You Must Remember This

Of all the indignities visited upon old persons because they didn't die sooner, their faulty memory is the one many people find most amusing. Everything from the unzipped fly to the lost glasses perched on the forehead or the return to the front room with the glass of ice without water. The list is endless.  But the remarkable thing about your memory is that it contains multi-thousands of tiny chambers that old timers can often visit and bring back scenes with the brilliant clarity of a Norman Rockwell painting (who is Norman Rockwell?  Never mind, the man could paint). The number of years in the past when the chamber was filled is irrelevant.

For me, driving past a 7-11 market might trigger a call-up from the deep recess of my brain an incident that happened sometime around 1955.  Young and married with a couple of kids and just enough money to buy a bottle of cheap whiskey for the Friday night party with friends.  Late in the evening the ice runs out and I go for more to a close 7-11.  The ice is in a large chest outside the store next to the drive-up parking spots. As I lift the lid of the chest I catch, from the corner of my eye, the image of a woman waiting is the car parked next to mine and a thought flashes to my mind.

What if the ice chest housed an Ice Monster that lay in wait for half-drunk humans?  To grab them and rip them apart?  So I leaned deep into the chest and then jerked back, fighting off the monster with my left hand while making grunting sounds. Then I dove head first into the chest with my legs kicking as I fought myself back out, clutching the bag of ice. Then, not looking at the woman, I slammed the lid down and lurched into the store.  From the corner of my eye I saw her slumped over laughing.  When I returned with the ice the car was gone.

Don't ask me what I had for lunch.  I can't remember.

Get the Hook

Let's consider all these geezers who want to become president of the United States of America (or who already are).  The over-70 crowd.  Has everyone in this wonderful country of ours gone completely bat-shit crazy to think for even one micro-second that people in that over-the-hill situation have the physical energy and mental acuity to supervise this, the largest and most complex organization in the world, at the level it deserves?  Come on people, now...

For everybody except Tiger Woods and Tom Brady the age 42 is where you peak.  You still look great and you are as smart as you will ever be.  Your past life experiences will guide you to good decisions for the rest of your trip but now the small erosions start in physical and mental ability.  By the time you are 70 years old your best performance days are way, way back there.

America is a diverse nation of millions of exceptional citizens, some more intelligent and talented than others. Our duty, as voters, is to choose our leaders from that pool of the gifted and at some point the really old ones should get out of the pool.  They need to grab a towel and a sturdy chair and start writing their book. To bring our country back from this train-wreck of an administration it will take a  leader with vigor who does not require hearing aids and lots of sleep.

'Old' is Just Another Word for Screwed

First, let’s define terms.  If you think you’re old and other people call you “Sir”, you’re old. Screwed is what you think it is.  Some would use the stronger term but there may be children present.

An enormous economic engine is tuned to profit from the inevitable journey to “not young” experienced by the citizens of our great nation and, to enhance the possibilities for maximizing the take, soothing euphemisms are introduced into the literature of aging.  “Senior citizens” suggests wise patriots who are revered by younger men and women for their presumed willingness to contribute their wisdom to the crusade for national greatness. 

“Get the suction lines attached, Clyde, we’re going to milk these babies dry.”

What demographic consumes the major amount of pharmaceuticals in this country?  Oh, yeah.  So pump a little more profit in…no, wait… pump a LOT MORE profit in those little life-saving pills and don’t spare the TV advertising expense to let our Senior Citizens know that creating miracle cures is what we do.

And how about a place for mom?  Or dad (if he hasn’t already headed south). A nice place that doesn’t smell like industrial strength urine when you enter the lobby. Run by compassionate people who, depending on the level of care provided, will make it work for the budget of the individual old person.

The fact is that there are many facilities out there that set a high bar of excellence for taking care of old people with all  their special needs, both physical and mental.  None of them are cheap.  If you want cheap go where the smell is not so grand.

We won’t even discuss, “Golden Years.” That vile canard was laid to rest the first time the Senior Citizen just missed getting to the flusher in time.

Don’t bitch about your Chevy burning too much oil when your odometer can’t find enough zeros to keep turning over.  That’s why getting screwed by life’s referee is just part of the deal we agreed to when we continued to play the game knowing at the end the score would not be in our favor.  We kept playing because it was the most thrilling, frustrating, lovely, exhausting, wonderful, exciting gift any creature could dream of receiving. Even knowing the final score, who wouldn’t vote to play?

O.K.  Your joints creak and a couple of them are freaking painful.  You can’t see.  You can’t pee.  You can’t hear the request to turn the TV down and you don’t remember turning it on.  And on and on and then you die. Send me in coach.  I’ll take the chance to play this game every time.  So many exceptional experiences but most of all: being with the love of my life…those special times.  Ball game.