This will come as no great flash to most — if not all — of you, but it is something I want to share anyway as the Thanksgiving holiday draws to a close.
It is that age allows us all to change our perspective on life, on living and on our surroundings.
When I was about 15 years or so of age, I once complained to Mom and Dad that I didn’t like being called “Johnny” by my relatives. I preferred “John,” I protested. “That’s what my friends call me,” I said. I don’t recall Mom and Dad’s response, other than they must have realized I was just a smart-ass teenager.
Sixty years later, on the eve of my 75th birthday, I know relish being called Johnny by those family members who are still around and who called me that name back in the old days. Now I realize why they did that. You see, I am my paternal grandfather’s namesake. I now realize my Papou was the original John Peter Kanelis and I was “Johnny” to avoid any confusion at family get-togethers.
Also around that time in my still-young life, I recall deciding that I didn’t want to live past the age of 55. I must have bought into the rock singers’ notion that “we shouldn’t trust anyone older than 30.”
Fifty-five seemed ancient to the 15-year-old who at the time didn’t realize he could still squeeze a lot of quality of life at that ripe old age. I barely remember 55 these days and, yes, I have enjoyed a fruitful life built on a family I helped produce with the woman I married when I was 21 and she was a 19-year-old hottie.
I have seen many wonderful places in my life, done some remarkable things in pursuit of the craft I enjoyed for nearly four decades as a print journalist.
Yes, age has brought it all home to me.
