Growing Old Too Late

There is an old arrangement in the universe that has always struck me as suspicious, and I have long believed it was drafted by the same committee that invented mosquitoes, income taxes, and neckties.

A fellow is born with enough enthusiasm to wrestle a grizzly bear, but not enough judgment to recognize one. By the time he acquires the judgment, his knees have filed for retirement and refuse to attend the contest.

I once knew a young gentleman who possessed the confidence of an emperor and the experience of a cabbage. He announced that the antiquated had become overly cautious and that the world belonged to youth.

It sounded magnificent until he attempted to prove it by leaping a creek that the older men had wisely chosen to walk around. The creek won by unanimous decision, and the boy spent the remainder of the afternoon explaining that the landing had been part of his original plan.

The ancient men, meanwhile, watched from the bank with expressions so innocent they ought to have been arrested. Every one of them had performed that very leap in his own youth, and every one of them had discovered that gravity keeps careful records.

Experience is merely the expensive tuition one pays for attending the School of Foolish Confidence, and the diploma is awarded only after the bruises have faded. It has always amused me that wisdom arrives precisely when it can do the least amount of damage.

At twenty, a man has muscles enough to uproot an oak tree, but he lacks the sense to ask who planted it. At seventy, he knows exactly which tree ought to remain standing, yet lifting the teacup has become an enterprise requiring thoughtful preparation and favorable weather.

Nature has arranged the affair with a mischievous grin. She hands every child a full sack of courage and an empty sack of sense. Then, year by year, she quietly transfers the contents from one bag to the other until the poor soul finally possesses excellent judgment and absolutely no desire to test it.

Thus, the sensible survive while many of the reckless become memorable cautionary tales, though not by choice. The graveyards are well supplied with people who declared they knew better than common sense, while the rocking chairs are occupied by those who learned to let common sense have the final word.

If there is any justice in the matter, it is only this: the young keep the world lively enough to prevent it from becoming dull, and the old keep it from collapsing altogether. Between the two, civilization staggers along like a mule with one good leg and one bad one, reaching its destination eventually, though seldom by the route anyone intended.

That, I have always suspected, is the Creator’s favorite joke, and we have all been cast in it without being consulted.