52

Today is my fifty-second birthday. Technically, I'm not worth as much as a Corvette the same vintage as me, but it hardly matters.

I awoke to find the four-year-old nestled into the bed with his mother and me, thrashing and kicking like a butterfly trying to escape a chrysalis. The six-month-old was making her snorting noises in the co-sleeper. I'm not sure how my wife sleeps through this mayhem, but I hear her softly snoring in the background. I look across them and think that life could be a lot worse.

It's going to be a sunny day here in North Carolina. After I drop the four-year-old off at school, I'll fill up Smart Wife's diesel Rabbit, then head to Winston-Salem to share a couple cupcakes with my mom. A nice day for driving, although I'm going to have plenty of time behind the wheel this weekend as I head to a solo gig in Knoxville on Friday. That trek will be also occupied with listening to songs I'll be playing on bass at a gig on Saturday.

Halfway through the first pot of coffee, and it's cereal time. The first big decision of the day. I'm up to it. I'm middle-aged achy, stuffed up, cloaked in a bathrobe and slippers, shuffling around the house. Frosted mini-wheats never tasted so sweet.

I'm now older than many of my heroes in music when they died. I hope I outlive 'em all.

The second year into the Second Fifty Years is filled with hope and confidence and, presumably, more coffee.