|
Patrick M. Kennedy (P Manvel Kennedy) has been a
professional writer, editor, and graphic artist for
over 30 years. He currently works from Boise,
Idaho. In the past he has worked from Seattle,
Indianapolis, and Las Vegas. He keeps busy because
he knows it is important when writing or editing
any material with a particular objective in mind,
for either personal use or business goals, to
present ideas with quality, clarity and accuracy.
He can do that, and he does most of it himself, but
he occasionally must call upon qualified associates
for assistance.
"My Resume shows me as an experienced
professional writer and editor who specializes in
the English language. With years of professional
experience in the writing/editing/graphics field, I
offer quality services to both individual and
business clients, with prompt and accurate
solutions designed to meet their needs, and online
editing services and writing services for easy and
quick results. www.abetterword.com
The Aging Battle (The
Immortality Dream)
All Grown-up
Now?
Dressing Down
The Enemies I
Buy
The 5th of
July
Is FREE a Fixed Price –
Or a Down Payment?
I Got the Blues, sings
Buddy Guy! (If you do, get over it)
Oh No, Not Again! (Or:
Brush the dust off that resume)
A Second Heartbeat (Or a
Cuddle Buddy)
Single Senior Show
(Or: Dinner after the Wallflower
Parade)
When I’m Retired
(The perfect plan for everyone)
Yard Sales Inch by
Inch
When I’m Retired
(The perfect plan for everyone)
When I'm a retired cranky-old-man Boomer I will
brag I have the perfect plan all laid out. All the
things and wings of happiness are spread out before
me like a wet blanket over a bed of roses. My years
of experience in life’s games and the practice
sessions have made it easy to see my future.
When I’m retired I'll live with and off my
children and bring them the great joy they gave me
when I was their parent. To repay for all
experiences I've taken from each daughter and son,
I’ll decorate their walls with indelible pens
and scuff up the floors with my hiking boots on,
and run in and out without closing the door,
including the refrigerator. Break lots of dishes
and drop apple cores on the floor. And whenever
they yell at me, I'll hang my head and pout …
things like that … just like I remember.
When I’m retired I’ll drive if I want
to, even if they try to sneak the eye chart further
away, or lower the driver’s seat in my car so
I can’t see over the steering wheel. I’ll
know it, and they won’t fool me. I’ll
know that I’ve gotten old, no secret, probably
because I had two by-pass surgeries, a hip
replacement and new knees, fought prostate cancer,
and diabetes. I'll likely be half blind, won’t
be able hear anything quieter than a power-mower
engine, take a bunch of different medications that
make me dizzy, winded, and subject to blackouts.
Have bouts with dementia, have poor circulation,
hardly can feel my hands and feet anymore, and
won’t be able to remember my birthday let
alone if I'm 35 or 92. I’ll probably have lost
all my friends.
“But ... Thank heavens; I will still have
my driver's license and can go to other places to
avoid my troubles and meet new friends!”
When I’m retired I’ll keep in shape,
not like now, but in which shape I haven’t
decided, yet. I’ll walk for 30 minutes every
day, whenever I feel like it, or remember it.
I’ll stretch what muscles I have left.
I’ll turn wrinkled, gray and smaller like
everyone else, and the doctor will tell me that
lie, just like he does now, “You're in
terrific shape. There's nothing wrong with you.
Why, you might live forever; you have the body of a
35-year-old.” Pretty good for someone as old
as me, huh? He’s been telling me that same lie
all this time and I haven’t aged a bit.
“Gosh! What a good doctor he is to get me
this far along, and in this shape,” I will
say, “and still at a young age. I know
he’s good, because he’s still
alive.” I will think.
When I’m retired I’ll have no peer
pressure, or even pee pressure, because at seven I
always peed like a horse, at eight I pooped like a
cow, so the problem will be, I know, and I hope, I
don’t sleep past nine. Maybe one of my fellow
peers will call me to see if I’m asleep yet.
But I won’t be alone, because I’ll know,
like everyone, that everything that works will
hurt, and what doesn't hurt, won’t work.
I’ll be able to buckle my own belt every time
I need to, but won’t be able to unbuckle my
knees to stand up to do it. My supply of brain
parts and pieces will finally be down to a
manageable size, not so loaded up with trivia from
the job, and filled with dreams of running and
jumping.
