Making do

 Back in my old life I spent little time deciding what I was going to do each day.  The course was well mapped out for me by whatever was needed to meet my job's and my family's obligations.   The daily juggle dictated my agenda. Not so now, working in the mines of my golden years.

6:00 A.M.  Press the button in the wall next to my bed to let the resident's control center know that I've made it through the night.  Brush my teeth.  Shave.  Shower.  Eat something. Take my meds.  Seize the day.

I don't concern myself with what day it is.  First I figure out what year it is.  Review my "To Do" list of important dates (doctor visits) and social obligations (weekly meetings with other inmates for special interests).

Thank God for the internet with its magic abilities to connect me with loved ones, friends from that other life, and virtual stores full of stuff I'm certain I need.  The other day I got an email from Mike Westra, a friend from that other life.  If you are a little bit old and are a basketball fan you will remember Mike as a star roundballer for USC.  We met when we both worked as reps for Jostens of Minnesota, selling high school students various items they didn't really need.  We discovered we shared a love of limericks, poems by Robert Service ("He was always cold but that land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell") and Rudyard Kipling ("Though I've belted you and flayed you, By the livin Gawd that made you, You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!") and any other written material that caused one to laugh out loud or think deep thoughts.  At boring sales meetings we would exchange original limericks about anything and everything and in the tradition of the best limericks, they were blue in color.

So I sign off in the spirit of our friendship with a limerick. (Also, Mike asked how to respond to my Methuselah postings. Click on the "no comments or 1 comment or 2 etc at the bottom of the post).

This place  where I live is okay

If you like doing nothing each day

Excitement is rare

'til you fall down a stair, 

“Don’t move him, just let him lay.”

No harm in the fall has been done

I’m up, I can walk, I can run

That drama is through,

We need something new

Or back to the jigsaws for fun. 

(Acknowledging truth: there was no fall. A rhyme was needed for "rare").

New Year Coming On

About this new year. Do I have the necessary equipment in my tool kit to cope with all the challenges I know are out there? It's too late to order new stuff, so I'll just have to go with what I've got.  Many of the issues are beyond my ability to control. I can't whip up a batch of vaccine, although I can hound the people who control my access to the wonder juice to help me get my share.

I cannot find the means of rounding up every one of those individuals who invaded our nation's capital on the 6th of January and make them listen to me unload hard facts that have lain dormant in my mind since those days at the University of Oregon pursuing my degree in History.  About the wonder of how our democracy even made it through the complex obstacles of the founding and then continued to weather the continuing horrendous  challenges.  Without some penetrating lubricant to coat my words it would never change any of their beliefs, but it would make me feel fine.

Whether I'm ready or not, all that 2021 stuff is going to come rolling in.  I probably have not anticipated much of it.  It triggers a Glenn Miller song from way back in that other century:

Last night I saw upon the stair, a little man who wasn't there

He wasn’t there again today, oh, how I wish he’d go away

When I came home last night at three, the man was waiting there for me

But when I looked around the hall, I couldn’t see him there at all.

Bring it on.

Bye, Bye Blackbird

 It has been 630 days (122 posts) since that first Methuselah Report in 2019;  now as I gear up for a continuing run in 2021,  I reflect on the Big Bang that got these tales spinning into orbit.  I've been old for quite a while and I still haven't adjusted to it very well.  The title of that first posting, "Old Is Just Another Word For Screwed" set the tone.  Since that time I have made a remarkable discovery.  I've found the one thing that is wonderful about being ancient: Everything is about me. 

Teams of doctors keep me on their speed dials.  If a nurse comes in while a doctor is examining me I let the nurse know not to interrupt us.  The doctor is committed to finding out everything about me and I'm a willing responder.

People on the train insist that I sit down where they are sitting.

Russellville Park where I live now is obsessed with keeping me safe from anything that would endanger my health. They want me to be happy and they are constantly seeking programs that I will find interesting; that will jazz up the hours between meals and bedtime. 

My children seem to devote their lives to making certain they've answered my every possible human need for physical well being and mental tranquility.  So what have I got to whine about?  Nothing.  Scrub all that negative stuff from past postings.  Pack up all my cares and woes, here I go, singing low, bye,bye blackbird...

In the beginning, Methuselah seemed the logical guy to carry my thoughts.  Born in 3317 in the Near East, he is the oldest Biblical patriarch while also figuring in Judaism and Islam, thereby bringing most of the religious material inside the tent. Having lived for 969 years you know the guy had to gain knowledge of a lot of stuff, so choosing him as my guide gave me an enormous warehouse of material  to plunder.  Meth still has a few years on me but I will continue to channel him as we go skipping down the yellow brick road. Que the rose pedals.

Renewal Blues

Back when I first started posting the Methuselah Report I remember drafting a mission statement which I have apparently misplaced (I know it's around here somewhere). Anyway, I think one element of the statement might have been to always find ways to shield my readers from life's occasional unpropitious events.  Like scams.  I discovered this one when I recently renewed my subscription to New Yorker magazine and started getting duplicate issues.  When I called to correct this the agent told me one issue was sent to my name without my middle initial and the other one with it.  She assured me that it would be corrected and informed me my subscription would now run through 2026.

