Pa Went A Little Nuts

Part 5 of 30 -- Psycho Squad

Live and learn. In this post you'll see one of my treasures, the pinnacle of counseling techniques, blue ribbon stuff, makes you wilt. It's not really a technique, just nature, shooting an arrow of realization into a troubled soul. Pa Butler's a good man, only confused for a bunch of reasons. Like old age, confusion, worries, truckers sleeping around, getting divorced, losing their reputation. The cops don't put a guy like that up against the wall. They know he means well.

The Butlers were lovely neighbors of my grandparents. They've known me since the day I was born, and over the years we got old together, them with a huge head start. They got into radio with the CB radio craze. And being close to the interstate they made a lot of trucker friends. That’s a joy but there's also a tragic side; those guys get old and die like everyone else. Or crazy, wrecking their trucks. And all that takes a toll on good people like the Butlers. To sum up their diagnosis, Pa went crazy and threatened to kill Ma for the insurance money, and she might’ve had similar ideas; she was getting a lot of catalogs in the mail.

I tried to feel them out when I was in the neighborhood. “Ma Butler, how you feeling up here, mentally OK or a little dingy?” She tried to act innocent, while sweating it out, sliding the catalogs back into the drawer. And as for Pa, it seemed suspicious when three of Ma’s chairs were put on the curb for the garbage, each one blown to bits. But Ma never suspected, chalking it up to gas pains.

Regardless of age and normal allowances, the time came to take Pa in at the very least, since Ma deserved better than that. Dearest people on the block. But how do you swoop in and bust down the doors, gang-tackle the perps, and pull them out while simultaneously hog-tying them? And if you need a stretcher, with their narrow stairway, forget it. We had to lure them out. Using a girl up the block everyone thought was white trash. Ma and Pa were on their radio and knew we were coming for her.

I radioed them and told Pa, “She’s got that idiot Billy by the nuts and is threatening to make him a soprano!” He radioed me, "10-4," which, quickly looking up the code, is a type of acknowledgement denoting understanding, message received, uh, er, Roger. When the noose was tight, I beckoned Pa and Ma to come out so the girl could see friendly faces and not be afraid. Which worked. They stood on the curb -- charred easy chairs flanking them -- waiting to see dark purple bruises on Billy, perhaps blood streaming down his leg, and didn’t know what hit them when they were suddenly tangled in knots.

They were crying, a sad deal. Ma was collateral damage, and unfortunately she got a little nicked when they tried to cut her free. Then I told Pa bluntly, “It ain’t Billy, Pa... You’ve gone a little nuts, and these nice men want to make sure you don’t pose a danger to yourself or Ma.” He was straining, cussing, giving me the full force of his anger. I told him man to man, “Pa, it’s your turn, pipe down... You’ll be back, better than ever... I’ll check on Ma till you're home and wash the car if you think it needs it.” He melted in the team’s grasp and they carted him off for service. He fingered in everyone’s general direction except mine.

The Summit of Old Age -- Angel Wings

If I hadn't lived so long and become so old, I never would've believed it. I never knew there was a great shift in consciousness when you reach a certain age. I probably should've known. When you turn 13, you're immediately horny; that you can't deny. When you're 30, your boyish good looks are gone. When you're 40, you yearn for one last go-round, just don't name it after me. When you're 55, you pray you'll see another 30 years. But when you're 65, any minute now would be just as good. Suddenly longevity is nothing but more of the same. Even if you're cheerful like me.

Now, alas, when I see on Facebook that someone's father or grandpa "received his angel wings," I run to the mirror and check my back. Are there at least nubbies? It could be that angel wings are like pubic hair, one day they just puff into place. The thought that I'll soon get my angel wings has become an emotional thing for me, like when I got my first car. It was a beautiful, emotional thing; I even named it; I couldn't wait to show it to everyone. But getting your angel wings, that's nothing your friends and family celebrate. "Get your damned angel wings outta here and don't come back!"

Friends, I'm pleading with those of you smart enough to listen, Don't grow old. Antiques are fun, being an antique isn’t. The young try to force you to get a facelift, have your chin tucked, anything to perpetuate their persistent denial of life's course, taking away your joy and destiny. Which, if it involves visions of loving arms reaching out to me and celestial choirs and lucid dreams of the Great Beyond, the Rainbow Bridge, the Endless Horizon, and Angel Food Cake, has to be good.

You might remember that I got a message from My Friend Death himself, that I will live till 85. That happened a few years ago and I was very relieved. But now I'm thinking that might just be a thing Death says to placate you when you're between 55 and 60. You have an optimistic outlook while the Guardians of Time cycle around till you're around 65, then drop it on you that 85 might be a curse. And I'm not even in that bad of shape. I don't usually think it'd be a curse, but who knows... There are definitely shifts in consciousness over time.

OK, the Summit of Old Age. Looked at from a strictly evolutionary point of view, we old people become more and more superfluous the longer we live. Yes, I can see the point in keeping us around. If for no other reason than to keep younger people more content. Because they could experience terrible societal anxiety with all the attendant downsides, if they knew old people were hogtied and frogmarched to their death at a particular age. They’d quickly imagine their own fate, always sooner than you think, and pretty soon they’d revolt.*

Look at it like this: If older people were marched to their death, that still leaves survivors who are older than other survivors. But soon and very soon the oldest people left would be eight or nine years old, with five-year-olds gunning for them. Shortsighted, yes, because who’ll look out for the five-year-olds when the three-year-olds come for them? Along with this killer truth, you have to be a certain age before you can even sire or bear children, around 12; soon there’d be no one to kill the three-year-olds, with birth levels at zero or below zero. The last generation of three-year-olds would suddenly drop dead, miserable. Suffering a shortage of diapers and rattles.

