There was a time when I liked the idea of more.

More room. More tools. Another project. Something that might come in handy someday.

And for much of my life, those things served a purpose. There was a family to raise, work to do, and a business to run. Having what I needed, and a few things I might need, seemed sensible.

But lately, I find myself looking at things a little differently.

Before I think about whether I’d like to have something, another question comes to mind:

Do I want to take care of it?

Everything Comes with a Little Job

You buy something, bring it home, and find a place for it.

That seems simple enough.

But sooner or later, it needs something.

Cleaning. Fixing. Charging. Updating. A new part.

Or you need to move three other things to get to it.

Somewhere, there’s a cord that belongs to it. I keep it, afraid I’ll throw it away and discover what it fits the next day.

I’ve had a few of those.

Even things we seldom use can keep us busy. We organize them, work around them, and periodically decide we ought to do something with them.

Then we close the cabinet.

That takes care of it for another six months.

I Used to Enjoy More of That

There was satisfaction in having a project waiting.

Something to improve. Something to figure out. A reason to spend an afternoon working with my hands.

I still like that.

But I’m getting more particular about which projects get my afternoons.

Some things interest me enough that I’m happy to spend the time. Others have become jobs I keep postponing.

And I’m beginning to pay attention to the difference.

If I’ve walked past something for a year thinking, “I need to deal with that,” perhaps it’s time to ask whether I want it in my life at all.

That question would have surprised my younger self.

I would have bought another storage cabinet.

There Are Things I’m Happy to Take Care Of

My banjos and guitars need attention now and then.

Strings wear out. Instruments need care. And there’s certainly no shortage of work to do on the fellow playing them.

But I enjoy picking one up in the evening. I like working on a tune and hearing it improve a little. I like having music to share with other people.

That feels like time well spent.

The same goes for the things that make our home comfortable and welcoming. I don’t mind some effort when I can see the pleasure it brings.

I’m less interested in keeping things out of habit.

“I’ve had it a long time” used to settle the question for me.

Now I am learning to ask a second question.

“Would I miss it?”

Sometimes the answer is yes.

Sometimes I’m surprised by how quickly the answer is no.

I Like What’s Left in the Afternoon

When there’s less to take care of, a little room opens up in the day.

I might sit with Sally a while longer.

Take Sally and Abby on a golf cart ride.

Read another chapter.

Pick up the banjo before the evening gets away from me.

Or sit here with a glass of wine and watch what’s happening out beyond the porch.

I’m growing fond of an afternoon that hasn’t already been spoken for.

For years, I was accustomed to having something waiting for me. A decision, a problem, a list of things that needed doing.

There’s quiet pleasure in discovering that, for the moment, everything can wait.

I’m learning to let it.

A Little Less Seems to Suit Me

I don’t expect to empty the house.

There are still books I want to read, things I enjoy using, and belongings I’m glad I’ve kept. Another project will catch my interest.

But I don’t feel much need to fill every space or take on every job.

When something leaves the house, I’m getting better at leaving its spot empty.

When I finish one obligation, I don’t immediately look for another.

And when I consider bringing something home, I try to picture owning it six months from now.

Will I be enjoying it?

Or will I be wondering where to put it and what it needs?

I don’t always get the answer right. But I’m asking the question more often.

There’s a comfortable chair here, and I have a little time before I need to be anywhere.

I’m beginning to like that, too.

____

70+ | Still learning. Still grateful.

Some did it for a living. Others most likely never considered themselves teachers.

But I still think about them.

Sometimes when I’m working through a problem. Sometimes when I’m practicing the banjo. Sometimes when I hear myself say something and realize I didn’t come up with it on my own.

Somebody passed it along.

And somehow, it stayed.

They Didn’t All Stand in Front of a Classroom

When we talk about teachers, we usually think about school.

And certainly, some of those teachers deserve to be remembered.

But looking back, I realize how much of my education happened elsewhere.

On the job.

Around a kitchen table.

In a conversation I didn’t know I would remember.

Working beside somebody who knew more than I did.

From a book I read.

I spent many years building businesses, solving problems, and trying to make good decisions. I brought an education to that work, but there was still plenty I had to learn.

People helped me.

Some explained things. Some asked questions that made me reconsider what I thought I knew. Others showed me how to handle a situation by how they handled it.

I’m sure I didn’t appreciate every lesson at the time.

When you’re busy trying to get somewhere, you don’t always stop to notice who is helping you get there.

I Remember How They Made Learning Feel

My banjo teacher comes to mind.

Over the past three years, we met many weeks over Zoom. He was in the Nashville area. I was in Texas, still trying to become the banjo player I hoped I could be.

He taught me about timing, finger positions, and things I needed to practice.

But I also remember his patience.

When you’re an older student, you bring a lifetime of experience to the lesson. Unfortunately, that experience doesn’t always help your fingers go where they’re supposed to.

You still have to practice.

You still have to slow down.

And sometimes you need somebody to help you hear the progress you’re having trouble hearing yourself.

His encouragement mattered to me.

It still does.

I think that’s true of many people who teach us. We may forget some of the instructions, but remember that they took us seriously. They gave us time. They believed we could learn.

That can stay with a person for years.

I Wish I Had Said Thank You More Often

There are people I would like to sit down with again.

I wouldn’t need a long conversation.

I’d just like to tell them, “I still remember what you taught me.”

Or, “You probably didn’t realize how much that helped.”

At the time, I may have offered a quick thank-you and moved on. I had work to do. Something else needed my attention.

Only later did I understand what I had been given.

A little confidence.

A better way to think about a problem.

An example of patience or fairness.

A chance to try something before I was sure I could do it.

Some of those people are gone now. Others have drifted out of my daily life.

But I still carry things they gave me.

Now I Have Something to Pass Along

Now, I find myself on the other side of some of those conversations.

Somebody asks a question about a business problem. Somebody wants to know how I approached something. A fellow learner needs a little encouragement.

I don’t have an answer for everything.

But I have experience. And I can make time.

Thinking about the people who helped me makes me want to be a little more patient with someone who is learning.

To explain something without making them feel foolish for asking.

To remember how much effort can be hiding behind a small improvement.

I know what it feels like to need another explanation. I still need them myself.

A Few People Come to Mind

Sitting here with my coffee, I can think of several people I’m glad crossed my path.

I doubt many of them knew how much they would influence my life.

