Ramble with Storm: Old-timer

Mulling things on my morning ramble

with Storm, the family’s mixed Lab.

I think of myself as a young guy.

Of course, that is absurd. I am middle-aged.

And apparently I look even older.

Back to age.

So last Wednesday, I was at the stocking of walleye fingerlings in Wolf Lake. And one of the Perch America regulars asked, “How ya doin’, old-timer?”

At first, I figured he was just saying old-timer in the sense of meaning I have been doing the outdoors for a long time for the Sun-Times (17 years now, if my count is right).

But then I got to thinking, “No, I think he means old-timer, as in: an old guy.”

Well, I am not an old guy. At least I don’t think so.

But looking in the rear-view mirror in our old Saturn before I pulled back out on Calumet Avenue last Wednesday, I had to concede, “Well, maybe I do look like an old-timer.”

My face is weathered, looking older than my years. Gray/white locks of hair spilled from under my green Ducks Unlimited baseball cap. To call my mustache and goatee salt and pepper would be to stretch the definition of pepper to its utter palest.

Maybe I can live with old-timer. That seems like a salutation of respect. I sure don’t feel like an old guy.