As for me today, I somehow escaped every threat of generational slaughter, and here I am, a very old man, devastated in other ways. I outlived my house, for one thing. It became so full of fungus, dry rot, wet rot, walls alive with shortsighted bacteria, water feeding the mold, which then foolishly ate its way to its own oblivion. Plus, I needed new shingles, but was shortsighted, preferring to spend my money on online TV services. The beauty of my folly is this, the movies I purchased are still mine, but they’re online at various sites and will be mine forever, although I don’t know about survivor rights. Least of my worries perhaps. Should've bought shingles and had the place fumigated.

Angel wings, get me outta here!

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*Which wouldn't do any good.

When They Ring the Golden Bells

I'm getting very old, friends. I'm coming up on 65 as soon as my birthday rolls around, which in 2018 will be January 17. The older you get, if you're me, the more sentimental you get, and even weepy. I've heard of old guys going sentimentally crazy, and maybe I've thought that over so much I'm bringing it on subconsciously.

It doesn't help when people you know die. Just lost a cousin in the last week or so. And of course Mom and Dad, my grandparents, various friends, classmates, and pets have died over the years. It could be that I will live till 90. But will that be good? My life insurance guy called a couple months ago and assured me that he has my finances planned so I will have income till I'm 90. How about that? But since that's only 25 years from January, I have all new worries! Since the older you get, the faster time goes, 25 years in those terms is about a week and half. So in two measly weeks I'll be broke!

I've heard a lot of people on the internet say they don't appreciate hearing about religion. Frankly, I'm one of them, most of the time. The whole overly-sentimental approach to religion strikes me as bad. I'm not really leaning that way in my own practice. But I'm getting more sentimental. But here's how it works, I take a mystical approach to faith and have some gains in that pursuit. So every little thing -- a phrase, an old memory -- can trigger emotions or appreciation in that context, and, frankly, I about bust out bawling.

If you think back to your religious foundations, which for me was childhood, all those lessons are things I took to heart, and still have, filtering them through all my religious pursuits since. One of the songs that gets me is "When They Ring the Golden Bells." Savor verse 1:

There's a land beyond the river,
That we call the sweet forever,
And we only reach that shore by faith's decree;
One by one we'll gain the portals,
There to dwell with the immortals,
When they ring the golden bells for you and me.

Then there's another whole dimension to it that I haven't even mentioned, involving a guy's untimely death!

Yes, I used to go to a lot of revival services. My parents thought it was good for me. Maybe you heard the story of Brother Tolbert Victory. Well, I was there. I saw him die, and was with him when he heard the golden bells. The service ended. I had gone forward for prayer. Tolbert's hair was like a wet mop. He was delirious with the spirit, OK? Delirious. He told me, his lips touching my ear, that I'd do great things for the Lord. I didn't ask what. He seemed to shudder, like a man in vision. Like he looked ahead and saw me doing great things, but he also saw things out ahead that weren't so good.

He told me -- he was looking around, like he didn't want anyone to hear the inside scoop -- that these great old songs that we loved, including "Brighten the Corner Where You Are," "The Hallelujah Side," "The Old-Fashioned Meeting," and "When They Ring the Golden Bells," were being forgotten, or even attacked. Even though we'd just sung them! He said he wanted me to keep 'em going as long as I could, insofar as I had it in me, and if I had the sense of commitment to the task and the unction straight from the Lord to get it done. (I didn't have it entirely; I felt like, you know, Que Sera Sera, whatever will be will be. I was a realistic kid, but Victory was in such a fever I didn't poo-poo his spiritual burden.)

Then he said something I never thought I'd hear any man say. "If anything happens to me, this is all up to you!" Again, I was cool to the idea, not het up; I was a kid. A kid, I'm telling you. No man should lay that kind of grief on a kid. What was he talking about? I wasn't sure. But he sung for me the lyrics to the glorious last verse of "Golden Bells" and chorus:

When our days shall know their number,
When in death we sweetly slumber,
When the King commands the spirit to be free;
Nevermore with anguish laden,
We shall reach that lovely Aiden,
When they ring the golden bells for you and me.

Don't you hear the bells now ringing?
Don't you hear the angels singing?
'Tis the glory hallelujah Jubilee.
In that far-off sweet forever,
Just beyond the shining river,
When they ring the golden bells for you and me.

Brother Tolbert Victory exacted a solemn pledge from me, that I would be wary of the future and our rich spiritual heritage of the great songs. And if anything ever happened to him, that I would step forward in stolid vigilance in this regard. Which was extraordinarily hard in those pre-Spotify days.

OK, OK, I said, "If anything ever happens to you, fine, so let it be written, so let it be done. Six of one, half dozen of another. Lady Luck, don't fail me now. Hot-cha-cha-cha. Goodnight, Mrs. Calabash, wherever you are."