They were doing their work, sharing what they knew, or taking a few minutes to help.

Years later, I’m still thinking about them.

Maybe somebody comes to mind for you, too.

If you can still reach them, it might be worth telling them what you remember.

Nothing fancy.

Just, “I was thinking about you today. Something you taught me has stayed with me.”

I’d enjoy receiving a message like that.

And I know there are a few I’d be glad to send.

Who taught you something you still carry with you?

____

Growth Never Retires

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—Randy

I’ve been thinking about a few things I’m glad I never got rid of.

Earlier this week, I wrote about deciding what is worth keeping.

Since then, I’ve found myself looking around a little differently.

There are things I could probably let go of without missing them.

But others still have a place in my life. Some have been with me so long that I don’t give them much thought, until I imagine being without them.

My Old Banjo, I first bought in 1982.

Then my 1972 Gibson banjo, purchased out of a pawn shop 2007.

I haven’t played them equally well, or equally often, through all the years.

There were stretches when other things took priority. Work. Family. Running a business. All the things that can fill a day before you quite realize where the day went.

But I kept them.

And I’m glad I did.

Now, playing banjo is part of my evening routine. There is usually something I’m trying to get a little better at. A troublesome measure. Better timing. A tune I can almost play the way I hear it in my head.

Sometimes “almost” lasts quite a while.

The banjo has given me something to work toward, people to play music with, and opportunities to bring a little enjoyment to somebody else.

I could have sold them during one of those quieter stretches.

I’m grateful I didn’t.

The Habit of Writing Things Down

Some things we keep don’t take up much room.

I’m glad I never got rid of the habit of writing things down.

A notebook and a pen still work pretty well for me.

I use technology. I enjoy learning what it can do. But there’s something about sitting with a cup of coffee and putting a thought on paper.

Sometimes I discover that I don’t quite know what I think until I try to write it.

Sometimes a few words become an article.

Sometimes they remain a few words.

That’s all right, too.

After years of writing down things I needed to do, I enjoy having a place to write down things I want to understand.

My Interest in Learning

I’m also glad I never decided I was finished learning.

It would have been easy enough.

I had gone to school. Worked for decades. Owned a business. Made plenty of decisions and learned from more than a few mistakes.

At some point, I could have said, “That ought to be enough.”

But I still enjoy finding something I don’t know how to do.

Spanish gives me plenty of those opportunities.

So does the banjo.

And every so often, a book makes me reconsider something I thought I already understood.

Being a beginner can be frustrating. I’d prefer to be good at something a little sooner.

Still, I like having a reason to try again tomorrow.

The Pleasure of Having People Around

I’m glad I’ve kept making room for people.

A round of golf.

A conversation after church.

Somebody coming over to play music.

An ordinary visit with no particular purpose.

It’s easy to get comfortable at home. There is always something to read, watch, work on, or put off until tomorrow.

But I’m usually glad when I’ve made the effort to get together with somebody.

We don’t have to settle an important question.

Sometimes we just tell the same stories and laugh in the same places.

There’s something worth keeping in that.

I Don’t Need to Keep Everything

Of course, none of this means every old possession deserves permanent residence.

I still have things I should sort through.

Probably quite a few.

But I’m learning to notice what I actually return to.

The instrument I still pick up.

The notebook I still open.

The people I’m still glad to see.

The interests that keep giving me a reason to get started.

Those things have earned their place.

At seventy-five, I’m grateful that a few things stayed with me long enough for me to enjoy them in a different way.

Especially the banjo.

I had no way of knowing, all those years ago, how much I would enjoy playing it now.

What is one thing you’re glad you never got rid of?

It might be something sitting in a closet.

Or something you’ve quietly carried with you all your life.

____

70+ | Still learning. Still grateful.

Not save the world.

Not solve every problem.

Just help.

Maybe somebody asks you a question about something you learned years ago.

Maybe a younger person is trying to make a decision you once had to make yourself.

Maybe a neighbor needs a hand.

Maybe somebody needs you to listen for a while.

There’s something good about knowing that what you’ve learned, what you can do, or the time you have available can still be useful to somebody else.

We Spend a Lot of Our Lives Needing Help

When we’re young, we need plenty of it.

Someone teaches us how to do a job.

Someone gives us a chance when we don’t have much experience.

Someone explains something we don’t understand.

Someone introduces us to the right person.

Someone tells us the truth when we need to hear it.

Someone encourages us when things aren’t going particularly well.

Looking back, I can think of plenty of people who helped me along the way.

Some knew they were helping.

Others probably had no idea.

A conversation.

A suggestion.

A little encouragement.

A door opened.

Sometimes that’s all it took.

Eventually, the Roles Begin to Change

One interesting thing about getting older is that you eventually become the person who’s been around for a while.

You’ve made some mistakes.

You’ve solved a few problems.

You’ve learned what works and, perhaps more importantly, what doesn’t.

You’ve accumulated something besides years.

You’ve accumulated experience.

And experience doesn’t have to sit on a shelf.

It can be given away.

I think that’s one of the opportunities we sometimes overlook as we get older.

We may not have the position we once had.

We may not have an office full of people asking us questions.

Our phone may not ring as often.

But that doesn’t mean what we’ve learned has stopped being useful.

Somebody may need exactly what we happen to know.

Helping Doesn’t Have to Be a Big Thing

I used to think about usefulness mostly in terms of accomplishing something.

Make the sale.

Solve the problem.

Get the project finished.

Keep the business moving.

Today, I see it a little differently.

Sometimes helping means answering a question.

Sometimes it means making an introduction.

Sometimes it means showing somebody a better way to do something.

Sometimes it means passing along a lesson you learned the hard way so somebody else doesn’t have to learn it quite as painfully.

And sometimes helping has nothing to do with giving advice.

Sometimes it’s simply being there.

Listening.

Encouraging.

Showing an interest.

Letting somebody know that what they’re doing matters.

Those things don’t sound very impressive.

That’s why they’re so easy to overlook.

But I’m not sure helping needs to be impressive.

It just needs to be helpful.

Maybe This Is Part of What Experience Is For

I’ve spent a lot of years accumulating experience.

Business experience.

Family experience.

Life experience.

And plenty of experience from getting things wrong.

At seventy-five, I think one of the best things we can do with all that experience is find places where it might help someone else.

Not because we have all the answers.

We don’t.

Not because younger people should do things the way we did them.

They shouldn’t.

