A couple of weeks ago, my car was heading westward on a cold, bleak December afternoon when the sun was low in the sky. There was almost no way to block out the sun and still see to drive. The thought occurred to me that driving like this is no fun. And growing older is often also devoid of fun.
Growing older has diminishing returns as it relates to the enjoyment of life. Aches and pains and back problems are often the order of the day. When retirement loomed as AT&T began to prepare my pension, well wishers told me that these were the golden years. Don’t believe everything well wishers say.
It seems to me that everything that can be dropped will be dropped. But that is only the half of it. The dropped item then falls from the table or from the counter to the floor. In the kitchen here, there has always been a brown floor. Almonds and other nuts that fall to the floor as some of them do, are next to impossible to find. In the bathroom, there are pills with most of them being white. The bathroom floor is white or light almond tile. Again, impossible to find the dropped pill.
Speaking of pills, a system has been devised whereby as pills are consumed, the time of day is entered on a chart. Sometimes it is more convenient to make the notation before taking the pill. And with great precision, my former infallible memory often will not tell me whether the pill has actually been taken. There are other times when an entry on the chart is overlooked leading to the dilemma of whether the medication was or was not taken and entry on the chart was simply overlooked.
Old age memory is a volatile affair. My house shoes are usually left in one closet when clothes are changed. The other morning, the house shoes could not be located. The other closet was searched and no house shoes turned up. The dressing room was searched with similar results. The bedroom was examined, but there were no old, beat up house shoes. Then it dawned on me that because the shoes were beat up and were unsightly, that Miss Chicka, my wife, had taken them away to the trash.
As my steps took me in the direction of Miss Chicka, my thoughts had to do with remonstrating with her for doing such a dastardly thing to an old man, a patriot and a former soldier. As my steps took me down the hall, my feet came into view. The mystery of the disappearing house shoes was solved by me, a real Sherlock Holmes moment. The shoes were on a set of feet – namely mine!!!
My back has held up for more than 80 years, so it is entitled to be painful once in a while. There are occasions when the knees bark at me, but climbing steps can still be done, but not as gladly as when youth pervaded my being. The teeth are a bit of a problem as the insurer informed me that annual benefits had been used up by March, 2003. The one eye seems to be holding up well now that my ophthalmologic visits are no longer to the female fondler in Short Hills. It is possible to listen to music even at an advanced age, so my hearing is holding up. Recently, we are happily listening to male Welsh choirs. Nobody knows why Welshmen can sing such great harmony, but they do it every day.
Now that my step may be slowed a little, it would be greatly appreciated for Charles, the Prince of Wales, to lend me his footman who is responsible for opening the toothpaste and spreading it on His Majesty’s brush everyday. Even if it is disclosed that only this Irishman has a toothpaste spreader, it would be claimed as a reward for my passing into the years of puberty.
Before you ask, His Majesty Prince Charles, the Prince of Wales, sings not a note, we are told. He seldom if ever visits Wales. Charles shoots birds and tries to romance that divorced woman who lives in a connecting, adjoining apartment to one of the Royal Castles. That is quite enough for the Prince of Wales.
Growing older is not all bad. On the plus side, my lifelong penchant for speaking my mind is now largely uninhibited. In my essays, there is no trouble about taking the Catholic Church to task. Jews do no escape my ire. There have been several letters to Sulzberger, the publisher of the New York Times about hiring such jerks as Bill Safire and David Brooks, apologists for the Republican Party. Of course, my main scorn is for Protestant Christians because those people are well known to me from my upbringing. And tormenting George Bush and his band of bandits is an especially rewarding theme that finds expression in my essays and in my speech. There is no longer an employer looking over my shoulder to say, “Tone it down.”
So growing old or older ain’t all bad. Growing older is not much fun. But on a clear day, this question must be asked, “What are the alternatives?” Until that question is adequately answered, there is not much choice but to look in the blinding sun on a winter’s day and to carry on.
E. E. CARR
1-16-04
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You know, I don’t think I ever knew a version of Pop who had a filter on what he said or wrote. I’m going to go out on a limb and assume that such a person is largely imaginary. Besides, in the days before the internet, it seems like an employer is unlikely to stumble upon anything that an individual has written that was not sent directly to said employer. Maybe people just gossiped a lot more in person, such that instead of fearing that a boss will Google you, you had to fear that he’d somehow know a friend of a friend who knew that you were an outspoken atheist, or something. Still seems like a much lower-risk proposition.