Two Old Men

Old friends, old friends

Sat on their park bench like bookends

A newspaper blown through the grass

Falls on the round toes

Of the high shoes of the old friends

 

Old friends, winter companions, the old men

Lost in their overcoats, waiting for the sunset

The sounds of the city sifting through trees

Settle like dust on the shoulders of the old friends

 

Can you imagine us years from today

Sharing a park bench quietly?

How terribly strange to be 70

 

Old friends, memory brushes the same years

Silently sharing the same fears

(Old Friends, Paul Simon, 1968)

 

 

They aren’t friends . . . the two old men.  In fact, I don’t think either one of them gives a hoot about the other one.  They are on different ends of the spectrum . . . more like opponents . . . enemies, these two old men.  They don’t like each other, nor do they respect each other. Yet they are cast in the drama we are all stuck in.  But they are old.  They are male . . . men.  And we are stuck with them.  They are not friends.

 

Paul Simon’s hauntingly simple song, Old Friends, has always struck a heart chord since I was a young teen.  The visual imagery it evokes has always left an impression on me.  Back then I couldn’t even begin to imagine what it would be like to be seventy.  Shoot!  I couldn’t even picture myself making it to twenty-one.  Yet here I am . . . pushing the years ever closer to seventy.  Nor could I see myself on a park bench with a friend.  Then and now . . . you’ve got to have friends.  The song has always stirred melancholy within me.

 

This isn’t about me.  No, its about the two old men invading our lives and throwing us all into a state of anxiousness.  The two old men.  The younger of the two will be seventy-eight years old in less than a week.  The other is inching his way to eighty-one come the fall.  Neither one is a spring chicken.  They are old . . . elderly . . . geriatric . . . majorly senior citizens . . . mature . . . OLD!!  Not only are they old, but they are also our choices to lead our nation in the upcoming fall election.

 

Yes . . . two old men.

 

In a magazine article I recently read, major world leaders shared their views about the presidential race in our country.  Mostly they expressed disbelief.  Disbelief that in a nation of over 340 million people that these two old men were the best candidates chosen to run.  This international disbelief is probably the echo coming from our own populace.  You know, really . . . two old men?  This is the best we could do?

 

I’m not even that old and I can’t picture myself vying for the supposedly most powerful leadership position in the world.  These two guys have well over a decade of mileage on me and at my age I can already see and feel the wear-and-tear.  Being old ain’t easy.  It’s a daily adventure to just survive.  I’m old.  Ask my children and grandchildren.  They will tell you that I’m old and constantly remind me of that fact.  Even my co-workers at my university job are checking up on me to see if I have a pulse.

 

In my more mature age, I know that I do not have the physical stamina I once had.  I get tired more easily.  I long for naps.  An early bedtime is looked forward to.  Takes me a little longer to get from Point “A” to Point “B”—and even thinking about it winds me.  My balance ain’t what it used to be.  I trip more often even though I suspect Mother Earth is reaching up and tripping me.  Biffing is quite common.  Physically I am older.  I am unable to defy entropy.  I’m slowly falling apart . . . fading away.  These guys have a lot more years on their bodies—and it shows—yet they want to be president?  Come on . . . they are two old men!

 

I am also losing my mind.  At least that is how my wife, children, grandchildren, and co-workers describe it.  Actually, I’m just more forgetful.  I don’t remember things as easily as I used to.  I must write things down . . . leave myself notes . . . provide myself clues and reminders.  That comes with aging.  So does the gift of repeating.  As I have gotten older, I catch myself telling the same stories and jokes . . . over and over.  It comes with age whether it makes everyone else in the room roll their eyes and audibly groan.  I recognized this in my advanced age.  I ain’t as sharp as I once was.  And boy, do I see that trait in these two old guys.

 

One speaks like a kindergartner on a sugar high barely able to get two coherent words out in a sentence.  At times he sounds like a “touched by the Spirit” loose tongue evangelical experiencing a divine moment of ecstasy.  Can’t make out a word that he is saying but he sure is enthusiastic about what he is saying.  Maybe God understands him, the people sure can’t.  Some say, due to his age, that he has dementia.