The world they are building their lives in is different from the one we started in.

But some things carry forward.

Encouragement carries forward.

Kindness carries forward.

Good questions carry forward.

Experience carries forward when it’s offered with a little humility.

Sometimes, simply saying, “I’ve been through something like that. Here’s what I learned,” is enough.

There’s Something Good About It

That’s really what I’ve been noticing.

Helping somebody feels good.

Not because it makes us important.

Because it reminds us that we’re connected.

That the things we’ve learned still have a place.

That our time can still matter.

That we can still make somebody else’s road a little easier.

And perhaps one of the nicest parts of growing older is realizing that we don’t have to accomplish something big every day to have a useful day.

Sometimes we just need to notice the person in front of us.

And help where we can.

There’s something good about being able to do that.

____

70+ | Still learning. Still grateful.

When we’re young, being needed is almost automatic.

Children need us.

Our spouse needs us.

The people at work need us.

Customers call.

Employees have questions.

There are bills to pay, things to fix, places to be, and people counting on us.

Some days, we wish people needed us a little less.

Then life changes.

The kids grow up.

The career winds down.

We retire or semi-retire.

The phone doesn’t ring quite as often.

Nobody is waiting for us to walk through the office door on Monday morning.

And something we once took for granted can quietly disappear.

The feeling that somebody needs us.

I wonder if that’s something we never really outgrow.

Not the need to feel important.

That’s different.

I’m talking about the simple satisfaction of knowing that our presence matters to somebody else.

Maybe a grandchild calls because he wants your advice.

Maybe a friend needs somebody to listen.

Maybe your spouse asks you to take care of something you’ve not handled for years.

Maybe somebody wants to know how you solved a problem back when you were running a business.

Maybe you show up at a retirement home with a banjo and a couple of friends, and for a little while a room full of people is happy you’re there.

None of those things sound particularly important.

But maybe that’s the point.

Being needed doesn’t have to mean being in charge.

It doesn’t require a title.

It doesn’t require a paycheck.

And it certainly doesn’t require somebody to depend on us for everything.

Sometimes being needed is simply being the person who shows up.

The person who knows how to do something.

The person who listens.

The person who remembers.

The person who calls.

The person who can still make somebody laugh.

The person who has enough experience to say, “I’ve been through something like that.”

As I’ve gotten older, I’m beginning to think there’s a difference between wanting to be important and wanting to matter.

I don’t need to be important.

But I like knowing I still matter.

I believe most of us do.

Maybe that’s why helping somebody feels so good.

Maybe that’s why volunteering matters.

Maybe that’s why grandparents light up when the grandchildren call.

Maybe that’s why some people struggle more with retirement than they expected.

For decades, people needed them.

And then one day, not as many people seem to.

Part of growing older well is finding new ways to be needed without holding on to the old ways.

We don’t have to run the company anymore.

We don’t have to solve everybody’s problems.

We don’t have to be the one in charge.

But we can still be available.

We can still encourage somebody.

Teach somebody.

Listen to somebody.

Share something we’ve learned.

Play a little music.

Make a phone call.

Show up.

Being needed changes as we get older.

But I don’t think we ever completely outgrow it.

And maybe we aren’t supposed to.

Sometimes one of the nicest things that can happen during an ordinary day is realizing that somebody is glad we’re here.

That seems like something worth holding on to.

Until next Wednesday, I’ll keep the coffee hot, or I’ll find a nice wine to bring.

____

70+ | Still learning. Still grateful.

Being useful may not sound like one of life’s great pleasures.

But I’m beginning to think it is.

For much of my life, I tied being useful to work.

There was a business to run.

Customers who needed something.

Employees with questions.

Problems that had to be solved.

Later, there were people I could help with something I had learned along the way.

Being useful was simply part of the job.

Then you get older, retire, or semi-retire.

The phone doesn’t ring as often.

Nobody is waiting for you to get to the office Monday morning.

And one of the things you discover is that you still like being useful.

At least I do.

I like it when somebody asks me a business question and something I learned thirty years ago turns out to still be helpful.

I like showing somebody how to do something I happen to know how to do.

I like playing the banjo with a group at a retirement home and seeing someone in the audience start singing along.

Sometimes they know every word.

And for those few minutes, that little bit of music seems to matter.

I like writing something and hearing from a reader who says, “I’ve been thinking about that too.”

None of those things matter the way I once measured importance.

They don’t build a company.

They don’t add much to a résumé.

They don’t come with a title.

But they make a day feel a little better.

That’s because being useful reminds us that we still have something to contribute.

And after seventy-five years, most of us have accumulated quite a bit.

We’ve made mistakes.

Solved problems.

Raised families.

Learned how to fix a few things and when to leave other things alone.

We’ve discovered what matters and, perhaps as importantly, what doesn’t.

That experience doesn’t suddenly become worthless because somebody handed us a retirement cake.

In fact, some of it may be more useful now than it was when we were busy acquiring it.

But I think there’s a trap here.

Being useful is different from needing to be needed.

I don’t want my sense of worth to depend on somebody needing me.

And I’m not interested in spending the next ten years trying to prove that I’m still relevant.

That sounds exhausting.

I’d rather simply stay available.

Available to answer a question.

Available to encourage somebody.

Available to listen.

Available to share something I’ve learned when it might be useful.

Available to play a little music.

Available to do some small thing that makes somebody else’s day a little easier or better.

Usefulness changes as we get older.

It becomes less about doing big things and more about noticing small opportunities.

Where a little experience might help.

Where a phone call might matter.

Where someone could use encouragement.

Where something we already know could be passed along.

We spend a lot of time talking about how to enjoy retirement.

Travel.

Golf.

Hobbies.

Relaxing.

I enjoy those things too.

But I wonder if we sometimes overlook another pleasure.

The pleasure of still having something to offer.

Not because we have to.

Not because anyone owes us recognition for it.

But because it feels good to know that something we’ve learned, something we can do, or even a little bit of our time can still be useful to somebody else.

That may be one of the quieter pleasures of growing older.

You don’t have to run the show anymore.

You don’t have to have all the answers.

You don’t even have to be particularly important.

You can just be useful.

And some days, that may be more than enough.

Pull up a chair anytime.

I’m still learning.

____

Thank you for reading.

75+ | Still learning. Still grateful.

Not the things in the garage, although I have too many of those too.

I mean the other things.

Old expectations.

