"Depend upon it, sir, when a man knows he is to be hanged in a fortnight, it concentrates his mind wonderfully."

Milestone birthdays, some you dread, some you don't and some are well, very personal.

My fathers side of the family has been in this country a long time. Like salmon they left home when they were young then returned to the part of the country where they were born to raise their own families. It is this peculiar tendency that makes our family burial plot an interesting place. For one thing, it's getting a bit crowded, and for another, there is a mathematical anomaly that is on my mind quite a bit.

The number of years between birth and death all add up to the same number, 59.

There are a few exceptions, one uncle didn't make it past 35, but he was crushed by a train. Another is an empty grave with just a marker. He died in Andersonville prison during the Civil War, family lore holds that he was eaten by some of the other prisoners. The rest, well 59.

Mayflies.

Saturday is my 59th birthday. I intend on having a good year if it kills me.