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.