A while back, my wife and I were chatting with a female family member about the relentless passage of time. Nothing super deep or existential; just run-of-the-mill stuff like, “Can you believe how fast time flies?” and “The kids are getting so grown up.” As this loved one – who, it should be noted, is indeed in her early 40s – bemoaned the existence of crow's feet and laugh lines and a few strands of gray when she looked in the mirror, I couldn’t help but open my big mouth.

Marchant tyrell
Editor / Progressive Cattle

Because I am a veritable wellspring of grace, tact and insight into the female psyche, I blurted out something like, “Why would you feel bad about looking 40? You are 40.” It was honestly meant as a means of comfort, an assurance that there was absolutely nothing wrong with how she looked, that she was a beautiful woman. (In hindsight, I probably would have been better served saying, “There’s absolutely nothing wrong with how you look. You’re a beautiful woman.”) My would-be pep talk, however, had the, umm … reverse effect. Because this relative actually is a wellspring of grace and tact, I managed to escape unscathed, but it definitely got a little awkward for a minute.

My deficient social graces notwithstanding, I think the point I was trying to make in that instance is correct. They say age is just a number, and that’s certainly true to an extent. But age is also experience and wisdom and skills and stories. I’m as likely to give in to vanity as the next guy, but in my most rational, philosophical moments, I can confidently say that crow's feet and gray hairs are hard-earned and deserve to be worn as badges of honor. Birthdays should be celebrated with equivalent gusto, whether it’s your first, 16th or 94th. When you’re pinning up another free feedstore calendar (featuring the same Charlie Russell paintings as the old one) on the scale house wall, I hope your thoughts are the same.

I don’t know what your 2022 held. Maybe it was an unmitigated disaster – one heartbreaking, forehead-slapping train wreck after another. Drought and inflation and spring blizzards and scours and your daughter’s new craft-coffee-sipping, skinny-jeans-clad boyfriend, all stacked one right on top of the other.

Maybe it was 365 days of triumph after triumph: easy calving, a strong hay crop, record prices for your calves and a new son-in-law who isn’t afraid to get a little manure spattered on those stupid skinny jeans.

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My guess is that your year, like mine, was a healthy mix of victory and catastrophe. The needle probably wavered back and forth quite a bit, but I’m guessing your tank is more full than empty. Things rarely go as we plan them, but it seems like blessings seem to accrue with the passing years.

And who can say for sure what’s in store for 2023? Time’s inexorable march is assuredly not slowing down. But I hope that, as the sun sets on an old year and rises on a new one, faith and optimism are riding shotgun with you.

Happy New Year, and God bless.