“I’ll have to excuse myself a little
more often then than now.”
When I’m retired I’ll drink with the
same moderation as I always have. I’ve also
learned the hard way that lying doesn’t pay,
unless I’m in a bar talking about the night
before, or talking to my mate the next morning
about how much I had to drink … and with whom.
I still must do that. But, back to drinking,
I’ll quit the hand-over-fist-fast marathon
drinking practices I had in my younger days, and
taper back to left-hand then right- hand then
left-hand to slow me down. I’ll have parties
but the neighbors won’t even know it …
because, like I’ve said, I’ll have lost a
few friends, and the ones I will still have will
probably be as quiet as hospital patients.
“I will miss my two-fisted friends with
motorcycles who will be replaced; I’m sure, by
white-knuckled power-chair riders of the open
range/hallway.”
When I’m retired I’ll have sex once in
a while, sometimes, as often as I can, or whenever
I feel like it, or at least once. I will still have
an eye for the opposite sex. I will know the good
from the bad; the maybe from the not-sure; the
desperate from those like me; and the
don’t-give-a-darn from
who-cares-with-who-anyhow characters I use to hang
out with. But when it comes right down to it I
probably won’t miss sex, physically impossible
speaking, as much as I’d miss a lost hearing
aid or a pair of glasses. Dreams will be a
wonderful replacement for reality, in many cases
... I think.
“Sex is so over rated, over rated, over
rated, well anyhow, only semi-important.”
When I’m retired I’ll tell jokes like
Henny Youngman with the machine gun attack style of
a Jack Benny. I’ll make fun of the young and
middle aged because they are so open to all the
stupid things they do. Just like us. I hope
politics and political parties are still around
… what fun I’ll have. I’d try
standup comedy, but then, I don’t know if I
will be able to. By then, computers will be piles
of junk and ESP will be in and I’ll be able to
tell jokes without moving my lips, or without
anyone knowing it. They’ll all be laughing on
the inside. I can see it now, a whole room full of
gray, blank, red-eyed faces staring back at me
knowing I’m nuts for what I’d just said,
ESPd, to them.
“What a thrill, I can hardly wait to try
it. I practiced it last week and it
works.”
When I’m retired I’ll take up bowling
because I won’t have to walk as far as when
golfing … just three steps at a time. And the
ball will be larger and easier to control …
and not lose. There will be a roof to stop the rain
and blistering sun which might further crust layer
my skin. There will be a gallery of friends and
fans to cheer when I finally lift and roll the ball
… and knock down a few pins. Pretty young
people will bring me beers to my table instead of
having to knock back a swig from a flask under the
eyes of Mother Nature on the golf course or the
softball field. And who will care what my final
score will be, as long as I finish the game’s
all ten frames.
“When I retire I’ll be happy to play
the game.”
When I’m retired I’ll be my own cook.
I’ll probably have to after having alienated
all those people in my life who ticked me off and
won’t live with me. Besides, cooking for one
will be easier … and the menu will be simpler
… I’m told: Cereal with milk, cinnamon,
and fruit in the morning; Soup and crackers for
lunch; a TV dinner for supper. What’s so
different about that? And the dirty dishes will be
so much easier to keep up on.
“I’ll even keep a supply of paper
plates and cups, and eat over the sink, to keep
things neat.”
When I’m retired there are certain things I
won’t have to worry about anymore … like
dressing and being fashionable … who cares
… the clothes I have now likely won’t
wear out, and the fashion police will quit
following me around on my last day on the job,
I’m sure. I’ll get lower prices on
theater tickets, senior meals at the restaurant,
and even special auto insurance rates.
Speed won’t matter because I will have time
to spare and plenty of time to get anywhere.
I’ve learned everything I can the hard way, so
now I can learn things the easy way … if there
is such a way. My eyes and ears won’t get much
worse, and technology will only get better.
‘Maybe I will’ and ‘maybe I
won’t’ will be my standard answer to
things I may or may not want to do.
When I’m retired, life won’t be so
bad, if I don’t forget where I put this
plan.