So I went to the basement for the post-revival refreshments, when literally five minutes later some kid comes running into the church, shrieking, screaming, that Brother Victory was hanging from one of the trees next to the driveway! We all rushed out -- my own orange soft drink being half spilled in the commotion -- to behold the lifeless body of that great man of God, unmistakably him, extra large brown baggy suit on a medium body, sweaty mop of hair and all.

They cut the man of God down and had everyone stand back. Maybe he could be revived. But it was no use. Brother Victory had reached that lovely Aiden. Unbelievable, I know, but every word is as good as gold. No one knew what to make of my own personal crazy response. I was beating on him -- this was before CPR -- and screaming, "I didn't think you would die in 5 minutes!" Now that I had taken an oath, etc.

Those years are way behind us now. It's been decades. I don't put much stock in the oaths we take when we're kids, or anytime really. "I'll be your best friend till the rivers all run dry," etc. Circumstances change. But I've done my best, nonetheless, which really isn't much. The songs haven't exactly been besieged by enemies. Occasionally there's a bad arrangement I haven't liked. But more or less, Brother Victory's fears about the songs was just paranoia. Religion's not under siege. When they tell you that, it's crazy talk. The churches are in large part spiritually bereft, yes, but there's more sociology involved there than willful sieges. It's laughable and something to cry for. Whited sepulchers aren't what they used to be, they're worse!

I started off above saying I get weepy, and that's all true. I was singing these songs today, driving along, trying not to bawl since I wasn't alone. And it took me back, way back, to that old church, and that night, and that great evangelist hanging in the tree. I can still see his body in my mind's eye. Dead as a door nail, yes, but his spirit already in that haven of tomorrow. What kind of joke was he playing, to get a promise from an impressionable kid like that, then to commit suicide without even going down for refreshments? The ladies made those things for our enjoyment. They weren't expecting the evangelist, of all people, to kill the revival.

The second verse is very good, refreshingly tear-jerking for me:

We shall know no sin nor sorrow,
In that haven of tomorrow,
When our barque shall sail beyond the silver sea;
We shall only know the blessing
Of our Father's sweet caressing,
When they ring the golden bells for you and me.

You mess with that song, brother, you're messing with me.

Moss and Mae Just Miss Buck Buckskin

I'm hoping to ride this idea to fame, riches, and glory -- the lives of Mae Healy and Moss Stipple.

I've already heard from a friend of mine, saying leave it alone. There's "big interests" out there, his words, who've cornered the market on great ideas, and apparently they'll do their damndest to keep small fry like me from horning in. I, however, refuse to give in to such threats. I feel I have as much a right to express myself as anyone.

OK, I'm leaving all my fears of the syndicate (paranoia) behind and I'm simply going for it. Not another word about it.

Mae Healy appeals to women readers, Moss Stipple to men. I've heard from enough of you to know where your allegiances lie. So I will address both characters, their development thus far, and some of the story lines I've already thought of.

Ladies first. Mae Healy. Mae is a dear old soul who wouldn't hurt a fly. She was once married to a man now deceased, Mr. Healy. She was his faithful partner through thick and thin. They had the same problems other average folks have. But Mr. Healy, being a competent man, was able to provide, thanks to his job. Mae did the honorable thing as his helpmeet. They had children and were very happy. At some point he died.

Enter Moss Stipple. When Moss turned 70, he sold his grandparents' old half acre and their deteriorating house he'd lived in most of his life. He looked for another place to live, and ended up as Mae's boarder. Though they lived together -- man and woman without marriage -- it was all quite innocent, no hanky panky.

That's the story so far. But they need to have some adventures, to make things more interesting. With most of them being, no doubt, on the tame side. I don't think it'd be plausible to have them suddenly become world travelers, crime fighters, etc. But it would be plausible that they might take a trip to the big city together or to a State Park for a picnic. That's a great idea, so that'll be the first one, a picnic!

One day Mae said she'd seen enough of these four walls. "The walls are closing in on me!" she declared, not usually given to complaining, but this day -- whether it was biorythms or simply bitchiness -- she'd had enough.

Moss sat in his easy chair, startled at Mae's blunt eruption, it being out-of-character for someone generally so docile and well-pleased. He lay his newspaper aside gently and gave Mae his undivided attention. "Is there anything I can do about it?"

"I don't know what it might be," she snapped, "I'm trapped 24/7, confined, like a circus animal dying in its cage."

Moss wanted to dismiss the tirade, but instead considered it silently, thinking it indicative of something going on in the older woman's spirit. He thought back on the cases he'd known over the years, of his own Grandma's occasional outbursts and how Grandpa would handle her. Of course he had scant minutes to come up with something before Mae blew her top.

"We ought to go to the State Park," he ventured. Just the thought of something like that brought a smile to Mae's face. And her old radiance was back. In a flash, then, she was up, preparing a picnic basket.

The State Park was lovely that day, with picture-perfect weather, like the weather we used to have -- not too hot, not too cold, no global warming, no melting icebergs. They drove to the campground area, knowing they could use a picnic table without paying the camping fee. Policies were very lax in those days, before all the current moneygrubbing when it comes to state parks.

Mae was the picture of delighted health, and Moss wasn't too shabby either. Mae wore a nice sheer scarf, Moss his cap. A gentle breeze off the lake refreshed them, and moved the hair at the edges of her scarf. She hadn't looked this great for decades. As for Moss, he was able to tilt his head back with abandon and roar out a laugh of delight.

