Double nickle

Today is the day - I am not only 50 something, or over 50, I am double nickle. 55! Me? Can't believe that. When I was in the US earlier this year, I learned the term double nickle. I didn't know what they meant at first. Apparently, a nickle is 5 cents, so double nickle is 55. Geddit? Took me a while.

 

What does it mean to be 55? My brain doesn't want to process any of it.

 

On the one hand, you could look at what a wonderful life you've had so far, all the things you've achieved and done and look forward to many more fantastic things to do.

 

On the other hand, you could look at all the things that you wanted to do and achieve and think that you haven't done any, or many of them.

 

Glass half-full or glass half-empty?

 

I am a glass half-full type of person, so I have chosen to look at all the wonderful things I've done so far and all the opportunities that I've had. I am well educated (Master of Organisational Psychology), went to an elite private school, never wanted for anything, was bright enough not to have to put much effort in at school (different story at Uni!), was good at sport and am lucky enough to live in the best economy in the world (Western Australia) in the fifth most liveable country in the world.

 

So where does a 55th birthday leave me? Grateful for the opportunities I've had and thinking I could make more use of them. I would like to sponsor a child through the Smith Family, but I really would like the child I sponsor to be an Aboriginal girl from the Kimberley region of Western Australia, but you can't choose your type of kid. You can't even choose what state they come from. I am still deciding what to do about that.

 

I did rescue a little dove the other day. I think he was kicked out of his nest so he could learn to fly, but he fell about four or five metres with a big thump right next to me. I took him to the vet, who kept him for a couple of days and then three days ago I had to collect him. I kept him in the garage for two nights and gave him flying lessons! I had to make him fly so his wing muscles would get stronger. He wasn't too keen, although he did it a little bit. When I can work out how to put the video of him on here, you will be able to see him.

 

Yesterday at lunch time, I opened the door to the backyard and when I got home he had hopped just outside the door. I tried to make him fly, but he just hopped a bit further away from me, so I left him alone. Luckily, where I left him was right under his nest. Later on he was still there. When his mother started coo-ing he got a bit agitated, but didn't try to fly. I can't see him now so I hope he is OK.

 

The little bird was my glass half-full contribution and I would do it again. I don't think I would do it because I am now over 50, I think it's just me.

 

What about you?

Auntie Jean died last week

Auntie Jean died last week and I drove too fast again. I couldn't help it. Give me a good country road, some good music and off I go! This time, I kept catching myself before I went over the top because it's a very nice, very policed road.

Auntie Jean was our other mother. She and her family lived on a dairy farm just out of Brunswick Junction about 140kms south of Perth and about 20kms north of Bunbury. We went to their dairy farm every school holidays and most long weekends. We also stayed there for three months when our mother went to Europe (in those days fathers were deemed not capable of looking after their kids). I was nine and my brother was seven.

It was a haven for kids. We used to do all sorts of wonderful things like build cubby houses in the haystack (how we didn't get bitten by a snake I'll never know); do swimming training in the dam that was full of leeches; plait bailing twine to act as lane ropes in the dam, and drive the tractor when we were too small to reach the floor from the seat.

Along with the not-so-good came the good like hosing out the dairy after milking. The first kid to wake up in the morning (usually me) had to hose out the dairy (of cow pats) and it was a pretty smelly job. We used a high powered hose and sometimes it was stronger that us! Hosing out the dairy wasn't all bad - there was a reward at the end, which was hand feeding the calves, like the little fella below. That was fun. They loved to suck on your hand after you had dipped it in the milk bucket.

 

Freisan calf
Photo by Compassion in World Farming


 

The road from Perth to Bunbury is only a few years old, is fairly straight and doesn't go through any towns. It is a dual carriageway the whole way and just invited me to go too fast. Maybe I was a bit more careful with my speed because I was going to a funeral, or maybe it was because lots of people get caught speeding on this road. I controlled myself because I don't want my own funeral for a very long time. Maybe being over 50 means that we start thinking of our own mortality. In fact, I had a conversation about that with someone two days before the funeral (that's for another blog).

 

Anyway, I enjoyed the drive and although I hadn't shed a tear at all when I found out that Auntie Jean died, the funeral undid me. The worst bit was seeing Uncle Merthyr sitting in his wheelchair (the results of 65 years of milking cows) with his hand over his eyes, sobbing. They had been married for 62 years. I don't know what he is going to do now - they both were in permanent care. Auntie Jean was in the Alzeheimer's wing of a retirement village and Uncle Merthyr is in a total care unit. He spent the last year or so going and sitting with Auntie Jean every day. Must be awful. I hope he is OK.

 

 

Driving too fast!

I can't help it. I love it! I just love driving too fast, even though I know it's dangerous. I love being just on the edge of losing control, but as an over 50 I've toned down a bit.

Last weekend I visited a friend in the country, about 200kms from Perth. It took about two-and-a-half hours. It took 45 minutes or so to get out of the metropolitan area and into the country. Then it was just a very long road, with hardly any other cars. There were a couple of towns to slow down for and then a left turn at Bindoon.

I was pretty well controlled on the road to Bindoon, but after that left turn there weren't really any other cars and with the music up loud (thank God for MP3 players) I found myself going at 130 - 140 kms per hour. I know this is too fast, but it was fun!

The Bindoon to Moora road took about an hour and even though sometimes I went too fast, when the road signs indicated that one should slow down for a bend, I did as I was told.

Bindoon to Moora road

Here's the thing....

When I was younger I would have kept my speed at 130 - 140 kms per hour, except for the bends in the road of course, but now, at 50 something, I found myself slowing down to the speed limit whenever I noticed that I was going too fast.

Funnily enough, the more I was enjoying a song, the faster I got, until I realised how fast I was going. In the old days, I would have kept going fast, but not now. Is it because at 50 something we are constantly reminded of our own mortality? Or is it because I am a better citizen that I was at maybe 30 something? Who knows.

Am I Really 50 Something?

I am almost half-way through my 50s and can't believe it! What happened to the last 10, 20, 30 years? I suspect lots of other people feel like me, too.

I live in Perth, Western Australia, close to the beach and close to the ocean. It's a wonderful place to live and the lifestyle is fantastic.

I like to read a lot and sometimes in this blog I might mention a book or film that I have read that you might like to look at.

This blog will look at life at 50 something, which is a very weird stage of life. For some the kids are on the way out the door and others are beginning to look after aging parents. We will look at the fun stuff (and there's lots of that) and some issues in the general world that are relevant to us, which also may promote some discussion. The more we can discuss the simpler things seem and the more fun we will have.

At the moment my mother lives in Dallas, Texas and I can't think why someone would move from beautiful Perth to live in Dallas. Some readers may be able to help me with that one! Another topic that I find interesting is my aging body (it wasn't meant to happen to me, just everyone else) and what things there are out there to help me with it.

Why would you choose to live in Dallas instead of sunny, pretty Perth?

 

Chihuly exhibition (the only good thing about Dallas)

Chihuly exhibition, Aboredum, Dallas