Some consider 50 the mountaintop, as in the rest of the ride is straight downhill, and I work with enough young people to realize they view 50 as ancient. But I’m looking at it as just another stepping stone. I understand it’s monumental, hell even the Romans switched to an “L” when they saw just how many X’s, V’s and I’s 50 would require, but I consider it just a good time to recollect my life so far.

I remember sitting in the crowded assembly hall in Montreat just a few days before my eighth birthday, watching in wonder as images of man stepping on the moon were broadcast over what may have been the only television in town. My life didn’t change drastically, except the world “impossible” never carried as much weight.

I remember the tingling excitement of crossing the bridge into Bath — possibly the most serene place on earth — and the feeling of nothing but love in a grandparent’s squeeze.

I have the memory of seeing the most beautiful woman in the world smile at me against a backdrop of the roiling, white-capped, chocolate milk-colored thunder of the Colorado River rumbling through the sun-splashed walls of the Grand Canyon. And I got to hear her daughter, the most beautiful girl in the world, breathe softly as she slept cuddled in her baby blanket on my chest. I also got to see that little girl smile big and blubber up when she realized the little red car wrapped with the big bow was hers.

Top that.

I’ve seen my parents bask in the glee of grandparenting and, more recently, great grandparenting. And I’ve watched nieces and nephews, bundles I held as infants, bolt out on their own eager to challenge what life throws at them.

It hasn’t, by design, been all smiles.

For someone my age, I have been fortunate to experience only a few funerals where a part of me was buried — four grandparents and two in-laws — but the lessons of those losses linger. I remember seeing my dad, a grown man nearing retirement and inherently steeled against showing emotion, floored by the surprise of the inescapable, hollow realization that he had just become an orphan. I saw my mom, an only child, devastated like the rest of us by the death of the man who hung her moon and shattered to the core when her mom could fight no more. And I saw my wife, at a much-too-young age, hardened by the harshness of losing both parents.

But the salt of tears is a necessary ingredient in the recipe for life. And not all tears are borne from sadness. During my time as a substitute teacher, and with very clear memories of how I treated subs when I was a student, I simply tried to be nice to the kids. On my second day in a special needs class, one of the girls greeted me with a huge smile and a warm, giant hug. How do you not cry?

I watch nature more than I used to. I brake for squirrels and fully understand their desperate determination to get somewhere before pausing to iron out a sensible plan. I develop strong immediate ties to turtles halfway across busy highways. I want them to make it for their safety, but also as a sign that no matter how slow the progress and dangerous the journey, the end result is worth the struggle.

I appreciate my family and friends more than ever, and I’m blessed to be in a career where I get to meet new people, learn new things and tell new stories almost every day. I am — without doubt or question — a lucky man.

After 50 years, filled with memories and magic to last several lifetimes, I’m still excited to see what happens next.