Perks

There are some perks to getting old.

Granted, there are also some downsides. For example, when I see a piece of trash on the lawn that needs to be picked up, before I reach for it, I give serious thought to whether it’s my right shoulder or left elbow that’s giving me the most trouble. If I'm going to kneel there's always the debate about which knee goes on the ground and, most important of all, whether I really need to pick up that wayward piece of trash. Maybe if I leave it long enough it might just disappear or perhaps decompose.

On the other hand, this week my credit card company needed to verify something with my bank, so we ended up on a three-way phone call with my banker. The last question asked was, “Has this account been open more or less than 90 days?”

She said, “It's been open quite a while.”

I said, “It's been open half a century.” After I hung up, I gave it a little thought. The account has actually been open for fifty-five years, considerably longer than my banker has been alive.

It's the kind of thing I think about when I watch friends retire and move to places with better food and better weather.

A few years ago, my phone rang while I was in a meeting. I looked down and saw my wife’s number. She hardly ever calls unless there's a good reason, so I excused myself to answer. She said, “Veronica called and said you forgot to pay for your gas.”

That's the sort of thing that can only happen when you've lived in a place long enough for the manager of the convenience store to know you're not a crook, just forgetful.

Our favorite barista sells my books in her coffeeshop. Every now and then I'll stop in for a latte and she'll hand me an envelope with money in it. It's sort of a casual way to do business, but her family and mine have connections going back well over a century. If I can't trust her, I probably can't trust anyone.

It's just that kind of thing that keeps me anchored in this small place with horrible weather and limited opportunities. Everything that happens to diminish that feeling makes me sad. Now when I go in to pay for gas, I seldom know the name of the person waiting on me and that bothers me. I still remember the day when I called our local coop to order diesel fuel after they'd gone through a few mergers. Instead of a familiar voice asking, “You want it at your place or your dad's?” the young woman on the end of the line said, “Can you please verify your account number?”

A friend of mine once told me that in a lifetime, you could only live long enough to call one place home. In order for a place to be home, there needed to be some history, some longevity. I doubt if that's true for everybody, because I've seen people make dramatic moves and settle in fairly quickly with a new set of friends and favorite restaurants. I guess I envy that a little, because it's a skill I don't seem to possess.

But when people stop knowing my name, I'll start checking real estate. There needs to be some perks to growing old.

Copyright 2025 Brent Olson