I Got the Blues, sings
Buddy Guy! (If you do, get over it)
Blues are a relative thing. No, we don’t mean
you are mourning your Mom, Dad, Bro or Sis, or any
other character along your bloodline. No, we mean
your woman has left; your dog died; the car is
stuck in the mud; and the utility has turned off
your electricity, blues. We’re talking about
dark, deep blues with tinges or halos of purples
and crimson flashing in the back of your brain. The
strings of the electric guitar between your ears
are bending and screaming and crying real tears.
The sax in your gut is spewing moans and groans of
pity me, pity poor me, the low-down victim of all
that is bad and worse. You know how it goes
…
I’ve disappeared … invisible …
I’m aging … I’m old. My friends
can’t see me as I walk by and say hello. My
enemies burn my image with their eyes. People I
don’t know glare at me like I was a
resurrection of the devil. I am no one, nobody,
non-existent, a person non-grata and the bottom of
all shoes.
“I usta be somebody!”
Damn Right I got the blues. Damn-Sam-Blam-Bam
Blues with accompanying steam of cooked egos and
smoke from the trash I leave behind me. I got
torn-jean, black-eyed, mussed hair and hole in the
boot, last gasp blues. I’m down, I’m out,
and I’m the trash after my last
how’s-it-going-old-man birthday party. Heaven
is no help for these blues. I’m so down;
it’s too far for anyone in that spiritual sky
to take notice of my cry.
And I’m wailing. I’m jailing. I’m
hailing a cab to take me to nearest elevator down
to my soul for introspection. My soul is a blue tar
pit. My soul is as blue as the boysenberry smudges
on my brain.
Down here, inside myself, I disappeared to find
my life. I walked behind the exit door and entered
a world of the expectations. I saw the lights of a
powerful blue neon sign blinking the message,
‘Poor You, You Poor Man, Poor-Poor Blue Old
Man,’ following me to the next street into the
future. Blues are everywhere, and you can’t
escape it. You can’t shake the tail it has
attached to your hind end, a tail called TIME. You
must live with it and make it part of your
every-day life. Blues are part and parcel of every
body, just like arms, legs, eyes, ears, and all the
remaining hairs on your head.
That’s it; get over it!
Seniors are always crying about the past they
can’t relive. It’s gone, times past, the
life of a younger person, not you, now, in this
stage of your life, that is, senior in retirement
… for Gosh Sakes … a Boomer!
The Future is your next step, next thought, next
dream. You have no choice in the matter. Have a
dream; make a plan; list things you want to do;
list things you haven’t done but always wanted
to do; consult a fortune teller; whatever it takes
to get the process started. What process you may
ask yourself? Living from now on is the process.
You can go to the ocean and take that long, last
swim, or swim toward that palm tree in the Tropics.
This is the better choice. The blues, after all, is
a natural phenomenon in the process of aging.
“Life is ours to be spent, not to be
saved,” said D.H. Lawrence. You must spend
your remaining years as if they were gold coins
… only on the best items with the most value.
You know what they are. You know what you want to
do, but have always hesitated.
There are so many ways to improve and several
things you can accomplish to make this the time of
your life, actually, the time of your life, and not
the blues of your life. So many plans you
haven’t thought of, but others have. It is an
economic or intellectual crisis for some, and the
same opportunity for others. There is a potpourri
of protection you can do and build around yourself
to make this happen. Two things are essential; you
must have friends and finances forever, or at a
minimum, as long as necessary: Having no friends
and no money is really depressing.
We all know there are other things that are more
important as time flies by. Like … the
alleviation of an enduring pain; sex after such a
long time; a wrinkle cream that really works; solid
8-hours of sleep; a healthy bowel movement; and
maybe even truth in advertising. But we can’t
have it all.
Agreed, these are small things, but they add up
to happiness from now on. After all, as Ben
Franklin said, “The Constitution only
guarantees the American people the right to pursue
happiness. You have to catch it yourself.” I
guess he’s saying you can’t sit around
and wait for the time of your life to land on your
shoulder … you have to go for it and shake
those old-timer blues and dark shadows of doubt.
Now!
Dressing Down
And I was positive I knew what I looked like in the
mirror all these years. But, to say it wildly, the
other oxford dropped when someone asked, "Do you
know what you look like in those clothes? Are you
comfortable? It's a barbeque, man. Loosen up!" I
had to admit I'd ventured out on very few shopping
expeditions for new rags since I embarked on my
finer life of leisure. I began to feel like an
eight ball at a beach ball party.
