, whether I process big rounds by hand or with a power splitter. And until then, the wood will enjoy the full benefit of seasoning wind and sun. I like it.

Before putting my tools away and returning to the cabin, I loaded up with firewood to re-supply the indoor rack. It was time.