Old disappointments.

Old arguments.

Things we thought we were supposed to accomplish.

Things we once wanted that don’t seem quite as important anymore.

Maybe even old versions of ourselves.

I’ve spent much of my life thinking about what comes next.

The next business goal.

The next project.

The next thing to learn.

The next place to go.

And I still like looking forward.

Maybe more than ever.

But I’m beginning to understand that looking forward sometimes requires leaving a few things behind.

We can’t and shouldn’t carry everything with us.

At seventy-five, things that mattered a great deal to me twenty or thirty years ago don’t seem nearly as important today.

I don’t need to win every argument.

I don’t need everyone to agree with me.

I don’t need to prove that I know what I’m doing.

I don’t need to finish every project I’ve ever started because I started it.

And I don’t need to keep chasing goals that belonged to a younger version of me.

That doesn’t mean those goals were wrong.

They belonged to that season of life.

Building a business mattered to me.

Providing for my family mattered.

Achievement mattered.

Being recognized for doing good work mattered.

I’m glad I cared about those things.

But life changes.

And maybe wisdom isn’t just learning what matters.

Part of wisdom is recognizing what doesn’t matter quite as much anymore.

That’s harder than it sounds.

We become attached to our old ambitions.

Our old habits.

Our old opinions.

Sometimes even our old disappointments.

We carry them around so long that we forget we’re carrying them.

I’ve held onto some things because I’ve always held onto them.

But these days, I’m becoming more selective.

I’d rather spend my time learning something than proving something.

I’d rather enjoy nine holes of golf with friends than worry too much about the score.

I’d rather struggle with a banjo song I enjoy than practice something because I think I should.

I’d rather read a good book than worry about whether I’m being productive.

I’d rather have a good ordinary day than spend it chasing something that no longer matters to me.

Maybe that’s one of the quieter opportunities of getting older.

We get to decide again.

What is still worth carrying?

And what can we finally put down?

There are things I don’t want to leave behind.

Curiosity.

Family.

Friendships.

Faith.

Learning.

A sense of humor.

Something to look forward to.

Those still deserve room in the suitcase.

But making room for them means taking something else out.

An old resentment.

A goal that no longer fits.

The need to impress somebody.

The belief that every hour needs to be productive.

The idea that changing our mind somehow means we were wrong before.

We don’t need to drag all of yesterday into tomorrow.

We can be grateful for where we’ve been without needing to live there.

We can appreciate the person we used to be without requiring ourselves to remain that person.

And we can leave a few things sitting beside the road.

I’m becoming more comfortable doing that.

There’s still plenty I want to carry forward.

But some things are worth leaving behind.

And the road ahead may feel a little lighter because we did.

___

Thank you for reading.

75+ | Still learning. Still grateful.

Most days aren’t birthdays.

They aren’t anniversaries, vacations, graduations, or holidays.

Most days are just Tuesday.

Or Wednesday.

You get up.

Have your coffee.

Read something.

Do a little work.

Take care of a few things around the house.

Maybe go for a walk.

Talk to someone you care about.

Later practice something you’re trying to learn.

Have dinner.

Watch a little television.

Go to bed.

Nothing particularly memorable happened.

And I’ve started thinking that’s what a good life mostly looks like.

Good ordinary days.

When I was younger, I thought about life more in terms of milestones.

Graduating from college.

Getting married.

Building a career.

Buying a business.

Raising a family.

Selling the business.

Retiring.

Those are the things that tend to become chapter titles when we tell the story of our lives.

But we don’t spend most of our time there.

We live our lives in all the days between them.

I’m seventy-five now, and an ordinary day can look pretty good to me.

Coffee in the morning.

Time to read and write.

Trying to remember a few more words in Spanish.

Playing golf with friends.

Practicing the banjo in the evening and hearing a song I’ve been struggling with sound just a little better than it did last month.

I’ve been working on The Entertainer for quite a while. I’m still learning it, but here’s where I am today.

Dinner with Sally.

Sitting down at the end of the day.

Nothing on that list would make much of a headline.

Put enough days like that together, and that sounds like a pretty good life to me.

That’s one of the things age has helped me notice.

I used to think the memorable days were the important ones.

Now I’m not so sure.

The ordinary days may be doing most of the work.

They’re where relationships are built.

They’re where we learn things.

They’re where we develop habits.

They’re where we laugh.

They’re where we have conversations that don’t seem important until years later.

They’re where life actually happens.

Of course, not every ordinary day is a good one.

Some are frustrating.

Some are lonely.

Some bring bad news.

Some just don’t go particularly well.

That’s part of life, too.

But perhaps a good life doesn’t require every day to be extraordinary.

It requires enough ordinary days when we can look around and quietly think:

This is pretty good.

There are plenty of things I still want to do.

Things I want to learn.

Places I’d like to go.

People I want to spend time with.

Things I’d like to write.

Songs I’d still like to learn on the banjo.

I like having things to look forward to.

But I don’t want to get so caught up in what’s coming next that I miss what’s already here.

A cup of coffee.

A book.

A conversation.

Nine holes of golf.

A banjo sitting nearby waiting to be played.

An evening at home with someone you’ve loved for a long time.

Maybe those aren’t the spaces between the important parts of life.

Those are the important parts.

A good life is mostly just a whole lot of good ordinary days.

That’s something worth noticing while we’re still living them.

___

Thank you for reading.

75+ | Still learning. Still grateful.

Having something to look forward to.

I don’t think it has to be anything big.

In fact, the older I get, the more I appreciate having small things out there in front of me.

A round of golf when the Texas heat finally lets up.

A song I’m trying to learn on the banjo.

A book waiting on the desk.

Dinner with family.

A trip that may still be months away. (A cruise early next year.)

Even a Wednesday morning when I know I’ll sit down with a cup of coffee and write.

There is something enjoyable about knowing something good is coming.

And I’ve begun to think that sometimes looking forward is half the fun.

We spend a lot of our younger years looking forward to big milestones.

Graduation.

A new job.

Getting married.

Buying a house.

Raising a family.

Building a career.

Retirement.

Those are important things.

But eventually, many of the big milestones are behind us.

That doesn’t mean there shouldn’t still be things ahead of us.

Maybe we simply need to get better at noticing them.

I’ve Started a “Looking Forward List”

Most of us have spent a lifetime making lists.

Things to do.

People to call.

Bills to pay.

Jobs around the house.