Someone then suggested I wear a brighter and
more colorful shirt for a photo shoot. I can catch
a hint. I figured I'd better examine my closet and
I found it looked like a typical day in the Pacific
Northwest; a dull assortment of grays, blacks,
whites and occasional shades of blue…my
dress-up clothes for many years that served me
perfectly well in the cubicle world. The only
traces of a rainbow in my closet were the neckties,
which I pledged I would never knot to my neck
again; at least I knew that much about casual wear.
A light bulb lit up in my brain, wearing my old
work clothes as party clothes wasn't socially
acceptable and a major fashion modification was in
order.
After that degrading comment about my casual
rags I scrutinized the attire of my friends at the
party (men only, because women always have two or
three floors of wardrobe to choose from at any
department store, even work clothes, while men's
clothes are strung along racks between the tools
and the shoes), and I deduced that casual clothes
for men materialize in three fundamental styles:
The golfer motif, which depicts the impression that
the displayer of this costume is arriving at or
coming from the 18th or 19th hole; Hawaiian-loud
designed attire says vacation is my game and I've
been around and I don't want you to forget it; or
then there's the racetrack bookie garb that falls
between an imitation of Cary Grant and the used
finery purchased from a pawn shop. Believe me; any
combination of two of these styles creates chaos in
the GQ world.
I decided it was time to dress down and I
ventured into unknown territory to shop for my new
rags; I wandered the streets of the city rather
than the aisles of the clotheshorse arcade. I
stumbled on a store that specialized in sneakers
where just about any creature from the animal
kingdom or any barometric condition on the weather
map could encase my feet: choosing from the basic
activities of walking, running, cross training,
basketball, skateboarding, casual or courting.
Being a single guy I opted for the latter; it
seemed like an all-purpose shoe with a sort-of-flat
sole and a conservative gray color … hard to
kick the habit.
Working my way up the torso new pants was my
next objective. I remember when jeans were simply
called blue jeans and had the little watch pocket
in the front and a leather label on the back under
the belt. Now they are called denims, Levi's®,
Wranglers®, and an assortment of cowboy (girl)
descriptive action adjectives and fashion designer
dialog. They carry descriptive styles like boot
cut, pre-shrunk, cargo, carpenter, relaxed, easy
fit, form fit, loose fit, straight leg (What? As
opposed to a broken leg?), patch pocket, paint
splatter, boomer (now if that means baby boomer,
they might fit me), and adult cut; baggies were out
because they dropped below my love handles.
I had to make a fundamental style decision, that
is, do I want to look like an adult type or a
preshrunk-relaxed-easy fit type of casual person? I
assumed the obvious and bought the adult style,
which I quickly splattered with paint and dragged
behind my SUV a few miles to make them look in
style. Of course, there are alternative choices
such as casual slacks, khakis, cords, and wash and
wears, but I decided to hold off on buying those
until I lose my extra weight at the gym.
I was beginning to get into this fashion-plate
mood and decided to venture up the body parts and
cover my middle-aged spread around the bread
basket. Since I live in warm territory, and because
the color of my jeans and sneakers were close in
color to my work clothes, I decided on a clashing
rainbow collection of polo, golf, tennis, and sport
shirts; long and short sleeve; pocket and
non-pocket; with or without a moose, alligator,
brand name and golf club embroidered on the chest;
multi-colored and plain; and one size larger than
usual to cover all the good-time meals I'd eaten in
my previous life.
Hats are a mood thing and my mood is usually not
to wear one, unless it's raining too hard or the
sun is shining too bright. I could hold off on
jackets and sweats until the weather cooled to room
temperature.
There, it was done; I'd bit the bullet and
shopped till I dropped. I selected a set of sporty
clothes that I'll wear to the next barbeque. It's a
different approach than the three styles I'd
observed on others. I looked into the mirror again
and recognized that I'm now a retired teenager:
Next, a pony tail, tattoo, and pierced ear.
