In for the long haul

In a sleepy town long ago, a man and his wife lived in peace.  At least, that was the outside point of view.  The man thought his wife, for no reason, was always on his case about getting more work, about shirking duty, about everything going wrong because of lack of activity, blah, blah, blah.  One day, the man decided to take a walk away from the house to give himself a reprieve from the constant hounding he received.  On the walk, he encountered some men bowling in the hills close to his house.  He participated, and all the while he was drinking their ale.  Soon, he fell fast asleep.

Of course, the tale is Rip Van Winkle written in 1819 by Washington Irving.  Most people know the next part.  Rip woke up 20 years later.  His wife had died.  His son by his same name was the official Rip Van Winkle of the small, sleepy town.  He missed the buildup to the Revolutionary War.  He missed the actual fighting of the war.  The picture of King George in the town's tavern had been changed to George Washington.  Rip was no longer recognizable because his beard had grown a foot longer during the 20 year interval.

 I think of this tale because some days I think on my rather simplistic childhood days and compare it to the present.  I grew up in my earliest years before color television had been discovered, before FM was a possibility on the radio dial, before interstate highways had made it from drawing board to reality, before the locally family owned soda fountains had been replaced by MacDonalds and Burger Kings, and before integration was the law of the land for schools and colleges.  Beatniks was a viable word; the non-party line phone had only been available a few years; an all electric house was as rare as central air conditioning; and power steering in a car was a luxury feature.

If I make the simple comparison between childhood and later adulthood, it's as if I have missed a forty year period of time.  Most of my food comes from a microwave or restaurant rather than the kitchen table, and everything else is controlled or accessible by my smart phone in place of going places and talking to people or doing things.  My own children don't recognize the words beatnik, party line phone, window unit, or soda fountain.  I could swear my beard is a foot longer and the space between Eisenhower's picture and Obama's has enough room for 9 other pictures.  What's that about?

The end of Irving's tale shows the townspeople finally recognizing Rip Van Winkle and being a bit envious of his luck in having missed a considerable period of time of taking a drumming by his wife and  the turmoil the Revolutionary War caused.  Thankfully, though, the time between my simplistic childhood days and my later adulthood are not unconscious years.  The turmoil of the years experienced have given me perspective in life which I would rather have than blissful ignorance.  And, I would rather have the pockets of months that have made life beautiful and given me vitality than trade them for a million years of sleeping.  As appealing as Rip Van Winkle is for some people, I am fully satisfied with being conscious for my life.  I even have faith that my future still holds some great enjoyment.