This month, I turn 80, time to mount a decennial effort to pull things together for what could be a final run.

I was pleased to learn that the oak symbolizes one’s 80th year. Oak represents strength, wisdom, and endurance. At 80, strength is waning, endurance revered.

Wisdom? I’m astute enough to be content with myself, though, after I decided to proceed as a contented person, murmurings were heard in my conscience: “Who does he think he’s kidding?”

No one.

I’m just progressing, as before, “with the tides and seasons of my energies.” So why not choose, in this season of my life, to use the energy that remains to me to proceed contentedly?

There is support for this:

” … for I have learned, in whatever state I am,

therewith to be content.”

— Philippians 4:11

On previous decennial birthday anniversaries, I have engaged in moments of reflection, recognized that time was running along smartly, and acknowledged that all my tears, and all my piety and wit, could not lure it back to rectify a single screw-up.

I have also come to realize that I have assimilated the lessons and rectified as many past mistakes as I have the capacity to. Witness the preposition that remains unchanged at the end of the previous sentence.

Consequently, on this, my 80th birthday, I intend to be less reflective but more contented.

My son Jonathan lives in Chicago, and we will assemble there. My son Matthew will fly in from England. I will travel from Alpena.

I’ll spend my 80th birthday with my sons and tell them how much I love them, say to them how proud I am of them, and what a pleasure it was to raise them.

And what a wonderful gift it is to be with them this day.

If I effuse enough, I may elicit a compliment or two to the effect I was an OK dad, savor some memories supporting that proposition, enjoy a lazy, savory meal with a glass of wine followed by peaceful rest; later, receive a hug from my wife that’s held for a beat with a kiss at the end.

What more could I ask?

Nothing.

I will have sufficiently buttressed my contentment to face the terrestrial unknowns that remain for me.

With an attitude of contentment secure, I will need only to set a course.

For that, I contacted my friend, the Rev. Sanford Wright. Sanford is a retired Presbyterian minister; he’s 90 years old. I told him I needed help with some event planning; he agreed to assist.

He cautioned me that, though his father and an aunt had lived to be 90, neither had seen 91. So, he said, his assistance may only extend so far.

I told him I understood.

I was surprised when Sanford began with a question to no one in particular, “How did it go so fast?” he inquired of the space we were in.

He continued by declaring to that same expanse that mistakes abounded.

He went on to proclaim that, despite mistakes, one had to be comfortable “in their skin,” which included not “bowing down” to the myriad of changes that have occurred and that keep occurring.

Sanford was warming up running through basic material.

Then he spoke of revelations. They would come to him after various prompts: a literary reference, a news story, a life’s event, or a Bible passage — to name just a few of the sources for the disclosures that would cause him to exclaim: “Now, I understand.”

This, at 90.

He advised me to be open to those revelations should they come to me.

Sanford told me he takes time to tell people how important they are doing the work they do, seeking to impart a feeling of contentment even to those whose efforts are most humble. He admires Lester Holt’s sentiment at the end of each NBC News segment: “Take care of yourself and each other.”

He went on to say that the most essential things in life are family and friends, and in support of that, told this story:

Sanford and his wife, Anna, had moved to Florida after he retired, but they awoke one day and said to each other, “Let’s go home.” They rented a U-haul trailer.

Anna’s brother-in-law is an engineer; he supervised the trailer’s packing. As a result, they got all their possessions in either the trailer or their car. There was no room to spare in either — none.

On their way north, the trailer broke down. A replacement was delivered, to which the load had to be transferred.

As hard as Sanford and Anna tried, they could not duplicate the packing precision of an engineer; they were forced to leave several boxes of their things along the side of the road.

After they were home and unpacked, they couldn’t determine what was missing. Whatever it was, they were getting along just fine without it. Though they tried to remember what they had packed in the abandoned boxes, they never could.

Sanford still can’t.

He concluded with this event planning suggestion:

Yogi Berra and his wife had reached the age where she thought it best they make some “final arrangements.” Yogie agreed but wanted nothing to do with the preparations.

So she had to handle everything. In that process, she asked Yogi where he wanted to be buried.

“I don’t know.” he said, “When the time comes, surprise me.”

Words to live by.

Doug Pugh’s “Vignettes” runs monthly. He can be reached at pughda@gmail.com.