A January Day in New Hampshire

One of the people I feel most lucky to know recently announced, with an expression of undisguised shock, "I'm fifty now."  Her birthday had been the day before and we were out to dinner and it was clearly a milestone she was still processing.  I almost said, "Oh, to be fifty again," but I did not think it would help. To me, she looked very young, and her perfume wafted in my direction and I could not imagine what difference it made to her to be fifty, but I suppose every one has to make his or her own peace with timelines.  

Actually, when I turned fifty, I really felt no different than I had at 18, apart from being slower afoot and less flexible, more back pain.  I was still running then, but my days running 10 miles a day were numbered.  And, it is likely, in terms of numbered years, you are past the mid point, fewer ahead than behind on the time line.

But, still, there are moments. 

This morning I opened my email to discover the first indoor baseball practice, in preparation for the 2015 baseball season has been scheduled and is less than two weeks away.  I had considered hanging up my cleats after last season, having slumped at the plate and lost more than a step or two in the outfield. If you are a short stop or second baseman, losing speed is something you can compensate for, but as an outfielder, it's all about covering ground and reaching the ball. In the last inning of our last game, the championship game, they pulled me and put me on the bench so a younger, faster player could be out there, just in case.  As it turned out, the ball was hit to my replacement and he made the catch, and we won, but for me, that was a turning point.  Until then, over the years, I was the guy they put in when the game was on the line, when the championship was down to the last batter, but now, well, if I'd been the manager, I guess I would have made the same decision. 

It had not been my worst season, but it was definitely the first step of a decline. You look at pro players who simply cannot perform at the level they once did and you wonder why they continue, why they embarrass themselves, why they cannot see what everyone else can see.  They are in denial, clearly. Now it was my turn. At least, I am not in denial; then again,  I'm not exactly pulling the trigger, either. 

But, as my sons said, "Why quit? What else would you do all summer? You can still hit."

So, I'll at least start the season. And, I have to admit, I can't wait to get back into the batting cages.

And then, Tugboat demanded his beach walk, so at half tide we hit Plaice Cove, as usual.  

The beach is never the same day to day. Today it was rock strewn and moody. Reaching the waterline, I started to launch Tug's ball down the beach, but then I stopped mid throw--300 yards off shore, on a rock, I saw a harbor seal raise his head. 
There he lolled, flipping his tail around, dappled underbelly brown and gray back. 

Some of the regular dog people stopped to look at him and a man with a foot long telephoto lens on his camera came up and let me peer through it so I could look the seal in the eye. And a very handsome fellow he was.

So there you have it. Winter is welling up from the New Hampshire January, but there are still some good things happening in winter. There will be snow, and I'll be able to cross country ski down the abandoned railroad line less than a mile from my front door. Winters of discontent were actually more common when I lived in the South. Winters in New Hampshire allow you to get out and do things. It's cold but at least it's not constantly raining. Snow is more fun.

Decline will have to wait a moment. For now, until that big myocardial infarction or stroke or malignancy comes calling, we are lucky to live on the Seacoast.