A Second Heartbeat (Or a
Cuddle Buddy)
A crony recently advised me that I needed another
heartbeat. I immediately threw my hand to my chest
hoping for another … and again another after
that. 'But the doctor says I'm in great shape', I
gasped. 'Not a transplant, idiot,' he put in plain
words, 'a second heartbeat, a companion.' Because I
am a single senior and tired of eating TV dinners
and take-out food my mind immediately flashed
brilliant colors of Las Vegas ladies and gala
parties, but I knew with all that going on I may
need a third or fourth heartbeat to keep up the
pace. 'A pet,' he clarified, 'a second heartbeat, a
cuddle buddy, someone to talk to rather than your
impassive walls.'
My walls do just hang their and hold up the
pictures and doorways. My friend probably had a
point. I had to give it some sober thought …
and thorough research … so I started analyzing
my way through the animal kingdom … starting
with the most common heartbeats …dogs and
cats.
For the most part dogs seem to be slow on the
uptake, but loveable and active, and they come in a
variety of sizes and colors. I figured size related
directly to food consumption and dumption (if there
is such a word to tolerably describe the process of
following an animal down the street with a plastic
bag in hand), and color related to shedding to
match the carpet. Cats are too mysterious and I am
positive each one stares at me with the intention
of trying to possess my human soul. That scares me.
I have enough trouble keeping my soul pointed in
the right direction without it being attached to a
cat. But cats do have a lot of fun and are fun to
watch, from a distance. They run around the
neighborhood, unleashed, and chase birds and an
array of imaginary wildlife they eyeball from an
ancestral crouch.
But cats and dogs are old hat and everyone has
one, I figured, so a visit to a local pet store
might reveal a menagerie of other heartbeats.
Birds are colorful, small and easy to maintain
and can chirp or chatter or sing. Canaries are
small and sociable, as long as you don't touch them
(sounds like some people I know), and can live up
to 25 years. 'Wait a minute,' I worried, 'I may
have to include the canary in my will.' Macaws are
beautiful, but large and they can live to the age
of 50 … another inheritor to my vast estate of
packrat artifacts. And a plain old parrot, if
taught to sing O Solo Mio like Enrico Caruso, will
be a real pain in the brain in no time. Besides,
where do you put a birdcage in a SUV while
traveling across country?
Do snakes have heartbeat … a heart? Does a
fish have a personality?
When is the last time you had the opportunity to
cuddle and pet a rat, or even escort one down the
street on a leash? I was told a fancy rat, I
supposed as opposed to a Cinderella-before-the-Ball
rat, is an ideal pet for the ages 8 and up with
adult supervision. (Being over 8 I didn't know who
I could ask to supervise me in my pet play time.)
They grow up to 10-inches long with up to an 8-inch
tail. My O' My! That's a foot-and-a half of rodent
fun and maybe I could escort mine on a leash down
the street - if I want to lose all my neighbors as
friends and be attacked by cats … and 'you
should have two rats', I was told, 'they are smart
and can learn tricks …but they have large
front teeth and need something to chew on.' Between
the tangled leashes and my gnawed finger stumps, I
passed on the rat(s) as a second heartbeat.
Then there is the reptile family of pets. There
is a variety of reptiles beyond the slithery snake
group. How about a Crocodile Greco, a Panther
Chameleon, a Blue-tongued Skink, or an Argentine
Horned Pac Man Frog? All are genuine animals and
not Sci-Fi creatures. And you know what? These pets
eat live insects and worms that also must be fed
nutrients before they are fed to the second
heartbeat. I passed again.
While considering the second heartbeat I also
reflected on some of the secondary
responsibilities. Cleaning up after any second
heartbeat will be an olfactory challenge no matter
what the source: Cats are not clean animals - have
you cleaned out a cat box lately? Little
doggie-poop baggies are just disgusting. Stained
and dirty newspaper bottoms and littered water that
must be changed, and sweeping the floor of a
reptile cage littered with insect carcasses could
be downright memorable.
There are a few other outlandish things to
consider, such as, a decent burial for my second
heartbeat in a Pet Cemetery; before that
Veterinarian expenses; related to that I recently
read that I may have to send my second heartbeat to
be consulted by a member of the IAABC
(International Association of Animal Behavior
Consultants). I saw a sign in a pet shop I was
browsing that advertised 'Have your pet's photo
taken with Santa'. Come On! But the one I read
written on a bathroom wall made me feel a little
queasy, 'Keep our city clean. Eat your dog!"