Appointments to keep.

I still make those lists.

But I think we need another kind of list.

A Looking Forward List.

Not a bucket list.

A bucket list always sounds a little too serious to me.

I’m thinking about something simpler.

Just a list of things I’m looking forward to over the next few days, weeks, months, and maybe years.

Mine might include:

Getting back to playing golf twice a week when the weather cools down.

Finally playing a banjo song a little better than I can play it today. I am on YouTube.

Reading another good book.

Getting together with our family.

Seeing what happens with my writing over the next year.

Learning enough Spanish that a conversation feels natural.

Taking a trip with my wife.

And finding out what else might show up that I don’t even know to look forward to yet.

That last one may be my favorite.

Anticipation Is Part of the Experience

I see something about things I’m looking forward to.

I enjoy them before they ever happen.

If we’re planning a trip, I enjoy talking about where we’ll go.

If I’m learning a song, I can imagine the day when my fingers finally know where to go without so much help from me.

With cooler weather, I can picture my golf buddies and me back on the course, probably complaining about our golf games and enjoying ourselves anyway.

The event may last a few hours.

The anticipation can last for weeks.

That’s a pretty good return.

We Still Need Things Out in Front of Us

Maybe that’s the bigger point.

I don’t want my life to become entirely about things that have already happened.

I’ve had an interesting life.

There are plenty of memories worth revisiting.

But I don’t want to spend all my time looking backward.

I still want something out in front of me.

Something to learn.

Something to try.

Someone to see.

Someplace to go.

Something that makes me think:

I’m looking forward to that.

Those things don’t have to impress anybody.

They don’t have to be accomplishments.

They don’t even have to make much sense to anyone else.

They just need to give us a little reason to look toward tomorrow with interest.

So maybe sometime today, instead of making another to-do list, make a different one.

Write down three things you’re looking forward to.

One can be tomorrow.

One can be next month.

One can be somewhere farther down the road.

Then leave a little room at the bottom.

Because one of the nicest things about life is that there may still be something coming that we haven’t even thought of yet.

And sometimes, looking forward to it really is half the fun.

What’s one thing you’re looking forward to right now?

___

Thank you for reading.

75+ | Still learning. Still grateful.

I like the fact that I’m still curious about things.

At seventy-five, there are plenty of things I know more about than I did when I was younger.

But there are also plenty of things I still don’t understand.

And I think that’s a good thing.

I’m still curious about how to play the banjo a little better.

I’m curious about whether I can become comfortable enough with Spanish to actually have a conversation without translating every sentence first.

I’m curious about new technology.

I’m curious about history.

I’m curious about why some things I write seem to connect with people while others quietly disappear.

And I’ve become increasingly curious about what it means to keep growing as we get older.

Not growing in the way I thought about it when I was forty.

Back then, growth often meant getting somewhere.

Building a business.

Making more money.

Achieving another goal.

Moving on to the next thing.

Curiosity had a purpose.

I wanted to learn something because I thought it might help me accomplish something else.

These days, curiosity feels different.

Sometimes I want to learn something simply because I want to know.

There doesn’t have to be a payoff.

Nobody is going to give me a promotion because I learn another Spanish phrase.

Nobody cares whether I finally get a difficult banjo passage exactly right. Unless I try to play it in public.

There won’t be a test on the book I’m reading.

But I still enjoy learning.

Maybe that’s one of the nice things about this stage of life.

We finally have permission to be curious without needing to turn our curiosity into an accomplishment.

We can learn because learning is interesting.

We can read because we wonder what happened.

We can practice because we want to see if we can get a little better.

We can ask questions without worrying about whether we should already know the answers.

Curiosity also gives me something to look forward to.

There’s always another song.

Another book.

Another idea.

Another question.

Another conversation.

I don’t think we have to become experts at everything that interests us.

I’m becoming comfortable being a beginner.

Maybe curiosity is simply a way of saying:

I’m not finished yet.

There are still things I want to understand.

Still things I want to try.

Still things that surprise me.

And still things that make me wonder, What would happen if I learned a little more about that?

That seems like a pretty good way to grow older.

So, the question for this week isn’t what to accomplish next.

It’s simpler than that.

What are you still curious about?

Pull up a chair and think about it for a while.

I suspect there’s still something out there you’d enjoy knowing a little more about.

___

Thank you for reading.

75+ | Still learning. Still grateful.

I want things to look forward to.

Not necessarily big things.

In fact, as I age, I’m less convinced that the biggest things are always the best things.

I look forward to getting better at the banjo.

I look forward to the next good book.

I look forward to learning enough Spanish to have conversations that don’t require quite so much thinking.

I look forward to time with my family.

I look forward to writing something that makes somebody stop for a minute and think.

And, yes, I still look forward to seeing what the next ten years might hold.

That’s a little different from how I thought about the future when I was younger.

Back then, looking forward usually meant achieving something.

The next promotion.

The next business goal.

The next milestone.

There was always another hill to climb.

I don’t regret that. Ambition served me pretty well.

But today, I’m discovering another way to look ahead.

Instead of asking only,

“What can I accomplish?”

I’m becoming more interested in asking,

“What kind of life do I want to keep living?”

That’s a different question.

It leaves room for getting better at something because I enjoy it.

It leaves room for reading a book without needing to do anything with what I learned; however, I do plan a varied reading schedule.

It leaves room for being with my wife.

It leaves room for music, friends, family, faith, curiosity, and ordinary Tuesday afternoons.

Maybe that’s one of the gifts of getting older.

We finally begin to understand that a good future doesn’t have to be spectacular.

It just needs to contain things that make us glad we’re going to be there.

I’ve been thinking about ten years from now lately.

I don’t know what those years will bring. None of us do.

But I do know something about the life I’d like to be living.

I’d like to still be curious.

I’d like to still be learning.

I’d like to still be playing music, even if I’m still trying to get some of the same songs right.

I’d like to still be writing.

I’d like to still have people I enjoy sitting down with.

And I’d like to wake up in the morning with something, however small, that I’m looking forward to.

Maybe that’s worth paying attention to now.

Because the life we’ll enjoy ten years from now may not be something we suddenly discover when we get there.

We’re building it today.

One book.

One more day of faith.

One friendship.

One practice session.

One conversation.

One ordinary day at a time.

So here’s the question I’m carrying with me this week:

What am I putting into my life today that I’ll still be glad is there ten years from now?

