See it here:

When do we get old? What’s the criteria? I think everyone knows it isn’t an age. I’m sure doctors would be happy to tell us the average year our bodies change, but studies are biased and data is skewed. A lot of us have heard the rumor of the hundred-year-old lady who drank seven Dr. Peppers a day. When did she get old, or did she ever?

Yes, by the time forty peaks around the corner, we all have trouble figuring out why we wake up sore, and some of us can’t nurse colds or injuries like we used to, but these are just inevitable signs, and none of them, individually or collectively, are solid evidence of a line that was
crossed.

I know when I turned old. It was when I became enamored with birds and trees, and the onset was earlier than what studies show.

I have stared at a goldfinch on a sunflower for thirty minutes, entirely enthralled. There is total wonder at the sheer red of cardinals and the absolute blue of bluebirds, untainted by time or economic conditions. Even when hundreds of feathered friends unknown perch and chirp,
exuding the feel of an Alfred Hitchcock film, awaiting their king to order their ranks to march, do I desire their company.

Through simple observation, I have discovered that crows fly towards the sun, to work in the morning and to roost in the evening. During their shifts, they chase hawks and are chased by mockingbirds. It may have to do with protecting eggs and nests, but I don’t know for sure. I
never asked them.

What sets Bluff Park apart from other communities, though, are the trees. Newcomers are soon made aware of this truth when they witness their first severe storm. These babies will fall, often onto beloved electric wires, resulting in power being knocked out as if struck by a Muhammed Ali haymaker.

A lot of residents will fell them before they’ve had a chance to crash, and there is wisdom in doing so, but man I hate to see them go.

Some of them are probably pushing three hundred-years-old, and they have beheld more history than we’ll ever learn from textbooks. But they’ll never tell. That is not their lot in life. No, they are simply providers. Of air. Of shade. Of comfort.

My front yard is devoid of trees, so I use Taylor’s next door. And while Lindie, two doors down, is adamant to have Taylor remove that two hundred-year-old Sweetgum, I am exceedingly determined that he does not.

Lindie can be forgiven because she’s relatively new, but I read under that tree. And nap. And write. And think. Taylor just hung a swing from one of its arms, and it still produces twelve million gumballs a year. I expect its friendship to follow me through eternity.

If it kills me, so be it.