Butch Lawson

When the nurse came into the examining room, she came in hurriedly, a fresh smile on her face and hand extended in what she must have felt was a normal workday greeting situation. I was sitting there on the parchment paper-covered table in a too-small hospital gown that was missing one of the two strings used to tie it closed in the back.

The calendar says it's still autumn, but I know winter when I see it. As I write this, there is snow on the ground, it's 30 degrees, and the weather station says there's a 30-mph westerly wind gusting to over 40. There are whitecap rollers in the bay and I'm loving Maine being Maine. But, for some reason, today's weather makes me think of a time long ago when Maine weather taught me a life lesson that I'll share with you.

Long ago and not far away there was a land of Sufficient. "Plenty" had not yet come, but in the land of Sufficient we had what we needed. Oh, there were signs of Plenty here and there during the summers, but mostly we had just what we needed. For us, that was Plenty.

Like most of us, I can be caught out among other humans sporting a less-than-elegant appearance, but most of the time I'm at least presentable. I'm aware, though, that my desire to be squared away when out and about puts me into a shrinking minority of out-and-abouters.

While I wasn't paying attention, autumn happened. I'm not sure exactly when, but the telltale signs are there, the most noticeable of which is that the towels and washcloths in the bathrooms have changed color. This is via some wife-decorator sorcery that happens twice a year. One summer morning the towels are light blue and then, without warning, they are red. They'll stay red until someday next spring, when they will again be light blue.

It doesn't matter whether it's stamps, street rods, guns, fishing rods, guitars, tools, widgets or whatever. If a man collects something he loves and appreciates, it's likely that, at several points in his collector journey, he'll be challenged by his loving and concerned spouse.

It's 8 p.m. on a Wednesday and I've not had anything to eat since noon. Luckily, I have to drive within dangerous proximity of a bunch of fast-food joints on my way home.

When spring finally arrived one day in late May, it felt more like summer than spring. I sat in the car in the parking lot, baking in the afternoon sun with little appreciation for the small SUV's driving visibility.

It used to be easy to get older. I would just hang around and do stuff or not do stuff and I would get older. Worst case, I'd wake up with a nuclear-grade headache and a 21-day penicillin prescription, no wiser but definitely older than before.

Many of you loyal and long-suffering readers will remember the nice lady who asked me if I knew my first name. She was a victim of the system for which she worked. It made her look silly, but it gave me a column that month. Along those same lines…