A college friend owns a couple of homes in northeast Ohio, where we’re from. She also has been known to carry a pop-up tent in the back of her SUV as her nomadic job takes her around the country.

She now works in the wilds of Fargo, N.D. “I am feeling like just riding out the rest of my career here,” she wrote. “People are nice and have a sense of humor, too.”

But what about your property? Your Ohio roots? All of your connections?

“Just how many homes do I need? I just want peace and happiness,” she replied.

Suddenly, I knew — we’ve changed.

At 22, when we were sprung from the institution (Kent State University), all we saw ahead of us were riches and adventures. We’d acquire cool toys, stay out late, attend any concert we wanted and we’d never, ever slow down like the old people who raised us.

Forty-some years and four thousand-some aches, pains and bruises later, it occurs to me that I left Neverland decades ago. Peter Pan grew up. And his joints sound like a bowl of Rice Krispies every time he oofs off to bed at 10 p.m. I mean, 9. Oh, all right, 8 p.m., if you must know.

I no longer thrill from an itch to fight pirates, taunt crocodiles or frolic with mermaids in never-ending youth. Now I’m consumed by the allure of my easy chair, a good book (the current volume is a collection of Pogo comic strips from 1952 and 1953) and a mug of hot chocolate (with marshmallows). And maybe a purring cat nestled into the afghan on my lap.

Maybe not the cat. Our feline snuggles only with my wife. She meows at me to open doors and fill her food dish. The cat, I mean. My wife is more likely to bark. Terry can turn doorknobs herself and doesn’t always trust me to fill her dish.

The cat and my wife both want me to know that even if I retire, I’ll still have work to do — and I better hop to it. I’m not sure which one of them will hiss at me.

Since leaving school, I never did stumble over a treasure chest full of riches. And I discovered that not all exploits are the fun kind of exciting. Home ownership, with its mortgages and constant repairs, car breakdowns that cost almost as much as gasoline to repair, and hospital trips with their sickening mass of medical bills weren’t the intoxicating quests and accomplishments that I meant accumulate — every one of which could have greatly enhanced (or alleviated) by that missing treasure chest, wherever it is.

I realized that I crave every opportunity to stay home in front of the (electric) fireplace in the comfort and company of my sweet wife. (The cat is optional.) It seems that the old people who raised us were right.

“Are we (gasp) maturing?!” I wrote back to my college comrade.

“Noooo!” she screamed back from somewhere in North Dakota, where she’s busy hiding from further adventure.

“Sometimes it takes us way too long to figure out what peace and happiness truly means,” I replied.

“I couldn’t agree more,” she said.

Take it from us oldies, er, classics — ease the pace, stop collecting stuff, pet the kitty (or dog or cow or whatever fuzzy critter is handy), and don’t let the craziness of the season snuff your peace and happiness. Joy to the world, my friends.

I need a nap.

Settle in for a long winter’s nap with Cole at burtseyeview@tribtoday.com, the Burton W. Cole page on Facebook or at www.burtonwcole.com.