It's been another year and it's time to admit that I am one year older than I was, at least officially.

My birthday was celebrated Sunday with family but was actually Saturday and it passed with little fanfare. I did have a combination birthday and Father's Day bash with my father at the family estate. Actually, the family doesn't own much more than a three-bedroom farm house with a few acres of land, but estate sounds much more interesting.

What is a birthday, really? Isn't it just another day? Sure, it was a special day to my parents umpteen years ago, the day I was born. But since that point, it has really lost most of its luster.

I know I don't feel any different on my birthday than I do, say, the day before my birthday or the day after. I don't even mind if no one remembers what day it is. I think my life would be no better or worse without the celebration.

Nonetheless, I found myself pondering on the truths of the ages last night in my darkened living room, thinking that maybe it is time to look at my life and see if I am going the right direction.

What really got me to thinking about all of that sort of stuff was a visitor from the past.

An old friend stopped in after an unexpected phone call and wished me a happy belated birthday. While he didn't know on which day I was born, he at least remembered that I was born in June.

Of course I couldn't say much since I couldn't reciprocate even if I tried. I think he was born in September, but that may very well be incorrect. I never remember anyone's birthday. I barely think about my own until it has arrived.

My mother used to say that I was self-absorbed, whatever that might mean. She usually said it right after I forgot someone's birthday, like hers. Even so, she still has yet to forget my birthday. Mothers are like that.

As for my old friend who visited, he brought over his two children, one boy of five years and one girl of four years. Looking at him reminds me how we've both aged. Plus, he is acting like a parent now. This was the most irresponsible person I had ever met growing up, now he's offering lessons to two youngsters. I think our parents thought the world would fall apart when we grew up and started being in charge of anything. I hope they were wrong, especially for the sake of the children.

He has put on several pounds and has experienced a great number of trials and tribulations since I saw him last. He is quite a bit calmer than he used to be, basically raising two children on his own for a few years. I can recall how he was always the life of the party in his heydays. He was one of those "devil may care" personality types, always game for whatever idea came along. He was always a good and faithful friend and an accomplished musician. I can still recall many nights of playing until the wee hours of the morning, learning a new song or just playing our favorites.

As we reminisced, I learned some harsh news. The first two mutual friends that I asked him about are now late old friends. We all used to gather about once a month in the late 1980s to play and sing. Some of the best music I've ever experienced was made on those occasions. I never took a camera with me to capture any of those evenings, I guess I thought we'd all live forever.

One fellow, the best banjo picker I ever met, died in his bed at the ripe old age of 47. No, I didn't type the letters backwards. He had a heart attack while his wife was visiting some of her family members and she came home and found him in a permanent sleep. I can remember going to his late mother's house and seeing him come in, a red-headed giant, with a banjo case under one arm and a 12-pack under the other.

He was a mechanic by trade and usually had grease under his fingernails and in the creases of his skin. When those nimble black nails danced across the strings, it was as if an invisible pencil was writing some unknown but beautiful language in the air. His music was his life.

I can see his ruddy face now, creased by a mirthful smile, calling out the cords to some old bluegrass song. He never lost patience, but would stop a song in a room sometimes containing as many as 10 musicians to help someone learn. He could hear a guitar that was slightly out of tune over nine other instruments.

Another friend also lost his life within the last couple years. When I first met him about 20 years ago or so, he weighed in at 500 pounds or so. We used to visit him and he would play guitar and sing with a soulful voice. At that time, he was confined to the house and seldom went outside. He later had surgery to have his stomach stapled and lost down to about 190 pounds or so. At that point, his life changed dramatically. He started being active, kept playing music and developed a social life. He remained fairly trim and fit for a number of years, often going to visit with the rest of us to play music. I can still hear his voice in my mind, singing a B side song that no one else knew. For all those years trapped inside, music was his escape. Near the end, he started gaining weight back after he lost his job. In the end, he was alone again, spending his evenings alone drowning his sorrows. He spent his final days in a low-income apartment, where he died an ignominious death from a heart attack at 37. I didn't even know where he lived or that he died.

I hardly ever play these days, but I plucked out a few songs on my old beat-up guitar as I thought about them. You know, I hadn't seen either man in a few years, but now that I know I can't, I feel a sense of grief. I'm not sure if I am grieving for them or my now-squandered youth. Even so, most of the great musicians I've known lived hard and died young.

It almost makes me glad that I never was that good.

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