I used to be afraid of getting old. I wondered, if not spraying mud in a big ol’ Chevy or traveling the countryside on a Harley, what fun could I possibly have.

I went home today and saw my gram, among other family, which is always worth the trip. Jokingly said, gram is like quicksand and if you enter her house and don’t keep moving, guaranteed you’ll get stuck (“stuck” meaning hours of being fascinated over how one woman can roll so many stories into a continuous monologue). I skipped the “gotta run” excuses for today though, I missed gram a lot, and opted for enjoying every minute of visiting I could.

She had her favorite antique book laid out on the floor, ninety percent full of sticky notes, more pages folded than straight, and a web of penciled-in arrows pointing to significant dates, places to find insignias, and most importantly, each item’s worth. I sat there, fresh from the same dad-given haircut I’ve been getting for 19 years now, thinking to myself, “You know, if this is what getting old is all about, if retiring means being able to get lost in your true hobbies, maybe it won’t be so bad after all.”