It is all relative. I am really not an “old guy.” Virginia, my mother-in-law lived to be 90. She often referred to my wife and I as babies. Store clerks sometimes regard me with the martyred patience reserved for alzheimer’s patients. That’s OK, I can only hear about 20% of what they are saying.
In my mind’s eye I am about 24, at my physical peak; until I look in the mirror. I am aways shocked to see my Dad’s reflection looking back at me as I brush my teeth. Terry, my wife, insists that we are middle aged. I wish.
The first insult came from AARP when I turned 50. They had the brass to offer me membership, for a price.
In my youth I was a Smokejumper. We reveled in the arrogance of peak physical condition and elite firefighter status. In the Boise Unit, if one of our number stayed with the crew long enough to reach their 30th birthday we did the right thing and had a “keggar.” The theme for the party was a funeral. They were officially over-the-hill at 30. The McCall Unit may have had the same tradition, the two crews were pretty much joined at the hip. We trained our rookies, we called them “Neds,” together in McCall.
In those days candidates over the age of 27 were too old to be considered for new hires. The rare ‘jumper who attained the ancient age of 40 was retired from parachute jumping. At that age they had usually been in management positions for a long time and rarely did more than routine qualifying jumps with occasional rescue or fire jumps when necessary.
Laws have changed. Now, Smokejumpers can jump and fight fire as long as they can pass the physical. Women are Smokejumpers. A remarkable number of hardy souls from my era stayed in until the new mandatory retirement age of 55 or optional retirement at age 50. Sooner or later we all got hurt. Some were maimed or killed. Some endured less severe career ending injuries. The lucky ones healed up enough to keep jumping or voluntarily leave the program. After a few years we all started getting up slowly in the morning to take inventory of our various aching parts. I managed seven years without serious injury.
I decided I was getting too old for the job at age 25. The smoke, heavy packs, long hours of firefighting, and slamming into the ground were taking their toll. I had breathed too much smoke, my lungs were the weak link. I was also eating NSAIDS like candy. Arthritis arrived at 40. I had a bone scan a few years ago and made the mistake of looking at the image before the final diagnosis. I thought I was full of cancer from the top of my head through my pelvis. The doctors were confused until I explained my history. They said my scan looked like that of a pro football player.
I became an administrator. That lasted until age 31 when I became an FBI Agent. The FBI Academy was a bit rigorous but nothing like smokejumper training. The work was fascinating, occasionally strenuous, often stressful, and the best job in the world. After a short time, nothing humans did was a surprise. The best part was when I least expected it, I often saw the best of humanity.
I retired in 2005 with 32 years of service; 22 years in the FBI and 10 years in the Forest Service. I felt like I had stepped into a tornado in 1983 and it spit me out in 2005. I was fortunate to be under the Civil Service Law Enforcement and Firefighter retirement. I loved the work and would do it again in a minute. No reservations. My health has started to wane. It was time to enjoy my wife and family, slow down, and do some traveling.
It is not the years, it’s the miles. In my case anyway. Mentally I am about 24, physically I am sometimes about 75. It’s all relative.