They shared in conversation, Mae remembering how she and Mr. Healy used to camp here early in their marriage. "We had a tent in those days and it rained cats and dogs. You couldn't touch the canvas or it'd run right through. But you couldn't move without touching it. We were drenched, but got to the car and made it home. Mr. Healy looked like a drowned rat! And I didn't look much better!"

"What about the tent and your things?" Moss asked, laughing at the ancient predicament.

"We came back the next day and got everything! No problem!"

Moss had a story of his own. Involving one of his pet peeves from 30 years before. "I was on the other side of this very lake, fishing. And some guys showed up and ruined it for me, with a boom box, playing it loudly. In those days I had one huge hangup, listening to 'the music of someone else's choosing,' a phrase I used in those days. But these louts kept it going, no matter what. So I packed up my fish and went home."

"Good for you," Mae commiserated, "No one should have to take that.."

The picnic, like all good things, ended, and they went home, retiring at the appropriate hour. Not realizing what they missed had they stayed till night.

Me and Mrs. Healy

I'm getting older all the time. I was thinking ahead a bit ago, what might be going on when I'm 70. That's only nine short years away!

The house here, Grandma's old house, is getting older all the time, too, and will probably be needing more than I can give it, long-term. Realistically, it's probably going to become necessary for me to move. Not right away; there's no hurry, but eventually.

I'm thinking, if I'm 70, and I need a place to live, I could do one of several options. I could get a new house, a big investment. I could rent an apartment, where rent's always going up. Then, here's the option I've thought about more, getting a room in someone else's house.

The way I'm picturing it is I get a room in an older lady's house, someone quiet like me. No upstairs neighbors, no downstairs. Quite, demure. Like if I'm 70, she's 87. I did this once when I was 19 or 20. I needed a room -- I thought -- so I got one at an older lady's house. But things suddenly changed and I ended up spending only one night with her and left, never to return. I can't remember exactly what was going on, but it wasn't that I was itchy.

At 70, naturally I'll be completely itch-free. Settled down. Like a rock. I've already shown myself rock solid, having stayed here for 40-some years. So I'll be in no rush to vacate.

Anyway, be all that as it may, say I'm 70, nine years from now, we're going to assume I see a sign at this older lady's house. She and I meet. We hit it off, and we agree that I will pay $385 a month to have the front room. That's OK, I can swing $385 easily enough on my Social Security and the few dollars I've put back.

As time goes on, I'm happy with Mrs. Healy's place, and we share a lot of good times in the living room. She's got some sewing projects, and bit by bit I'm taking on a lot of responsibilities. Getting soot out of the heater, poking cobwebs up in the corners, putting plastic on windows before winter, clearing the walk, going out for juice, etc.

I like the idea of being helpful, even if I am her paying boarder. We're cozy, and I'm protective of her well-being. After a while, we're like two old shoes together. We go halvsies on a new couch, and a new chair for the corner where she sits. It's quite a daring purchase, since she's had the chair since-- Well, she and the late Mr. Healy bought it 45 years ago.

Mrs. Healy has two daughters, and they occasionally check on her. They really love me, because I've been good for Mom, a breath of fresh air, and helpful. One of the thing's Mom used to do for them was cook a big Thanksgiving meal. Now we've restarted the tradition, with Mom pitching in where she can, a labor of love.

All the stuff I'm doing, it's all great for Mom. I have a place to live. The two daughters are great. They have kids, who like to go fishing once in a while at the park pond. Mom's even out, busying herself around the shelter house while the grand kids and I clean fish.

Pretty soon, we've essentially pooled our resources and we're doing fine. The $385 has long gone by the wayside, since I'm spending a lot more than that anyway, on the house, groceries, whatever. But I love it. All the companionship of Mom, the daughters, the grand kids, checking their homework. Giving them $10 for each A. Like any grandpa should.

Finally, Mrs. Healy gets ill -- so sad -- and we're all together at the hospital. The family needs a rock, which I provide. No one has stories of her like I have, of all the goodness she had, of her family, of the way she always kept Thanksgiving, and so forth. I have a great quote from her: "I've always wanted to hit 100, but if I don't, I've been so happy. Everything's been fantastic. I wish blessings on my grandchildren, my daughters, and Moss Stipple, my boarder."

The daughters insist I stay in the house. But I insist, No, it is rightly their inheritance. I get it prepared for sale, they make all sorts of money on it. I'm practically a father to them, and certainly a good old grandpa for the kids. But I move across town, their husbands helping me with my things, and obviously I have a great reference from them.

By now I'm about 80 myself. The next old lady I live with turns out to be an old reprobate, a gambler, a drinker, etc. Through sheer goodness, and the positive example I show everyday, I reform her and we both live happily ever after. She's still cranky, but always improving herself.

OK, so all that's one possibility. The thing about the future, though, is it never works out the way you picture it. My luck, I might get the reprobate first. Which when I move out -- in the event we don't live happily ever after -- dings my reference slightly. But I'm still a rock and later Mrs. Healy takes me in.

You're 61? What's Your Secret?