 

The old guy isn’t much better.  He has difficulty speaking too.  People blame it on his age and stamina.  Someone jokingly suggested that he turn the teleprompter towards the audience and let them read the speech for themselves . . . that it would be faster and make more sense.  Some say he is in the same boat as the other younger old guy and is in the early stages of dementia.  I’ve often wondered if he hasn’t had a series of mini-strokes or TBIs.

 

Neither one will go down in history as great orators . . . probably not even “okay” as public speakers.  They are old.  What do we expect?  They are two old men.

 

Research shows that cognitive decline begins around the age of seventy and increases in deterioration closer to the age of eighty.  Explains a lot.  These two old guys are there age-wise . . . they are old!  I think I have been slipping downhill once I hit sixty-five.  Some days it feels as if I am running down that hill.  These two have got to feel like they are in free fall from an airplane without a parachute.  They are going to end up as a great big splat before it is all over.

 

And, that my friends, is my fear.  The source of my anxiety.  They are two old men . . . running for president.  They shouldn’t be.  No, they should be sitting on a park bench.  Basking in the warmth of the sun.  Enjoying God’s handiwork.  Remembering.  Reminiscing about the good old days, family, and friends.  Counting their blessings for a life well lived . . . after all, they made it—they are old.  Let someone younger run for president.  They’ve got the fortitude, capacity, and stamina to do the job.  Give them a chance.  Let the old guys rest.

 

Two old men.

 

I doubt that they will ever sit on a park bench like bookends.  I doubt that they will ever be friends.  They won’t be companions.  Yet here they are . . . two old men. Two old men stirring the same fears in all of us.

 

Is this the best we could do?

 

Two old men.

 

Grandmother

“You can only perceive real beauty in a person as they get older.”

(Anouk Aimee)

“Grandmother.”

The older lady behind the serving bar in the cafeteria of the university said that all of the student from Japan called her, “Grandmother.”  She explained that it just made her day whenever these students referred to her as “Grandmother.”  Looking at the lady she could have been anyone’s “grandmother” . . . she is a rolly-polly sort with her white hair up in a bun . . . a wonderful smile . . . twinkling eyes . . . an a great sense of humor she shared with a laugh . . . and, she is caring.  She is always this way . . . and, not just to the foreign students who call her “Grandma.”  It is always a pleasure whenever she graces my life when I am in the university’s cafeteria . . . she is a “Grandmother.”  She has earned that respect.

In the book that I have been reading, The Girl Who Sang to the Buffalo: A Child, and Elder and the Light From an Ancient Sky, by Kent Nerburn, he writes of the respect that the Native American culture has for its older members . . . the elders.  In the book the characters refer to an elderly Lakota man and Ojibwe man as “Grandfather” . . . though none of the characters are related to the two men.  It is a sign of affection and respect that this term is used.  Several years ago I attend a Native American conference in which the registration form had several categories from which to choose . . . one of the categories was “elder”.  An elder was anyone over the age of 55 years.  At the time, I was not old enough to be an elder . . . close, but not close enough.  I got to pay the full registration fee.  But, these were the “Grandmothers” and “Grandfathers” . . . earned through time and experience.

I like this term of respect . . . this term of affection.  Sadly, I do not think that we Americans live in such a culture that pays respect and affection to those who are older.  Most of us only one or two sets of grandparents in our live . . . usually our parents’ parents.  All the other people are just “old people” we know, and we do not give to them much time or energy.  We do not see them with the same respect or affection that those Japanese students do . . . like the Native Americans do . . . like many of the other cultures of the world do.  No, older Americans . . . the elderly . . . the “Grandmothers and Grandfathers” . . . are not as valued as they are in other cultures.

Now I am sure that there are those who disagree, but it does not take a whole bunch of effort to see how our society views and treats those who are getting up there in age.  Society reflects the attitudes of what is valuable in the lives of the people who inhabit that niche.  Not since the Waltons has there been elderly people given respect as the “wise ones” on television.  Instead we see the elderly played up for laughs and jokes . . . they are often the butt of the rude humor that drives a lot of entertainment today.  Being old is not valued in our society.  Read the newspaper and magazine advertisements . . . when was the last time an old person graced the cover of a magazine that wasn’t associated with the AARP?  Same goes for what we see in commercials . . . if you are over the age of fifty you get to be the star in constipation ads, “Help! I’ve fallen and can’t get up!” ads, Viagra ads (another form of “Help! I’ve fallen and can’t get up!” sort of ad) . . . medical ads . . . Depends ads.  That is not quite the way to show respect to those who are getting old.  This is not the way that we should treat the “Grandmothers and Grandfathers”.

