I remember the morning of my twelfth birthday like it happened yesterday. After delivering the Seattle Times between four thirty and six, when the biting Western Washington cold was at its worst, I raced into my kitchen, where breakfast and — more important — an unopened box of cereal awaited. I did so not because I was particularly hungry but rather because I wanted to fetch the prize inside the box before my siblings awoke from their Sunday slumber and beat me to it.
Those of us who grew up in the 1960s and 1970s may recall that boxes of cereal were no small things back in the day. Manufacturers often put prizes inside the boxes and 45-rpm records on the boxes themselves. Box tops were as valuable as currency, thirty-day offers as good as gold. Breakfast wasn't just a meal back then. It was an opportunity.
So I opened the box that morning, retrieved a forgettable plastic trinket, and had what may have been my first Eureka moment. Rather than celebrate my good fortune, I lamented the fact that an era — my pleasantly simple and carefree childhood — was coming to an end.
I realized that while it was perfectly acceptable for sixth-grade boys to get excited about prizes in cereal boxes, it was not so for teenagers. I was mindful, even then, of the looming specter of junior high. Within months, I would turn my attention from childish things to music and movies and clothes -- and girls. Though the prospect was troubling at first, it was also exciting. Very exciting. The future was out there.
That is the way of life. Most of us spend our years anticipating the next great thing. A driver's license. High school. College. Careers. Marriage. Children. Birthdays like 16, 18, 21, and even 30 call to us like mischievous sirens. As we proceed toward these milestone dates, we think only about what we are gaining and not about what we are losing.
Most of us, after all, do not regret leaving childhood or young adulthood — until, of course, we are no longer children or young adults. Then we want time to slow down. We pine for the times when everything was new, opportunities were limitless, and the future was a vast, empty canvas, waiting to be filled with vivid, memorable images.
And so it is with me. At age 57, I am wistful about days gone by but also hopeful about what the coming years may bring. As I should be.
If I have learned anything from observing the long and productive lives of others, from notables like the late President Bush to my own grandfather, who remained active for almost all of his ninety-nine years, it's that birthdays are guide posts and not stop signs. They are tools that allow us to measure, evaluate, and sometimes recalibrate.
As an author, a new grandfather, and a restless spirit, I remain as optimistic about possibilities as I was on the morning of December 30, 1973. There are more books to write, places to see, and things to do.
The prize, for me, is still in the box.
So true. The cereal may not have been the best, but the prize was worth it. In life, as you describe so accurately, the prize is the daily rewards of living a life!
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