Isn't that something? Me, an old man? Yes, it's true, I am 61, extremely old. But it's not so bad. Except for the sore knees, being a little more tired with each day, the slow shuffling along, my crackling, tentative voice, and the increasing difficulty of every other aspect of life, it's the same as 16. I suppose all that sounds like a terrible challenge, but when it gets too much my head clouds up and in confusion I simply pass out and so I never really know the difference. Actually a pleasurable feeling, except at major intersections. "Honk! Honk!"

The key thing to remember about old age -- and 61 is indeed a ripe old age -- is that you haven't got any choice, unless you simply die. Which, despite the massive failures of every aspect of my being, I won't do, not till I'm 85. That conviction was hammered in my head by revelation, and I keep repeating it everyday, every time I feel like I might just physically drop, "You're not 85 yet! Try, damn it, try to keep your face out of your soup." 85? That sounds like a long time to wait, but every second is one second closer to all of it ending. Old age makes you more philosophical like that. And cheerful.

Once in a while, and this is happening more and more often, some young buck or doe asks me the secret to my enormous longevity. Of course I don't have any big secrets to it. The same as other guys: Clean living (with everything failing, what else can I do?), watch lots of TV, exercise little, in times of sentience gorge myself on bacon, gallons of Tabasco on food and food byproducts, and writing this precious blog. I get a lot of encouragement from my readers: "You're not so old; I had an uncle who was 63 when he died," was one especially thoughtful comment. I figure that on my fingers and it's very close to 61.

The ones I like are the kids I know, who ask, in their own little words -- and let me do a little interpretative rewording on my part to make it sound like actual English -- simple little questions like, "Tell us, kind sir, as you approach your well-deserved dotage, what exactly is the true secret to your great longevity?" They ask it, then tip over my walker and rush on to the next thing; they don't really care. Have you noticed that about kids today? They're off to the next thing, always rush, rush, rush. It ages me just to watch them. They're like a blur; I can make out an occasional color of clothing, a shirt sleeve, perhaps, and the rest is lost.

If, however, those kids really took the time, like for a school project, like we used to have to do, before everything was computerized and push button, to interview "the old man," I'm sure they'd get an A. Because I'd give them a politically-correct, socially-correct, and educationally-correct answer. After telling them that in my opinion I'm not really that old, since I've known plenty of much older people in my life, I would gather them together and say, "It's like this..."

And this is where the teaching would come in: 1) Keep physically and mentally fit -- Study the remote before pushing it; 2) Do the things you love, within reason and most laws; 3) Eat your vegetables and fruit, canned of course; 4) Stay on good terms with those around you -- you never know when you might need help getting up; and, 5) Watch your regularity, which means a conflict with a few of the fruits, or just add prunes--- Then I look up and they've been gone for the last 20 minutes. Off cutting down a plum tree and destroying the rest of the environment.

Still, even without the little varmints, those are the correct answers. I'm shouting, but no one can hear me. My hearing's going too ... 61!  --Sigh--. I'll review the list. 1) I need to work on the physical and mental stuff, now more than ever. I'll do that tomorrow. 2) I try to "do the things I love," which I will get to next week. 3) My diet's terrible, probably. Add more bacon. 4) I'm normally on good terms with people, as much as it depends on me. When I'm mad, I just shake my cane and they laugh. 5) As for regularity, OK, excuse me, I'll be back in an hour.

Kids. They'll get theirs, again shaking my cane a bit. Of course they're not interested in this stuff, they're a long ways from 61.

An Old Man Down on the Police

I met an old man today who was very down on the police. I don't meet many guys and this is the guy I get.

I really didn't know what he was talking about for a while. It was like some foreign word. He said something about "the po-po" being over there, pointing. I had zero clue what he meant, and said, "What's that?" "The po-po." "What do you mean, po-po?" "The police." I turned and looked in time to see them driving up the hill.

I was curious if he knew what they were up to, since it's usually an interesting story, but he didn't know. It could've been a huge jewelry store robbery, busting a major drug ring, or, more likely, waiting for speeders. But he didn't know. So I said, "You don't like the police?" And he said  -- and these were his exact words -- he'd "rather have a sister in a whorehouse than a brother on the police force," which sounded rather harsh. But he had a reason, that at least she'd be bringing joy to someone, whereas the brother would be "dicking" with someone. His words.

Of course that rankled me, since I don't have any problem with the police, and I'd hate it if my sister took that as her career choice, but what could I say? I took the therapeutic approach to find out why he didn't like the police. It turned out, according to his version -- looking just for the facts -- that one time the police wanted him to sit down, and he refused. So six of them, apparently, jumped him and took him to the ground. Big shout out to those six guys: Way to go, dudes! If it happened that way...

OK, we were off on other topics...

Then after a little while, we were talking about some old stomping grounds we had in common, although from different generations. He mentioned an old friend by name up there, probably from the '50s, "a man who wanted to be a pig." Again, I was oblivious to this kind of foreign tongue. I said, "What do you mean?" He acted like, "Isn't it obvious?" But I repeated it, again honestly having no clue, "a man who wanted to be a pig?" Then he clarified, the guy wanted to be a policeman. I hadn't heard that kind of "pig" language in decades!

I just had to say, No, I never knew that guy.

This is an old man, ladies and gentlemen. 80 years old! To all the police out there, he's very bitter against you. How can you tame the current generation of lawless youth when you have even bitter old men hating you?