Still don’t believe me . . . then, consider this: We have changed the way that we care for the elderly in our society.  Study the history of nursing homes in the United States.  We have moved from keeping our elderly relatives and parents living at home with us to moving them out and out of sight in care facilities.  We don’t even call these care facilities “homes” anymore because these facilities have little in common with what many of us consider to be “home”.  No, these facilities are nothing but warehouses to store people until they die.  History shows this movement and we have done nothing to stop its movement of separation . . . separate and forget.  This is not the way that we should treat the “Grandmothers and Grandfathers”.

A little less than two years ago I finally became a “Grandfather” for the first time as I was graced with a beautiful granddaughter by my daughter and son-in-law.  A little less than a year ago, I finally became old enough to become an elder according to the Native American classification I read on the registration form . . . old enough to be considered a “Grandfather”.  The granddaughter hasn’t called me “Grandfather” or even “Grandpa” yet, she is still too little . . . but, she squeals and giggles and gives me great big hugs whenever she sees me.  She knows that I am her “Grandfather” . . . but, at the same time, I can’t wait until that day comes when she calls me that for the first time.  I also cannot wait until the day comes when others . . . those who are younger . . . begin to show me the same love and respect that that cafeteria worker receives when she is acknowledged as “Grandmother” by the students she serves.

I thought about the words that this “Grandmother” shared about being acknowledged . . . respected . . . and, being loved.  I thought about the words that the author share in his book about the way that the older people are called “Grandmother” or “Grandfather” . . . of being acknowledge . . . respected . . . and, being loved.  And, why shouldn’t this older people receive acknowledgement, respect, and love?  It is pretty amazing that any of us ever make it to old age the way that we barrel through life!  We are the survivors and we have a few tales to tell . . . the young could learn something from those of us getting up there in age.  Author Gary Snyder writes: “In Western Civilization, our elders are books.”  Oh, the stories and wisdom we could share if only the young cared enough to care.

Unfortunately, in our society in the United States of America, it just does not yet exist . . . we do not yet see the power of a village raising a child . . . of the elders being treated as a treasured resource . . . of being one family under God.  We have not opened our eyes to the “Grandmothers” and “Grandfathers” around us.  We are losing them . . .

Singer/songwriter John Prine, in his song Hello in There, tells us not to let the opportunity pass us by.  His lyrics are a warning to us all:

So if you're walking down the street sometime

And spot some hollow ancient eyes,

Please don't just pass 'em by and stare

As if you didn't care, say, "Hello in there, hello."

Let us remember the “Grandmothers” and “grandfathers’ before they are gone . . . they have much to share.

Grandpa Is Getting Old

I’m getting too old for this stuff . . .

This weekend the wife and I are babysitting our 14-month old granddaughter as her mother and father attend a wedding in the big city.  It was with great exuberance that the wife and I volunteered to take on this duty . . . we wanted to watch her.  We wanted to watch her in all of her non-ending youthfulness, non-ending energy, constantly walking, constantly wandering away, constantly getting into stuff . . . never wanting to take a nap . . . never wanting to go to sleep . . . and, constantly wanting to be noticed; yeah, we wanted to watch her . . . and, after one day we are wondering what we were thinking!!  We are getting too old for this stuff and she isn’t even a teenager yet!!

Now, don’t get me wrong . . . my granddaughter is the coolest and best thing that has ever happened.  I miss the punk when I don’t get to see her at least once a week . . . which probably prompted the wife and I into volunteering to watch the kiddo this weekend.  The kids moved to another big city in Montana a couple of hours away a few weeks ago.  I had not seen the kid since they moved . . . I was having granddaughter withdrawal.  So we volunteered . . . and, the adventure began.

The day began bright and early as we all heading off to the mountains to do a little “moosing”.  Moosing, for those of you who do not know what I am referring to, is cruising the back roads looking for moose.  To properly do “moosing” one has to get up very, very early . . . on the road by 6:00AM.  Without a complaint or even a whimper, the granddaughter joined us adults for a early morning of moose hunting.  She was a real trooper even though she was stuck in her car seat for a couple of hours . . . the reward was that we saw seven moose.  We saw three sets of momma moose and their children, and we saw one bull moose.  Unfortunately, at 14-months of age, the granddaughter will never remember any of it!

