It's too late to feel old

At a lunch meeting recently, I introduced myself to some new people. I mentioned that I used to work with a mutual friend when we were at DEC 20 years ago.

"What did they do?" asked one twenty-something web-developer type.

"They were a big deal," said another of the attendees, a gray-beard like me. "They made minicomputers. Most of the original UNIX development was done on DEC systems."

"They were, at their peak," I said, "the second-largest computer company after IBM." Hoping to bring a bit more geekiness to the discussion, I added, "They had 36-bit systems."

"Cool," said the young guy. Not as in admiration, but in the same way that I listened to my father talk about converting a Model A car into a small tractor.

I wasn't trying to impress anyone with where I'd worked. I was just stating facts. My street cred wasn't established until much later, when I mentioned that my grandkids call me when they need help with their computers.

Things and people and ideas go from urgent to irrelevant in the simple slip of time.  This is the way that the old become invisible.