Reflections on 50

Mr. Gelz was old. Mr. Gelz (G like gills; rhymes with bells) was mostly bald. Mr. Gelz & Mrs. Gelz had grandchildren. Mr. Gelz smoked a pipe and wore short-brimmed fedoras. Mr. Gelz celebrated one birthday by getting a stunningly all-white concrete 2-car-wide driveway. Mr. Gelz scolded all the kids in the neighborhood for using his all-white driveway to make beautiful skid-mark art with their bicycle tires. I mean, how could he not appreciate the practice and skill it took to get up to speed, lock the back tire, turn the handle bars and make a black “C†on pure-white pavement without falling off the bike and leaving bloody marks where our knees and elbows hit the pavement on a wipeout?! Mr. Gelz was 50 or a little over the mark when I first met him.

Mr. and Mrs. Gelz lived in the immaculately kept ranch house next to my childhood home. In spite of their irrational hatred of skid marks on their driveway, they were really nice folks. They were just old. Oh sure. He was still working, but I mean, just look at him and you knew he was old. To be fair, I was only 4 to 12 years old when I knew him.

Do you think Mr. Gelz knew he was old? Did he feel old? How could he not? Right?!

Well…. I just turned 50, and I’ve been thinking about Mr. Gelz a lot lately. I’m mostly bald. I prefer wider brimmed fedoras, and I’ve contemplated smoking a pipe. BUT. I’m not old. I certainly don’t feel old. First of all, I appreciate the value of an impressive maneuver with a Huffy that leaves a telltale skid mark of glory. I don’t have any kids, though I have coached many over the years.

I remember the day he drove home in a beautifully restored, gleaming black 1967 Mustang. I doubt he felt old that day. That car was only 20 years old when I first saw it, but it seemed ancient to me. Nevertheless, even then I recognized it was 10 times cooler than any thing Ford or Chevy was putting out in 1987. But, it wasn’t an old car to Mr. Gelz.

I guess it is all about perspective.

Before my family moved out of the neighborhood, the Gelz had us over for a farewell dinner. They were nearly 60 by then and we had a delightful evening. As it turns out, Mr. Gelz had served in the occupation Army in Japan in 1946. After dinner he took my sister and I into the magical lair of his basement, where he showed us the katana sword he brought back from Okinawa. He also showed us his M1 Garande rifle and service medals. He had a hidden air-rifle range, and he taught me how to shoot a BB gun. My antique collecting mind now boggles at what else might have been down there among the stacks of set-aside treasures.

Until that night, Mr. Gelz was little more than the old guy who obsessed over his driveway. By the end of that night, I was sorry we were moving and that I hadn’t taken more time to get to know my neighbors. They were exciting and interesting people…even if they were old.

On the cusp of 13, was I finally old enough to understand that? With the benefit of age, am I better able to understand the insanity of the teenage years to follow? Does the little girl who is now my neighbor and delights in climbing our tree think Dawn and I are ancient? How could she not? Right?! Will she one day think, “Wow they weren’t that old and were pretty cool people.� Over the bubble of 50, is it insanity to think I’m not as old as Mr. and Mrs. Gelz? Or is 50, maybe, nowhere near as old as it once seemed? I suppose it all remains a matter of perspective. I’ll let you know, if I ever figure it out.