Happy 90th Birthday, Horst!

One of our dearest friends, Horst, recently turned 90 years old! The big 9-0. Time to look back, for sure, and a time to look ahead to all the great years to come!

For Horst everything is getting better and better. Now he has lots of time on his hands at the nursing home, and that can be a kick.

In the long-ago far-off days of youth, Horst never dreamed he'd live to be 90. He was a handsome guy (still is), and all the girls had a thing for him. Especially one girl, the girl he would marry. (But more about her later.)

Take a look at Horst on their 30th anniversary. He's pictured here with his dear wife, Edna. (Unfortunately, Edna had to be cropped out because we wanted a uniform format on this page.) They not only look happy, they were.

Gettin' Better 'n Better in Every Way

At 90, Horst has nothing too much to worry about these days, just to take it easy and try to stay out of the nurses' way. Edna passed away a few years ago, and that was sad. But Horst's family made it much easier for him by having the newspaper print a poem, which read in part:

God broke our hearts to prove
He only takes the best.

What would people get Horst for his 90th birthday? Well, turns out there were all kinds of things he'd probably like. Like this "Footprints in the Sand" decorative thing. Horst's surprise comment on opening this gift: "What the hell is it?"

Of course, a singing bird clock is a gift idea that can't miss, whether your intended victim is young or old. And so it was for Horst. His comment after opening this gift: "What the hell do I need this for?"

And these days, the Boogie Blade is very popular as a gift item. It's kind of like the Boogie Bass (singing fish) or the Billy Bass (another singing fish), but this is not a fish nor does it have anything to do with birds, but it's a singing and dancing windshield wiper! Anyway, it was an obvious choice for an old guy like Horst, whose eye is just naturally captured by something so novel. Horst's comment on opening the Boogie Blade was touching: "What the sam hell — ?"

There was music and ice cream, and quite a few cards.

A nurse asked Horst, "Do you know how many people are here?"

He said, "200?"

"No," the nurse said, "50!"

Horst's beautiful reply: "That all?"

Horst, we know this is a happy time for you, with 90 Big Ones under your belt! Our sincerest wish for you is just this: May you have another 90 and then some!

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Note:

This post is from a webpage I had in 2000. It was based on a party I had recently gone to for a 90-year-old guy I knew. The guy's name was Fritz, but I changed it to Horst. Fritz actually said, "What the hell do I need this for?" when he opened the bird clock. And the line about how many people are here -- 200? No, 50, That all? -- is a true detail. I didn't include it, but Fritz thought he was either 100 or 110.

The formatting had to be different from the 2000 website. Here's the animated gifs I had of Horst at 90 and the Boogie Blade. The Boogie Blade originally had a soundtrack of snippets of various rain songs. I worked on the 30th anniversary picture with Photoshop to try to make him look around 90.

To learn about the actual guy in the pictures -- Elbert Macy -- see my post at THIS LINK.

The Older Generation -- Over 90

I'm 60. That means I'm only 30 years off 90. If I'm somehow able to live another 30 years, and I come from a family where barely anyone does, I will be 90. That sounds ancient, but the last 30 years went by pretty fast, so all I have to do is trip over that family birthdays again!

When I think of old people, one little truth keeps creeping in. Old people are changing all the time. They're not consistently the same. The average person at Woodstock was older than me. So they're creeping up there now. But the average person as old as them at the time of Woodstock was a completely different person. Different background pretty much completely.

They were practically people of my grandparents' generation. Let's see, at the time of Woodstock, 1969, my Grandma was only 65, almost 66. That sounds youngish, even though she was from a generation of people, at least from my kid perspective, who were definitely old when they were 65. Grandpa was six years older, so he was already over 70. He seemed ancient. Neither of them made it to 90, by the way.

I remember them laughing, of course. But they didn't have that kind of constant sense of humor people have now. Which is actually annoying, because we've seen too many crappy sitcoms, I'm convinced that's what it is. (You ever notice people on sitcoms are constantly cracking jokes, but the other characters aren't laughing?) But it does tend to give people a more youthful attitude. My grandparents weren't humorless, as I said, but they had a serious quality that I don't see much of today. It made them seem older.

I've been watching the old episodes of the Lawrence Welk show on PBS, whenever I think of it. I might watch one, then forget it for three weeks, then I watch another. These are generally from 1964-1970, I'm estimating. I love watching them, even though I wasn't a fan of the show at all when it was first on. But now, the very square quality of it gives me a constant sense of the way old folks were then.

About the best part of it, what I really like, is when they show the old folks in the audience, with some of them dancing. I always have to think, now they're a'moldering in their graves, for the most part, but there they were at the time, exactly the generation I'm talking about. There aren't too many film sources for the average everyday person of that time, at least that I know of. But Lawrence Welk had them! You can see them laughing in happiness at the music, the dancing, and being together with others. And for the most part, it looks exactly like the very conventional (and only occasional) humor I saw in old people at the time. The show's a time capsule.

Old folks of that generation went through a lot. Such as the Great Depression, so bad we capitalize it. And of course there were those minor skirmishes, World Wars I and II, so bad we Roman numeral them. I don't agree with the common labeling, thanks to Tom Brokaw, that these folks were in any sense "The Greatest Generation." I think they just made it through their times like anyone would, given the circumstances. You deal with what you get. But it really might have given them that serious outlook, the more business-like approach to life they had.