WHAT? 

I discovered that anything you renew regarding goods or services from whatever company or organization, the overpayment does not come back to you as a refund but, rather, is added to your account as extended future goods or service. In my case with New Yorker magazine, for god knows how many past years, whenever I got a notice soliciting a renewal, I would send a payment (I know, I know...dumb).  So, over time, I have built up a balance exceeding $600 worth of magazines that might outlive me. 

Obit:...Landers leaves five children, lots and lots of grandchildren and 189 unread issues of the New Yorker magazine.

But, to New Yorker magazine's credit, when I called to protest, subscription agent Rachel assured me they would refund all payments beyond December, 2021.  Good for them.  Good for me.

I suspect some others might not be so honest and even the New Yorker was willing to keep my overpayment and continued sending renewal statements even though I was covered for the the next six years. So, buyer beware.  Don't renew until you get a notice that says, "Our next issue will be the last you receive from your current subscription."

The Rocket's Red Glare

The bombs bursting in air...Who doesn't love fireworks?  Americans will seize on any occasion to celebrate it by setting off explosives, the bigger and more spectacular the better.  With the new year almost upon us, out fellow patriots will be preparing their arsenals for the midnight hour when they will light the sky with pyrotechnic devices (thank you China) and shattering the night's silence with explosions designed to scare away the evil spirits of the old disgraced year and welcome in the fresh new promise of pleasures galore.

My old friend William O. Bassett lived for whatever occasion allowed him to blow up the night with fire and thunder.  If it had a fuse, he had a match.  The Bassets and the Landers were driving from Portland, Oregon to Portland, Maine one time (that's another story) and passing through South Dakota Bassett spotted what to him was a little slice of Heaven: a giant year-around fireworks warehouse filled with stuff you could use for dam removal.  He filled his cart with some serious ordnance and in Minneapolis I had a friend who had access to a shipping dock where he worked. We sent Bassett's war chest home by UPS (Forgive us our trespasses).

So after our trip the Bassetts are holding a New Year's party, the climax of which will be a midnight presentation of South Dakota's finest.  The street in front of the Bassett's home is ablaze with strings of exploding firecrackers, sky bombs with spreading arcs of light.  Then a super rocket shoots straight up into the night sky, seems to circle around and then sails directly down to land on a neighbor's roof.   YIKES ! We race down and knock on the owner's door.  Not home. Back to Bassett's for a ladder.  Back to the target house.  Rocket's dead.  No damage (maybe a little black smudge but who would notice?)

Happy New Year ! Where are the sparklers?

Speaking of Rings

 One of the consequences of hiding in your apartment from the dreaded coronavirus attack, compounded by being older than springtime, is you spend an inordinate amount of time remembering episodes from various times in your life.  Like when I was working as a sales agent for Jostens of Minnesota, preying on high school students to sell them some or all of our product line: rings, caps and gowns for graduation, announcements, and other accessory items.

I'm in the main hallway at Benson High School in Portland, Oregon where I have set up my portable store (a four-foot-long display box showing samples of our class rings). It's between classes before the lunch break and coming down the hall to my station is a young lady who, by her attire, I judge to be trouble walking.  "Ooo," she says to me, "I love rings."

I say, "I don't think you are supposed be here during classes."

She laughs and says, "You're probably right.  What's new about class rings?"

I tell her, "Well, the new thing this year is a feature we call "Select-a-side" which means whatever your favorite activity is, we can put symbolism related to that activity on the side of your ring.

She giggles and says, "I'll bet they wouldn't put my favorite activity on a ring."

Just then the lunch break sounded.  Saved by the bell.

What's The Thing With The Ring?

I think I have mentioned in previous postings that I have great admiration for Bill Gates.  Everything about him, to me, registers as significant evidence of a man with a brilliant mind using the fruits of his achievements for the greater good of a humane society.  I watched him today on CNN's Jake Tapper show discussing the coronavirus pandemic to which he has focused large amounts of his personal involvement and resources from his charitable foundation.

Watching him on TV over time,  I noticed a small facet of his body language: when responding to a question he would engage his right hand with his left hand, and fiddle with his wedding ring. Being an admirer of him I imagined he was subconsciously acknowledging that all his good works came equally from his wife, Melinda.  The more likely explanation is that it is simply a nervous tic using the ring as something to fiddle with.

But today on the Tapper show his right hand would still engage with the left but...NO RING.  Where is Bill Gates's wedding ring?  Did he have a rash and his dermatologist wrote him a prescription for Terbinafine and told him not to wear the ring until the rash was gone?  Did he lose weight making a resize necessary?  Is everything still OK with him and Melinda?  If Jake was doing his job at his usual high degree of professionalism he would have said, "Hey, Bill, what's the deal with no wedding ring?"  Now we're all just left to wonder.