Transition

So at this point I've got Jesus beat by six years.

Thirty-nine is thirteen times three, so I'm in for the good luck trifecta.

When I was a kid, before all this newfangled cable and satellite nonsense, we got five channels on our TV: the three networks, public television, and just one independent station. And that independent station was, yes, channel thirty nine. And that's me. Independent. Unmarried plus eccentric equals independent. See? My snooty colleagues aren't the only ones who can do that highfalutin' math thing.

1939 is the year World War Two started. Note to self: find a pretext to invade Poland.

It's also the greatest year in the history of the American film industry. The Best Picture nominees that year were Dark Victory, Goodbye, Mr. Chips, Love Affair, Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, Ninotchka, Of Mice and Men, Stagecoach, The Wizard of Oz, Wuthering Heights, and the winner was Gone with the Wind.

When the Israelites had been wandering in the wilderness for thirty nine years, they were almost to the promised land.

There are thirty-nine islands in the Cyclades archipelago in the Aegean sea. Only twenty-four are inhabited. Can't say if I've fully inhabited twenty-four years so far.

And, last but not least, this is the last birthday before the fortieth. I imagine that one will take some getting used to. This feels more like the last day of summer vacation. (Which, come to think of it, isn't that far off.)