Maybe that’s a pretty good question for the front porch.

____

Keep learning, keep growing, and keep paying attention to the things that still matter.

Still learning. Still grateful.

— Randy

Unfinished Things: I suspect most of us have a few.

A book we meant to read.

A place we always wanted to visit.

Something we wanted to learn.

A project we started with enthusiasm and quietly put aside.

Some of those things probably ought to stay unfinished.

I’ve reached an age where I don’t feel much need to finish something simply because I once started it.

But there are other things that are different.

They keep calling us back.

For me, one of those things has been the banjo.

Years ago, when I was still fairly new to playing, a teacher gave me The Entertainer to learn.

It was too difficult for me at the time.

I worked on it, struggled with it, and eventually put it aside.

But I never quite forgot about it.

Years passed.

I played the banjo off and on. Life got busy. Business, family and all the ordinary responsibilities of life took their turns being more important.

The song waited.

Then, much later, I came back to it.

What surprised me was that the song hadn’t changed.

I had.

I had more patience.

More experience.

And maybe a little less need to prove that I could learn it quickly.

This year, I have learned to play the whole song.

I wonder how many things in our lives are like that.

We think we failed because something took longer than we expected.

Maybe we didn’t fail.

Maybe we simply weren’t ready yet.

There's another side to this, too.

Not everything deserves another try.

Time becomes more valuable as we get older, and I’ve become much more willing to let go of things that no longer matter to me.

I don’t want a long list of unfinished projects hanging over my head.

But I do want to pay attention to the few things that keep returning to my thoughts.

Perhaps that’s the difference.

Some unfinished things make us feel guilty.

Others make us curious.

Those are the ones I’m learning to notice.

Maybe there is something you once wanted to do that still occasionally taps you on the shoulder.

Learn an instrument.

Write something.

Take a trip.

Reconnect with someone.

Finish something you started years ago.

You don’t necessarily need to put it on a goal list today.

Just ask yourself one question:

Does this still matter to me?

If the answer is no, perhaps you can finally give yourself permission to let it go.

But if the answer is yes, don’t be too quick to decide that its time has passed.

Some things worth doing take longer than we planned.

And sometimes the person who finally finishes them isn’t the person who started them.

It’s the person we became along the way.

One Porch Question

What is one unfinished thing that keeps calling you back?

I’d like to hear about it.

Keep learning, keep growing, and keep paying attention to the things that still matter.

Still learning. Still grateful.

— Randy

This week I was sitting on the porch with my morning coffee, thinking about how easy it is to believe we’re standing still.

Playing the banjo, for instance.

Some days it feels like I’m not improving much at all.

I picked up my reading journal.

Another book finished.

Nothing dramatic.

Just another title added to a list that began years ago.

Then I stopped for a moment.

I’ve read almost four hundred books.

I don’t remember reading book number 100.

Or 200.

There wasn’t some big celebration when I reached 300.

I kept reading.

Not because I was trying to become someone impressive.

I enjoy reading, learning, and discovering something I didn’t know before.

The same thing has happened with my banjo.

With writing.

With Spanish.

With Faith formation.

None of them changed overnight.

Most days felt ordinary.

But ordinary days have a way of adding up.

Progress rarely announces itself.

It doesn’t knock on the door and tell us we’ve gotten better.

Most of the time, we have to stop long enough to notice it.

We tend to judge ourselves by what happened today.

But maybe progress is better measured in months and years.

Porch Questions

What have you quietly become better at this year?

What habit has become easier?

What challenge doesn’t intimidate you the way it once did?

Tomorrow morning I’ll be here on the porch again with another cup of coffee.

I’ll probably think I still have a long way to go.

And that’s true.

But I’m also beginning to remember to look behind me once in a while.

Sometimes the best evidence that we’re growing isn’t found in what still needs work.

It’s found in realizing we’re no longer the person we were six months ago.

As you think about this year, what’s one small improvement you’ve made that almost slipped by unnoticed?

I’d like to hear about it.

____

Thank you for reading.

75+ | Still learning. Still grateful.

One morning I glanced around my office before the day got started.

My notebook was open on the desk.

A Spanish lesson waited on my computer.

My banjo was leaning against the chair where I’d left it after practicing the night before.

It made me smile.

At seventy-five, I’ve somehow become a beginner all over again.

Not just once.

Over and over.

I’m still learning Spanish.

I’m still trying to play the banjo a little better.

I’m still figuring out new technology that seems to change every month.

I’m still learning how to become a better writer.

Some people might look at that list and think it sounds exhausting.

To me, it feels refreshing.

When I was younger, I thought learning was mostly about arriving at a destination.

Learn enough to get the job.

Learn enough to earn the promotion.

Learn enough to solve the problem.

Along the way, learning quietly became something different.

It stopped being about proving what I knew.

It proved a reminder that I could still grow.

Several Months ago, I started working again on a banjo rendition of a song: The Entertainer by Scot Joplin.

Many years ago, a teacher gave me the music long before I was ready.

I struggled through it measure by measure and eventually put it away.

After years of practicing other songs and building better fundamentals, I pulled it back out.

This time it was different.

The notes hadn’t changed.

I had.

Today I can play the entire piece.

I’m still polishing it.

There are still rough spots.

But every time I play it, I’m reminded that progress often happens so slowly we don’t notice it until we look back.

The song isn’t the greatest reward.

The reminder is.

Even after seventy, I can still improve.

That’s one of the unexpected gifts of being a beginner.

It keeps curiosity active.

It instills patience.

It reminds us that mistakes are part of learning instead of something to avoid.

Most of all, it gives us something to look forward to tomorrow.

I’ve noticed something else also.

The older I become, the less interested I am in proving what I already know.

I’m much more interested in discovering what I don’t know yet.

That feels like a wonderful kind of freedom.

Maybe becoming a beginner for you doesn’t involve music.

Maybe it’s gardening.

Photography.

Walking every morning.

Reading history.

Studying Scripture.

Learning the names of birds that visit your backyard.

Or simply learning more about your grandchildren and the world they’re growing up in.

The subject almost doesn’t matter.

Staying teachable and learning does.

Tomorrow morning I’ll probably be back on this porch with another cup of coffee.

My notebook will be open.

The banjo will be nearby.

There will still be something I can’t do as well as I’d like.

And somehow, that’s become one of my best parts of the day.

I hope that never changes.

