Getting ready for my 50th high school reunion this weekend is overloading my brain. At my age, I have to be careful about thinking too hard. I might pull or strain something and be crippled for two weeks.

Forty years ago, I went to my 10th-year reunion. We talked about having babies and working the new job. I imagine the conversations this coming Saturday night will be different.

“How’s it going?”

“Good. Good to see you.”

“What’chu doing with yourself these days?”

“Not much. I’ve been favoring this old elbow of mine for months now. It hurts like a train wreck.”

“I know what you mean. My back is killing me right now.”

Look, I know that at 68, none of us are ancient, yet. Not anywhere close to it. But physically I know that things are about as good now as they are gonna get. I might not be way over the hill, but I have crested the top and the view from here is downhill all the way.

That’s a sobering truth.

At the same time, I think these may just be the best years of my life. Free of the daily responsibilities of work. Comfortable in who I am with no need to prove anything anymore. Good friends. Good church. Watching my kids live their lives and find their own way through all the things I’ve already done. I’m finding love again, which is crazy good.

Sometime after Dad got into his early 80s, I remember taking a ride with him on his pick-up route for the Henry County Food Pantry. Once he got rid of his cows, he had to have something to do with himself. He used his truck to make stops at all the grocery stores in the area to gather up milk, bread, canned goods, and other staples for the warehouse at the pantry.

At first, he made his route one day a week. It eventually turned into three days a week. He connected to people and a need where he could feel useful. It was never like work to him. It gave him purpose. And it gave him a lot of extra bread and milk and cereal and sugar and cookies to take home.

The store managers got to know him. “Hey, Mr. John.” He flirted with the cashiers in an old-man kindly sort of way. Every store we went into, he told his jokes and old stories. One of the bag boys helped us load out the truck and Dad stuffed a $20 bill into his hand.

Back at the pantry, he’d help folks load groceries in their cars. If there were kids, he knew exactly where to find the cookies and candies.

On the ride back to the house, we talked about the day. I asked him about some of the people I met. It was obvious that he was doing something that was important to him.

“You really enjoy doing this, don’t you?”

I was trying to get him to enlighten me. I wanted I’m him to tell me the secret of life. I was in my early 50s back then and curious enough to want to know these things. He just cut his eyes over at me and smiled as he spit into his cup and wiped the tobacco from his lips.

Dad almost never gave long speeches, not even when I was in high school. When it came to life lessons, he didn’t quote famous lines or give out poetic words of wisdom. He just lived. You either got it or you didn’t.

This was one of those times.

So, I’m making a promise to myself. When I show up at my reunion on Saturday night, I’m not going to be the old guy who talks about all that ails me and all that is wrong with the world. There’re enough sour apples in the world without me adding to it.

As I look down that long hill ahead, I want to focus on the things in life that bring simple joys that keep the heart young. I want to meet new people and do new things, go new places.

I’m not talking about crazy bucket list things. Bungee jumping is not on my list. Jumping out of an airplane with a parachute is not on my list. I already take enough Ibuprofen as it is. I’m not even feeling the urge to travel the world.

Life is short. I want to use what’s left of mine to be of some use to others and enjoy doing it.

I’ll be standing up in front of my classmates at the reunion to talk about some of these things. I wasn’t the valedictorian in 1974, so they didn’t ask me to speak at our graduation. I figure, now’s my chance.

Somebody decided that since I seem to be able to string together a few coherent words on paper these days, I should address the crowd. I’ve already written down a few ideas. I know what I have to say is not going to move heaven and earth. But maybe it will help someone think differently about the life ahead of us.

So, I’m ready for this. Thinking back through the past five decades has made me more confident than ever of what I need to do with my remaining years. I’m not saying I have it figured out. I don’t have a great quote to offer or any stirring words of wisdom. I just know I want to roll down this hill ahead of me with a smile on my face. I want to know that I gave it my best shot.

Wish me luck on Saturday night.

When Dad and I got out of his truck at home, he handed me a gallon of milk.

“Take this home.”

“It expires tomorrow,” I protested.

“So,” he said. “That means it’s still good today.”

Then he added, “You can’t be afraid of the expiration date.”

And that’s how he lived until the very end.