Time Flies

My dad could tell some silly jokes. (He also had some naughtier ones, but a sharp look from Mom pretty much kept them behind the dam.)

One of Dad's sillier ones: "Time flies. I can't: They go too fast."

As a kid it took me a while to figure this one out. (How did you do with it?)

Anyway, I've been noticing lately how damn fast the days--weeks--months--seasons--years are accelerating the older I get. It's as if Father Time has discovered that "leap-to-hyperspace" thing that dazzled me in the original Star Wars.

Here's just a few major events whose rapid retreat into the past has somewhat stunned me.

• I retired from public-school teaching (from Harmon Middle School in Aurora, Ohio) in January 1997. That's more than twenty-two years ago! Hell, when I'd taught twenty-two years, I was starting to think about retirement.
• A few years after Aurora, I started back, teaching part-time at Western Reserve Academy, a walk of only a couple of blocks from our house. I retired there in June 2011. That's more than eight years ago. Two entire generations of frosh-through-seniors have gone through the school and graduated since I left.
• I just celebrated the 57th anniversary of my graduation from Hiram High School, June 1962.
• And 53 years ago--college graduation (Hiram College, June 1966).
• I had my prostate cancer surgery in June 2005--more than fourteen years ago.
• Joyce and I met fifty years ago in a Kent State grad school class. In December we will celebrate our golden wedding anniversary. (I remember celebrating her parents' 50th--my parents' 50th!)

Okay, that's alarming enough. But there are more quotidian things that somewhat surprise me, too. It was only moments ago (wasn't it?) that I was mixing sourdough starter for the week's baking. That was last Saturday evening; it's now Saturday again! And this evening, I'll feed the starter (which, by the way, will turn 33 years old in August!), and tomorrow morning I'll be mixing again my multigrain bread. I've been baking every week for decades ... for well over half my life.

I taught our son in 8th grade (1985-86); this spring, his older son finished 8th grade.

It's kind of like this: You're floating along on a river--it's placid--slow-moving. And then, later, you begin to notice that the current is accelerating. And then, later, you hear the roar of Niagara Falls.

Uh oh.

BTW: I passed Dad's "time flies" joke onto our grandsons, who gave me the oddest look when they heard it.