Porch Question?

I’d like to hear from you.

What would you still like to learn before the end of this year?

Next Wednesday on the porch...

Still learning. Still grateful.

Pull up a chair.

The coffee’s hot, the porch is quiet, and I’ve been thinking about something this week.

The other morning I opened my reading journal to record another finished book.

There wasn’t anything especially remarkable about it. I’ve been keeping track of the books I’ve read for years, and adding one more title felt like another small entry on another ordinary day.

Before closing the journal, though, I found myself flipping back through the pages.

Book after book.

Author after author.

One idea quietly leading to another.

It struck me that none of those books had changed my life overnight. I couldn’t point to one dramatic moment when everything suddenly became different.

Instead, each one had added something—a new perspective, a better question, or another way of looking at life.

If someone had asked me the day before whether I’d made much progress lately, I probably would have shrugged and said, “Not really.”

Yet the evidence was sitting right there in front of me.

Progress had been happening all along.

It simply hadn’t been loud enough for me to notice.

Sitting there, I couldn’t help wondering how often that happens in the rest of life.

Maybe you’ve become a little more patient.

Maybe one relationship has grown a little stronger.

Maybe your prayers have become a little more consistent.

None of those things make headlines.

But they may be the changes that matter most.

As I get older, the more I’m beginning to appreciate steady progress over dramatic change.

One page read.

One conversation.

One prayer.

One quiet day of becoming just a little better than yesterday.

Maybe we aren’t standing still as much as we think.

Maybe we’re simply growing too slowly to notice.

And maybe that’s exactly how lasting growth is supposed to happen.

Before we leave the porch today, let me ask you one question.

What’s one small improvement you’ve noticed in your own life lately?

____

I’d like hearing about it in the comments.

Thanks for spending a few minutes with me on the porch today.

Until next Wednesday.

Still learning. Still grateful.

— Randy

Sunday, I opened my reading journal to record another finished book.

There wasn’t anything particularly special about it. I’ve been keeping track of the books I’ve read for years, and adding one more title felt like another small entry on another ordinary day.

But before I closed the journal, I found myself flipping back through the pages.

Book after book.

Author after author.

One idea leading quietly to another.

It struck me that none of those books had changed my life overnight. I couldn’t point to one dramatic moment when everything suddenly became different.

Instead, each one had added something, a new perspective, a better question, a different way of seeing the world.

If someone had asked me the day before whether I’d made much progress lately, I probably would have shrugged and said, “Not really.”

The evidence was sitting right there in front of me.

Progress had been happening all along.

It hasn’t been loud enough for me to notice.

That made me wonder how often the same thing happens in the rest of life.

Maybe you’ve been walking a little farther than you could a few months ago.

Maybe you’ve become a little more patient with someone you love.

Maybe your prayers have become a little more consistent.

Those aren’t the kinds of things that make headlines.

But they’re often the things that change us the most.

The older I get, the more I’m beginning to appreciate steady progress over dramatic change.

One page.

One walk.

One conversation.

One prayer.

One banjo tune practiced a little better than yesterday.

None of those moments seem very important by themselves. But repeated often enough, they quietly become a different kind of life.

Maybe we aren’t standing still as much as we think.

Maybe we’re simply growing too slowly to notice.

And maybe that’s exactly how lasting growth is supposed to happen.

So, before we leave the porch today, let me ask one question.

What’s one small improvement you’ve noticed in your own life lately?

It doesn’t have to be impressive.

In fact, the smallest victories are often the ones most worth celebrating.

Thanks for spending a few minutes with me on the porch today.

See you next Wednesday...

Still learning. Still grateful.

— Randy Fry

If you’ve joined me recently, welcome.

Whether you’re subscriber number 10 or number 156, I’m grateful you’re here.

For the past few years, I’ve been writing about growing older with purpose, learning new things, building a business, playing the banjo, reading good books, and trying to live my faith one ordinary day at a time.

At first, I thought I was simply writing articles.

I’ve come to realize I’m really building conversations.

That’s why I’m calling this series Front Porch Conversations.

Growing up, front porches were where people slowed down. Neighbors stopped by. Stories were shared. Advice was offered. Sometimes you talked about important things. Sometimes you simply enjoyed being together.

Life seems to move faster now, but I still believe we need places where thoughtful conversations can happen.

Interestingly, we live in a 55+ community and as I travel the neighborhoods I see more and more front porches built and neighbors ready to say hello.

I hope this article series becomes one of those places.

What You’ll Find

I’m not trying to convince anyone that retirement should look a certain way.

I’m simply sharing what I’m discovering along the way.

You’ll read about:

• Growing older without stopping growing.

• Faith, gratitude, stewardship, and purpose.

• The books that challenge my thinking.

• Lessons from learning the banjo after 60.

• Building small businesses and helping others succeed.

• Ordinary moments that often become life’s best teachers.

Some weeks I’ll offer practical ideas.

Other weeks I’ll simply share something I’ve been thinking about while drinking coffee, reading a book, or practicing a tune.

What I’m Learning

One lesson has become clearer with every passing year.

The people who inspire me most aren’t necessarily the smartest or the most accomplished.

They’re the ones who remain curious.

They still ask questions.

They still laugh.

They still believe tomorrow holds something worth learning.

That’s the kind of person I hope to be.

Where We’re Going

Over the coming months, you’ll see several themes woven throughout these conversations.

I’m developing a project called Book of Life, helping families organize the stories, values, and practical information they want to leave behind.

You’ll also find reflections on lifelong learning, stewardship, books worth reading, music, faith, and the quiet joy of continuing to grow.

My hope is simple.

That each article leaves people encouraged.

That each conversation reminds you it’s never too late to learn something new.

And that together we prove growing older doesn’t mean growing smaller.

Thank You

If you’ve taken the time to read, comment, or simply subscribe, thank you.

You have encouraged me more than you probably realize.

Writing has become one of the unexpected gifts of this season of life, and it’s even more meaningful knowing there are people on the other side of the screen.

So, pull up a chair.

Pour yourself a cup of coffee.

We’ll talk about life, learning, faith, books, music, and whatever else helps us continue growing.

After all, I believe our best conversations may still be ahead of us.

Until next time…

Keep learning. Keep growing. Keep encouraging others.

When I was younger, learning usually came with expectations.

Teachers assigned the reading.

Employers required the training.

Customers brought me problems that forced me to learn something new.