After a couple of hours of moosing, we headed to breakfast at one of the wife’s favorite eating establishment.  There the granddaughter was a blast.  Grabbing everything and anything . . . babbling away . . . flirting with people at other tables . . . and, demanding to taste everything that was on the table.  Constant energy . . . constant motion . . . and, constant noise.  I loved it!!  Who doesn’t like being with the cutest person in the room?

From there we decided to do a little walking around town . . . do a little shopping . . . after all, the acorn doesn’t fall far from the tree, and daughter and wife seemed to think there was a need to do a little shopping.  Fourteen month olds really don’t care much for shopping.  Fourteen month olds want to explore . . . search and destroy . . . go on what they think are Indian Jone’s adventure worthy of the silver screen.  The granddaughter was up to the task . . . we walked around countless stores . . . we tested the limits of a lot of store owners . . . tested the limits of Grandpa.  The punk must have walked a couple of miles!  The rest, Grandpa carried her.  Needless to say, even though she is quite petite, Grandpa got tired.

We walked the streets . . . we petted dogs . . . we looked in windows . . . sat on park benches . . . wandered the aisles of every store within a hundred miles . . . danced.  Yeah, I said, dance.  This granddaughter likes to dance . . . she likes to boogey.  Doesn’t matter the music, when the spirit hits her to dance, she dances.  Of course my dancing is not much better than my singing . . . but, being a grandparent cuts a person a little slack . . . people expect grandparents to act like idiots.  I need a granddaughter thirty years ago!! 

Again, I was tired.  She wore me out . . . she wore her parents out.  But, they were lucky as they were heading out and going to a wedding rehearsal.  A tear entered my eye as they pulled away from the house . . . what had we gotten ourselves into!!  A 14-month old and a nearly elderly couple . . . someone was going to lose in the end.

From the time that our granddaughter’s parents left she was a constant blur of activity.  She was a ball of energy . . . constantly moving energy.  Her grandparents, unfortunately, were not . . . we were more like the immovable blobs that wanted to sit on the couch and reminiscence about the good old days when we just sat there and held our granddaughter.  It was low energy, low impact. 

I do want you to know, there were chinks in the granddaughter’s armor.  She did start to get tired . . . which meant she got grumpy . . . but we were under strict orders to not let her sleep until her bedtime at seven o’clock.  That was nearly four hours away when the parents left . . . the wife didn’t make it.  She crashed in her recliner for a “ten-minute” nap that lasted nearly an hour . . . much to my horror!  I did a whole lot of walking around the yard and house with the granddaughter . . . we picked grandma’s flowers . . . walked up and down steps . . . danced in front of the bedroom mirrors . . . ate a lot of Cheerios . . . and, basically wore Grandpa out.  It was then that Grandpa decided that he was getting too old for this stuff.

Yet, we survived.  The granddaughter has now been asleep for over two hours . . . sawing logs.  Grandma has already hit the sack.  Grandpa is drinking beer, writing a blog, and wondering how in the world he is ever going to survive tomorrow when Grandma goes grocery shopping for a few hours, leaving him alone with the granddaughter.  He is not sure, but . . . he will survive.  He always survives to see his granddaughter another day.

At the end of a day with the granddaughter there is exhaustion.  Yeah, this exhaustion manifests itself physically in my body, but it is a “good” sort of exhaustion.  I love my granddaughter.  I love her 14-month old sense of adventure and wonder.  I love her goofiness.  I love her dancing.  I love her babbling.  I love holding her in my arms as she clings to hang on.  I love her “honking” my nose.  I love her sharing her food with the dogs.  I love her constant motion.  I love her laughter . . . and, I even love her tears.  She is a hoot . . . the best hoot I ever get.  She reminds me what it means to live life to its fullest . . . because she does each and every moment she is awake.  Yeah, it is exhausting, but it is a good exhaustion no matter what age one might be . . . it is life lived with joy.

My granddaughter is a blessing.  I thank God each and every day for this blessing.  I am not too old, she is too young . . . but the blessings are numerous . . . too numerous to count.  She makes me smile . . . she makes me laugh . . . she makes me sing . . . she makes me dance, but most of all she makes me feel loved.  No matter how old I get, I will never get enough of that sort of stuff.