Early Don’t Always Mean the Worm

It hit me last Thursday, somewhere between the last bite of meatloaf and the first yawn—I had become one of them.

One of the older folks I used to poke fun at when I was a high-powered teenager with the metabolism of a squirrel and the social life of a minor-league rock star. The poor souls lined up at 4:45 at the Golden Fork Buffet, toothpick in hand, wearing socks with sandals, and tucked in like they were racing daylight.

I used to nudge my buddies and whisper, “What, do they think the sun charges extra after six?”

It’s funny how time reprograms you. Yesterday at 5:03 p.m., I shoveled the last mashed potatoes into my mouth as if it were a timed event.

Back in ’91, if I saw my reflection in a window at 9 p.m., it usually involved cowboy boots, a Pabst in hand, and a girl named Tina laughing at something I probably shouldn’t have said.

These days, 9 p.m. finds me in a robe with questionable stains, arguing with the pupperz. I tell myself it’s the good kind of tired now, from pruning tomato vines, not trying to impress people who’ve long forgotten my name.

I live just outside of town, on a little patch of land where the rabbits sometimes act like they pay rent. I’ve got a back of mostly weeds pretending to be kale–and a neighbor named Bob who waves with his entire arm like he’s signaling aircraft.

He and his wife, Mary, eat dinner at 4:45 because “the gravy hits better before dark,” and I used to roll my eyes. I nod along now because gravy does hit better before sundown.

Last Tuesday, Bob invited us over for pork chops. His wife, Mary, cooks like she’s apologizing for every bad meal you’ve ever had. We sat on their back porch afterward, the bugs buzzing like distant chainsaws, the smell of honeysuckle sneaking up the steps like a polite guest.

Bob looked into the distance and said, “You know what I like about eating early? You get the whole evening to sit with your full belly and not a dang thing to do.”

Well, I laughed–but I felt it in my bones as my back popped like bubble wrap. Literally.

There’s a quiet holiness to those hours after supper now. The light turns syrupy over the hills, and the cows in the distance start winding down their conversations. I’ll sit with a glass of something cold, swatting the occasional mosquito, and think about how all those old folks I used to mock had it all figured out.

They weren’t giving up on life; they were savoring it.

Now I go to bed around seven. Earlier, if one of the dogs jumps up and settles on my lap in that warm, heavy way that says, “You’re done for the day, old man.”

So here’s to the early birds, with pill organizers and long memories, that know fried chicken tastes better when you’re not in a rush and that the world feels kinder when you meet the dark with a full stomach and a soft pillow.

We thought we were laughing at them, but we were just too ignorant to admit they were right, and now I wish I could write a thank-you note to my Grandma Lola, telling her all about my discovery.