30, 40, 50

I was 31 when we bought our first house.  We did a lot of gardening and improvements, as the previous owners hadn't done much.  My triumphs were a linen closet in an empty space over the stairs, a wine cellar, and replacing the blower for the A.C. unit all by my lonesome.  My lovely bride was impressed that I could go to the electric supply store, bring home what to her looked like some J. Random piece of machinery, and get the house all cooled off.  It's not often I can impress her, so the memory is sweet.

I was 40 when I terraced the yard in our first house in Georgia with dry stacked stone set by my hands.  I added a pond with a waterfall.  It was quite striking and once again I found my lovely bride impressed with what I could build with my hands.

But it took longer than it would have, had I done it a decade before.

Now, in my early 50s, I find that I can do this:

 

Once again, I am impressed with what I can build with the sweat of my brow, a little smarts and planning, and my two hands*.  But boy, howdy, I'm getting old for this.  Now I understand why the military doesn't let guys my age enlist.  I may have marksmanship skills better than some of the young pups they find these days, but I just can't keep up.  I'd be a menace to the unit.  Oh, bother.

* Alas, this pond doesn't have a Queen Amidala's torture chamber.  Of course, the kids are going to college now, and have better things to do with their time (and my construction materials).