Shootin' it Straight - Seventeen

I am routinely reminded of my age and how far many of life’s landmarks are in the rearview. A remake of Don Henley’s "Boys of Summer" pulls me back to the original, which once made me feel like the sunshine would never end. The oldies stations must be badly mistaken, because they routinely play tracks that are surely no more than ten years old. The trucks I beat around in during my youth are now the throwback antiques of choice for cheeky TikTok videos. The lens we’re given to look back with always seems clearer than the glass we look into the future with.

Things looked pretty darn good at 17. That old square-body Chevy never needed more than a carburetor adjustment. Those Ale-8 bottles rolling under the pedals were just background noise. David’s voice, cursing through a Skoal-packed lip as you hung it in a curve, would never fade. The day’s task was never more than chucking a few hundred square bales, hitting the river, Bob’s bow range, then capping the night with quarter-mile passes at House’s.

Seventeen never thought past the weekend or a half a tank of gas. Number crunching wasn’t about investments, taxes, or bills. Numbers that mattered were 350 small-blocks, two-dollar packs, quarter-tanks of gas, and track two from Seeger’s Greatest Hits. Things looked pretty darn good at 17, barking the tires through the first three gears on a four-speed, with no regard for buying another set of rubber. Life didn’t have an expiration date, and everyone I loved was still kicking strong. That Carhartt chore jacket draped across shoulders played host to a double pack of DQ biscuits and a full Mt. Dew, with no regard for health. In my mind, I’d always be a trim 175, old enough to be free and dumb enough to believe we had life by the tail. Reckless, and then some. Life looked pretty good through the scope of 17.

I don’t bemoan getting older. I embrace it and still enjoy almost every day. I wouldn’t trade this life I know now for anything. That said, I do wish I’d savored a few more of those carefree years. Those latter teen years are memorable, the tightrope between adult problems and the immortal feeling of youth is a glorious place to reside. Sitting parked up a holler instead of third period when roll was called. An old buddy pulling on a Camel Red like it was life support, and tales of conquest being tossed around. Vinyl seats, crank windows, and not a concern in the world.

Life, indeed, looked pretty darn good at 17.