I feel a little like a father watching his kid grow up. When I met Ian five or six years ago, he was shy, uncertain, and unhappy.

None of those things are true now.

He is our shearer, one of my closest friends, and now, my weekly chess partner. Of course, I used to beat him regularly; he’s destroyed me in the last three games. I keep explaining that older men rarely beat young men at chess, but he keeps laughing at me. We will play next Tuesday; I’m a glutton for punishment.

Ian has blossomed, to say the least. He is smart and knows it; he’s even learning to write code.

A poet in a poet group, he’s played his guitar in a local brewery, and he’s thinking—quite confidently—about his plans for the future. For now, he’s working for a slate roofing company. He is fit and strong, strong enough to wrestle a sheep to the ground. Ian is impressive in just about every way, and I am happy and blessed to have him as a friend.

Ian has realized his worth and is building his own life. He is a pleasure to talk to; we fight and laugh all the time. When one gets old, I see that young people usually stay away—they don’t like to dwell on the future. I told this to Ian, and he told me he doesn’t know that I am old; if so, he said I am the youngest old man he knows. I admit it feels good to hear that.

We smile every time we see each other. He and Maria have bonded together. She loves listening ot his poetry.

I relish the evenings when he comes over to talk. We are somehow in sync. I feel like I’ve known him for a long time. He had to stop shearing last night when it got too dark; he’s coming back next week to finish shearing three of our sheep and maybe clobber me in chess again. Maybe not.

Last night, he came wearing the Irish uniform for sheep shearing. He’s as strong as he looks.