OK, I didn't mean to get sociological on you. But how else can you mess around with a subject like this?

Nursing homes are full of folks over 90, and I suppose I could go over and visit a few of them. Anyone's allowed, I guess, although it's better if you have some legitimate reason for dropping in, other than the fact that you write a blog and are interested in 90-year-olds. They might frown on that! Who knows? But if there's people from your church there, you could drop in legitimately. Then get to know some of the others. But, like I said, 90's different all the time.

The 90-year-old in the nursing home today is quite a bit different from what my grandparents would've been. If you're 90, you were only in your mid-40s at the time of Woodstock. So very young. But they're still plenty old in certain ways, having accrued the things of age since then, no doubt ... they need to be met and known!

Our Feathered Friends Smell Food Miles Away

I'm clear way far at the store, three miles from home, coming out with a brand new bag of feathered friend food.

My intuition has been spot on lately, thanks to prayer, meditation, and a very deep sense of oneness with nature. My St. Francis garden statue told me some of the secrets of how it's done.

Anyway, enough about me. So there I am, and suddenly it hits me, the ripples in the current from home. I can sense it clear as day, my hungry feathered friends are perking up. Before, they had been down, very down, not singing. The usual morning food wasn't in its place. It was all gone, nothing but chaff.

But now, there in the parking lot, I could sense a revival. Which is a two-way sense, since the feathered friends are on the same exact wavelength. One old wren, very old, very wise -- Wise Grandpa Wren -- shakes his head and says, "Hush, chill'un ... it's happening again..."

"What? What's happening?" the younger ones ask, squealing, thinking Grandpa might be something of a crank. One thing, he's always mysterious, as in this response: "You shall see ... the Days of Plenty will soon be here ... But forgive me, I go to rest." I have to smile as I sense these fantastic goings-on.

The rest of the scuttlebutt around the yard picks up with his word: "Days of Plenty, Days of Plenty..." Young female feathered friends are nodding toward each other and touching beaks. The males are bumping chests. Younger ones are in the feathered friend bath, splashing to beat the band.

I get in the car very happy. Except I have to drive all the way home. But I'm still happy, knowing they know what's coming. Hallelujah, touch your toes! Praise the Lord, for He arose!

Then I come in to wild acclaim, hefting a 40-pound bag of feed. The trees are hushed for a second, as the life-giving food, something from the hand of God, is lovingly poured into the feeder. I step back and smile at the movement in the trees. Then as I close the door, going in the house, I look back and see a wild stampede, our feathered friends literally stampeding through the air, hand over fist to get to it.

No one was hurt. And I just happened to have a slice of apple I didn't want, so I cut it in fours and tossed it out there, too.

Me and Wordsworth's Dogs

At the end of William Wordsworth's huge poem, "The Prelude," in the Modern Library edition being almost 220 pages, longer than any poem I'm ever going to write, he says, "Oh! yet a few short years of useful life, And all will be complete..." That tells me he was an old man at that point; he lived to be 80. Which is only 20 years older than me!

All this matters today for my blog because of one passage I want to celebrate, from Book Four, lines 93-190, which has some good stuff about his dog. I have lots of thoughts about dogs. One, I'm glad a great poet like Wordsworth took time to write about his dog. He's all right.

Of course, when I read it, I have to think of my own beloved dog. Who would've made a great dog for the great poet, had she not been born in the wrong time and place for it. On the positive side, she was born in exactly the right time and place to be my dog. So that's equally cool. She beat the odds. Because I'm happy to say, If you're not going to be Wordsworth's dog, you may as well be mine. Not second best, mind you, but equal or better. When it comes to poems, Wordsworth has me beat, but not at dogs.

I want to lift out some bits from Wordsworth's poem about his dog. Wordsworth had been away from his home and stomping grounds, at school, far enough away he had to stay there most of the year. Then he's back for summer vacation, then he goes up in the heights, the rocky crags around there, thinking up poetry and getting the inspiration from a favorite romantic locale.

At lines 93ff, he says his dog, a rough terrier, was among his favorites "whom it pleased me well / To see again..." I bet! Who wouldn't want to get home and see his dog? But this is more. Wordsworth was out there kindling "with the stir, / The fermentation, and the vernal heat / Of poesy, affecting private shades..." In other words, his poetic impulses were sizzling hot. But what of his dog? He continues, "Like a sick Lover, then this dog was used / To watch me, an attendant and a friend..." And this even though Wordsworth was so absorbed in his poetic inspirations that he had to halt walking a hundred times, making the dog somewhat tired and uneasy.

LOL. Of course I can relate to the dog's faithful presence. My dog's right here as I write, watching me with concern as I virtually tear my hair out, what's left of it, trying to get every word just right. I have very demanding readers and a very easy-going dog, which means if the situation were reversed, I'd be taking the dog for a walk with a constant lash at my back, or any number of other means of goading someone along. But my dog's very patient.

I'm running long, so I'll summarize the rest of Wordsworth's section on his dog. I like it how he celebrates an especially good burst of poetic inspiration by darting toward his dog and caressing him repeatedly "with stormy joy..." Then they'd be walking along and he'd give Wordsworth advance notice of anyone they'd be meeting on the way. The alert meant Wordsworth hushed his voice, since he was thinking out loud. The dog saved Wordsworth's reputation! Lines 129f, he says people would've started "piteous rumors" about him, saying that he was "crazed in brain."