I bought a company and had to learn how to run it.

For most of my life, learning had a purpose beyond learning itself. It helped me earn a living, solve problems, and build a career.

Then retirement quietly changed everything.

I soon realized that no one was assigning the homework anymore.

No reading lists.

No training classes.

No deadlines.

No performance reviews.

For a while, that kind of freedom felt a little strange.

But it also felt really good.

I discovered something unexpected.

Retirement gave me the opportunity to become the kind of learner I had never been before.

Learning Became Personal

When we’re young, much of our education is chosen for us.

Someone else decides what we should study, when we should study it, and how we’ll be measured.

There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s how we build a foundation.

But later in life, something changes.

We finally get to decide what captures our curiosity.

Nobody asked me to learn the banjo.

Nobody expected me to write hundreds of articles.

Nobody required me to keep reading year after year.

Nobody suggested I learn a little Spanish just because it sounded interesting.

Those weren’t assignments.

They were invitations and curiosity from myself.

Curiosity is often a better teacher than obligation.

I’m Not Preparing for a Career Anymore

For many years, learning helped me become a better engineer, manager, business owner, and leader.

Today, my reasons are different.

I’m not studying for another promotion.

I’m learning because I want to understand the world a little better.

I’m learning because every good book stretches my thinking.

I’m learning because every new song reminds me that improvement is still possible.

I’m learning because writing helps me organize what life has taught me and, hopefully, encourage someone else along the way.

Learning has become less about achievement and more about becoming.

Curiosity Keeps Tomorrow Interesting

One gift of lifelong learning is that it gives us something to look forward to.

There’s another chapter waiting to be read.

Another song to practice.

Another question worth exploring.

Another article waiting to be written.

I’ve noticed that the people who seem youngest in spirit aren’t always the healthiest or the busiest.

They’re the ones who are still interested in life.

They still ask questions.

They still wonder.

They still believe tomorrow might teach them something they don’t know today.

I want to never lose that.

A Different Kind of Education

At seventy-five,

I don’t need another diploma.

I don’t need another résumé.

I don’t need another promotion.

But I want to never stop being a student.

Every book reminds me there’s still more to discover.

Every practice session reminds me I can still improve.

Every article reminds me I still have something worth sharing.

Retirement didn’t end my education.

In many ways, it finally gave me the freedom to choose it.

And I think that’s one of the greatest gifts growing older has given me.

____

Thank you for reading.

I believe growth doesn’t retire when we do.

70+ | Still learning. Still grateful.

As I’ve grown older, I have noticed that some people don’t necessarily stop living when they age.

Sometimes they simply stop looking forward.

It’s usually not dramatic.

There’s no single event that marks the moment.

One day there are plans, projects, and ideas.

Then, almost without noticing, the calendar becomes mostly about appointments, errands, and routines.

The future begins to shrink.

And when that happens, something important begins to fade.

I believe that the real danger isn’t getting older.

It’s losing your sense of tomorrow.

Looking Forward Creates Energy

The future is never guaranteed.

I’ve lived long enough to know that.

But having something to anticipate changes the way we experience today.

It gives us a reason to get out of bed with purpose.

It keeps our minds engaged.

It reminds us that life is still unfolding.

The anticipation itself creates energy.

Small Futures Matter

The future doesn’t have to be built around major life changes.

Sometimes it’s surprisingly ordinary.

A round of golf next week.

A visit from a grandchild.

Learning one more verse of a new song.

Starting another good book.

Writing the next article.

Planning a short trip.

Trying a new recipe.

Beginning a simple project you’ve been thinking about.

These small futures quietly pull us forward.

What I’m Looking Forward To

As I finish another quarter of writing, I realize I still have plenty that excites me.

I’m looking forward to growing with this community of older learners.

I’m building new resources that make lifelong learning easier for people our age.

I’m learning new songs with our band and continuing to improve my banjo playing.

I’m looking forward to seeing family, reading more good books, and discovering ideas I haven’t even stumbled across yet.

Most of all, I’m looking forward to continuing to learn.

Not because I have to.

Because I still want to.

That desire has become one of the greatest gifts of this season of life.

A Lesson I’ve Learned After 70

I’ve learned something I wish someone had told me years ago.

The size of your future matters far less than the fact that you still have one.

As long as there’s something ahead that sparks your curiosity:

a book to read,

a song to practice,

someone to encourage,

a place to visit,

or a story to write

life keeps moving forward.

That’s why I keep learning.

Keep building.

Keep planning.

Keep looking ahead.

Because I’m not finished becoming yet.

____

As we close another quarter together, thank you for reading, encouraging me, and growing alongside me.

Here’s to whatever we’re all looking forward to next.

70+ | Still learning. Still grateful.

Good afternoon.

I’ve noticed something this summer that I don’t remember seeing quite as much in recent years.

More American flags.

They’re on front porches, in flower beds, outside small businesses, and along neighborhood streets. Every morning when I head out for a walk or a round of golf, I seem to notice another one.

Perhaps it’s because we’re celebrating 250 years as a nation.

Or perhaps I’ve simply reached an age where I pay more attention to ordinary things.

Either way, the sight of a flag has caused me to pause.

At 75, I don’t see it quite the way I did when I was younger.

I don’t first think about politics.

I think about generations.

I think about my parents.

I think about my grandchildren.

I think about all the ordinary people who quietly built lives, raised families, served their communities, started businesses, taught children, volunteered at churches, and tried to leave things a little better than they found them.

Most of them will never be remembered in history books.

But without them, there wouldn’t be much history worth remembering.

The older I get, the more I believe that stewardship matters.

Whether it’s our faith, our family, our neighborhood, or our country, we’re only caretakers for a little while.

We inherit what others built.

Then, little by little, we add our own chapter before handing it to someone else.

I probably won’t change the entire country.

Neither will most of us.

But I can encourage someone.

I can continue learning.

I can treat people with kindness.

I can share what experience has taught me.

I can be a good neighbor.

Those things matter more than they sometimes seem.

As Independence Day approaches, I’m grateful to live in a country where each generation has the opportunity to contribute something worthwhile.

My hope is simple.

When my grandchildren look back years from now, I hope they’ll be able to say that I tried to leave my little corner of America a little better than I found it.

That feels like a worthy goal.

Thank you for reading.

And wherever you are this week, I hope you find something worth being grateful for.

— Randy

Still learning. Still grateful

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