My Daily Aphorism

 

The displeasure of aging is that I cannot do much of what I used to. The pleasure of aging is that I’m still trying.

More next week.

Reflections On A Broken Foot

Somewhere in the decade of the 90's. I wasn't even as old then as I am now, not nearly, still I had already entered the realm of the elderly, kicking and screaming, I might add, no way going gently. I was still working out at the gym regularly - I've always been a gym rat - so was in decent shape when my pal, Ed Thurman, invited me for a workout at his senior citizens center. I balked, at first, not wanting to go anywhere near the place as if it were plague infested, but Ed was a great guy, so I went. Five minutes into my workout I couldn't stand it any more - all these cadaverous looking "elderly" pumping their bikes and wheezing and gasping - I had to get out of there.

    "What's up?", asked Ed

    "I gotta get outta here," I answered.

    "You sick?"

    "Yeah," I answered, "Sick of being surrounded by all these old people."

    "I believe," said Ed, indulgently, "That you are suffering from a serious case of denial."

Maybe I was back then, but no longer. I just broke my G-damn foot! On top of a triple coronary bypass and a subdural hematoma,  further denial simply won't hold up.  I'm proof that life is not an end run around the bruises, that it's about the scars to prove I showed up. The late, legendary, outlaw writer of the sixties, Hunter Thompson, said, "Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming, "Wow! What a ride!" Then, of course, there's Dylan Thomas with "Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light." 

Normally, I'd agree with them, yet rage is not what I want to be feeling when the time finally comes, and I certainly don't want to die  totally worn out and thoroughly used up because that would imply I'd gradually but steadily been reduced to nothing while still alive, sort of like the Chinese torture of a thousand cuts. Really, though, I know exactly what he means and suspect we mean the same thing - throw yourself into life and squeeze it dry. I just don't want to slide into home plate like Ty Cobb, cleats up, looking for blood. I'll take the bunt instead. Same game. Different position. 

                "This I know and only this, that I am given a life, 

                  a gift that only once I will receive to do with as I choose, 

                 and I choose to wring it dry of all its pleasure so that when 

                 I am wombed in death's certain eternity 

                 I cannot reflect in anguish that I have had but 

                 birth and death and nothing more."

This sophomoric ditty was written by a twenty-one year old playwright in his first play. Sixty years later what has changed? The fight has become more tactical, more pick and choose than rant and repair. The point is to go gently, at ease and still human, not raging and worn out. I'd like to see the world as a painter, hear the world as a musician, breathe in and breathe out, slowly, to listen as if syllables matter because they do. If I'm going to ride, give me a horse with an even gait not a rodeo bronc. The bronc'll sure give me a wild ride - like we used to say back in Montana: rode hard 'n' put up wet -  but I won't get to enjoy the scenery.   

For the record, most of my bucket list has been banked, however I'd still like to learn how to play the harmonica. 

September 7, 2022

I thought, by now,I'd seen it all, smelled it all, felt it all, done not all but most of all. Uh, uh. Today, a few minutes ago, was a first: I harvested our first crop of peaches from two trees I planted last Spring. They literally shone like golden orbs in the sunset sun - all ten of them - firm but juicy - peaches! - our own peaches! Drought and white-tail deer were two pitched battles, but we managed to prevail. I hauled five gallon pails of water up hill to those trees, fenced them and annointed the ground around with deer repellent. Ten peaches, folks. Tasty perfect as only a fresh picked peach can be. And, yet, I can top this: I picked them and ate them with my son and grandson, the three of us, juice slurping down our chins, a mellow day, a good natured breeze, with the leaves now drifting from the trees. 

Pears are next, though not such a revelation as we've been harvesting them for years. Then come apples. We have one pear tree and four bearing apple trees on the immediate property, and the garden still has tomatoes, kale, squash, and peppers. A sow and her cub have already raided the low hanging branches of the pear tree. One young buck regularly comes for the green apples closest to the house. When the leaves are gone and we're well into Winter, the remaining apples have shriveled and turned a shade of deep brass. When the sun is right, they hang there like temple bells. I don't hunt any more, yet, when the air gets chilly and the leaves keep falling,my eyes automatically "cut for sign" as they say out West which means looking for some indication that what you're looking for exists some where out there right now, and you're on it.

Years of hunting have made me quite the expert on "scat" (the most pungent of those indications), an otherwise arcane subject unless you spend some serious time in the woods.Turkey scat is white and shaped like a question mark. Partridge scat is white like a little caterpillar. Deer poop pellets. Bear scat is a mound (I won't tell you what's in it).Coyote scat is canid (Ditto on what's in it).  I think I've said enough. If you want to know more about the ejecta of any particular animal, drop me a line.

Four Years A Grandfather

         Why is it being a grandfather causes me to lapse into Yiddish syntax? Vas machst du, boychik? Why is it that I spent the past hour on my hands and  knees playing "Turtle"? What is it that makes the lower left drawer of my desk, Grandpa's Drawer? Could it be periodic safaris to Dollar General for fig newtons, gummy bears, chocolate bits, peanut butter crackers, Mexican Coca Cola, and such? Why is it that the smell of the back of a three year old's neck summons a Spring meadow? 

    Dorian Alexander will be four years old in two weeks.

    It will come as no surprise to most of my peers that this is a peak experience, maybe the peak experience of a lifetime. Nothing like it. But, why? I know reasons but not the reason, that taproot of evolution that goes down to the instant of beginning, the Big Bang of parentage. Why is that? I know what but not why, and, if you'll indulge me - trigger warning - I'll tell you some of what.    

    In her novel,The Tale of Despereaux, Kate DiCamillo writes, "There is nothing sweeter in this sad world than the sound of someone you love calling your name." 

    "Granpa,Granma,Bubbe,Gamma,Pop-Pop,Poppa..." 

    Folks, do I really need to go further? 

    Sweeter notes than a Mozart flutter. Flute? Oboe? Feh. It's that voice, pure bells that chime and tinkle. I know you get it.Their voices have a chaste, unaltered quality, an innocence already nostalgic because you know it's passing. 

I can see him developing wiles, yet there is a purity about him still, an honesty manifesting in the emotion of the moment, an uninhibited joy as he embraces the instants of his life.His  innocence nearly makes me weep because mine is gone.He doesn't yet know he can't get but so close to the sun before the wax holding his wings melts and sends him crashing down. When we cross the street to get the mail, we hold hands and look both ways. I would protect him with my life, but I can't protect him against the melt. The world is going to teach him that if he attempts to leave its orbit he will pay the price. I will teach him that sometimes the price is worth it.

So, it comes down to this: Not the why but the what. I am not a social scientist or psychologist or anthro-scientist of any sort.I'm just a writer:what I feel when I look at him is like no feeling I have ever felt before.The one hundred per cent purity of it.Tainted by not one thing.A play area filled with books and charts and trucks and puzzles and lots of broken stuff. He calls it "my office". I watch him play and explore and my body swells with high octane joy,a feeling so pure as to be almost painful, a happiness so intense,a creature so innocent, so honest, so without blemish,so focused on his here and now, a happiness so fervent that I can only define it as pure love, from the toes up love, a cuddle in your arms because you make it all better love, a feeling that nothing can harm you,love, and, if it does, so what? Folks talk about love all the time. It's a common topic. There's all kinds and then there's this kind, the kind that allows you to forget who you are because this other being has taken up permanent residence in your heart. Finally,we know it at its most potent.In this state,you think your heart will perform a pole vault and stick it. Take it. Keep it. Treasure it. Who cares why? It's just a question answered in the doing.

     I am mesmerized.I need to sit.It is too overwhelming.