My dog tries to help me like that, a little. Say I'm writing a blog, she barks anytime I'm about to hit the "Publish" button, knowing I'm only digging my hole deeper. You only see the crap that gets through, you should see what she prevents!

Back to Mr. W. In lines 131-190, he doesn't mention the dog much. Here, though, he's writing as the old man in the present time, not so much remembering past memories. So in lines 182ff, he sat in "the sheltered coppice" and heard "the straggling wind" in the hazel leaves, and it reminded him of his dog: "a breath-like sound, / Quick as the pantings of the faithful dog, / The off and on companion of my walk..." That gets me! How wistful! The straggling wind reminds him of his dog's panting. But of course the dog is now long gone.

I know my dog's getting up there, 14 years old and in failing health. Years from now -- let's say I survive another 20 years -- I'm going to be looking at photos of my dog and ... whatever. But at least I have pictures. Wordsworth had what? The straggling wind. And a great memory.

As You Are Now, I Once Was

"As you are now, I once was. As I am now, you also shall be."

Forever, this is one of the greatest sentiments I've ever heard!

Back when old folks died in their late 40s, this great sentiment was reserved for gravestones. But now, when you can easily live into your 70s, or even exceed 80, we're hearing it a lot more. I hope you don't think it's too amazing, but even I've been known to mutter it, and I haven't yet turned 60!

Just the other day, I think it was, there was some young scamp giving me the eye as youth is prone to do in the dessicated face of age, as if to say, "I'm cool and you're an old codger. I'm still in the first flower of youth, able to frolic through the streets with long hair, hip clothes, and buff legs. And I've even got some of the cooler eyeglass frames that look like crap on anyone over 29. Look at me, I'm able to turn heads, make entire groups of girls giggle, and name my fee, were they to put me out to stud. I'm pretty! I'm poetic! I can dazzle with the best of 'em! If I'm sitting on a rock playing with a weed, I'm a god. If I'm lounging on a bench outside the bar reading a paperback, I'm a genius lost in thought. If I brush my hand against the ragged whiskers of my chin, I'm the image of beauty. I might just stay up all night! I certainly could! I could stay up all night and laugh about whatever, the universe! And I'm into vintage vinyl!"

Of course I'm looking at him somewhat askance. Vintage vinyl, huh? I bought those new. Honestly, I'm not begrudging him his imagined supremacy. If that's the way he wants to think, I know exactly how it goes. Because that's the first part of the epitaph, "As you are now, I once was." Other guys like me -- dumber guys -- probably are bitter. But what's there to be bitter about? We knew we were going to lose it. Your skin starts to sag and wrinkle up, but you're still obviously you. Your teeth fall out and you're depressed, but look on the bright side, you've still got a tongue that's pink. For every bad thing, there's something good. You sleep more, but what's there to stay awake for? Your hair looks like a mangy dog, but the bald spots aren't that bad, as long as you keep your cap on.

I might be quite a bit better at this than others of my years, to tell the truth. Because I was with my grandparents a long time, so I saw right up close what it means to deteriorate. I should say, however, that old folks were different back then. They actually were keeping the epitaph for their grave. And they had next to no bitterness, because there never were cool. This goes back before teenagers as a dominant market force and 20-somethings as the ideal person. In fact, back then, it was just the opposite. They respected folks older than themselves who'd somehow managed to survive, and as for kids, they thought they were morons. So the epitaph was more of a cautionary thing about life and death in general than the bitterness of age ranting against the blitheness of youth.

Yes, I'm definitely convinced. Everyone else is bitterer than me. I'm barely bitter at all. Really, I mean if these guys I see, like the young scamp above, thinks he's hot stuff and in his eyes I'm an animated corpse, that's his trip. I wouldn't expect him to understand fully the sentiment -- given his lack of years and sense -- "As you are, I once was."

My picture, though, has the young woman, her back cut down to there, being observed by the older gal, whose bun might be too tight. "Look at her, lost in his arms, probably doesn't even know what an emergency dime is! Her precious back is cut so low! Honey, just drop the skintight rag and be done with it! Of course she'll be nude soon enough, and keeping Lothario entertained all night long! With no one to answer to!" So much for women.

OK, then the other side of the coin is, "As I am now, you also shall be." Ah, yes, our revenge! We shall have our revenge, if only we're able to live long enough to see it. And leaving out that we'll be even more wasted, while the once young scamp will still be relatively young. Be that as it may, if he's out with his long hair, etc., and it all looks like crap, that's good revenge. Or she with her low-cut back, "Cover it up, Grandma, your skin's leather!" She's been surpassed by the next generation and is now the butt of bitter remarks. Teaching her a lesson or two: 1) She should've avoided tanning booths; and, 2) Hold on to 16 as long as you can.

Remember, you young rascals, the Grim Reaper is coming for you, too. And I'm loving it! So enjoy it while you can, because before long you too will be a miserable shell of your former self. Before you know it! LOL, I offer you knowing laughter, because I know exactly how you're going to feel, like crap. LOL!

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Related post: "Enjoy Your Youth -- It's About Over"