I was born on June 22, the second day of summer. It is also the birthday of Kris Kristofferson and Meryl Streep, both of whom, I’m told, I later resembled, although not at the same time.

Sixty is a big round number, seeming to mark, once and for all, the difference between middle age and the thing that comes after that. Who else turns 60 this year? Madonna, in August. Prince and Michael Jackson would have, too, if they’d made it.

As for me, I had always hoped I would arrive at this age with equal measures of joy and acceptance — grateful for what has mostly been a happy life, even if wistful that there are surely more days behind me now than ahead. I had imagined myself on this birthday sitting in an Adirondack chair, listening to all my intolerable 1970s music (Gentle Giant! The Mothers of Invention! Fairport Convention!) while my loved ones expressed their adoration, prog-rock notwithstanding.

Well, there was plenty of that last week. We had lobsters and corn and steamers on the deck here in Maine. My wife, Deedie, put some candles in a blueberry pie, and everyone sang their hearts out.