There you have it, and as a man of strict
indecision and sticking to it, I decided my friend
was right and decided on two second heartbeats to
keep me in high spirits: a spaniel puppy and a
wirehair kitten.
The Aging Battle (The
Immortality Dream)
The anti-aging, age-defying, longevity, staying
young, never aging, and the most extreme, the
never-ever dying goals in life, have spawned
industries that create solutions and concoctions
that materialize in the form of lotions, oils, skin
creams, growth hormones, mud baths, secret herbs,
nutritional supplements, and laser beams, etc. They
are short-term answers to the age-old problem of a
longer life. Last year, 2004, Americans spent $20
billion on various anti-aging products. To this
date there is absolutely no scientific proof that
any commercially available product will stop time
or reverse aging, no matter how many lobbyists the
pharmaceutical companies put in Washington; of
course optimistically, anything can still happen in
this scientific age.
Let us examine the core of the aging problem.
There is only one legitimate, workable
counter-attack in the battle against this process:
Stop all the intimidating sweeping hands on clocks
and rip the calendar numbers off the walls. Ignore
everything and anything that announces the date or
time such as newspapers, TV and the Town Crier.
Mainly, don't celebrate birthdays.
Age is the duration of time one has existed. And
after all, aging is in actuality the passing of
time, isn't it? That steady arrow that silently
moves in an undisturbed motion invisibly passing in
front of our eyes through life on ball-bearing
castors. It's the movement of the planets and
tides, hopeful buds popping from the earth in the
spring and tree leaves drying in the autumn like
weathered skin. It is the organic process of
growing older and showing effects of increasing
age. 'No time, no aging,' it's as easy as that.
Unless science can stop time we have a problem.
If Juan Ponce de León had discovered the
Fountain of Youth in Florida in about 1513, we
wouldn't have to worry. If we each had a portrait
similar to the Dorian Gray picture that cracked,
wrinkled and aged for us, we wouldn't have to
worry. A sip of the elixir of life potion and the
resulting immortality would be fun. But, NOT! It's
a fact and historical consensus proves it: Without
a doubt 9999 out of every 10,000 humans
unsuccessfully inhibit the aging process. And that
lonely 1 in 10,000, it is rumored, manages to beat
the process and shows up as a same-old rehashed
politician. The odds are against all of us: We
either pass to the other side or become a
politician.
As has been acknowledged, after all, aging is
the organic process of growing older and showing
the effects of increasing age; graying, wrinkling,
sagging, and shrinking. But there are some positive
qualities to aging, like acquiring desirable
qualities by being left undisturbed for some time,
you know, like good bourbon or tasty cheese or
becoming a ripe banana or pomegranate. Maturing, as
some people look at it, is the process of
developing an entity until it reaches perfection.
Somebody forgot to define perfection in the eternal
human life process. It can be anything in the eyes
of the beholder in this twilight zone between being
and not.
The immortality dream can take on many concepts
when mixed with personal and debatable reality. "Do
not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage
against the dying of the light," said Dylan Thomas.
"Time to turn back and descend the stair, with a
bald spot in the middle of my hair--," said T. S.
Eliot. These are observations on facing the
phenomena of life and aging. "Look younger," says
every beauty magazine on the drugstore rack: This
is nothing but sales gibberish. Unfortunately,
eternal youth can not be found in a bottle or a
jar, or even in a poem, but is a myth perpetuated
by the anti-aging agents of profit. But, anything
can happen.
Becoming a robot is one way to attain perfection
and beat aging, but how can someone walk in high
heels or sneakers with those club feet. The
touchy-feely part of life is discombobulated. Wigs,
weaves, plugs, dyes, skin grafts, wrinkle removers
and plastic surgery don't make anyone younger but
can make anyone feel younger; and they come close
to the ultimate answer: robotic renovation - that
is, becoming a mechanical device that sometimes
resembles a human and is capable of performing a
variety of often complex human tasks on command or
by being programmed in advance. I've seen some
individuals who feel plastic is fantastic and
believe they will never die because they can never
decompose. But being a robot, or wanna-be robot,
leaves out the option of tasting that fine bourbon
and cheese, or eating a banana.
But again, something may eventually happen
because we believe time is eternal, hope is not
lost; maybe the scientific community of anti-aging
gurus can clone time's eternal properties into the
human DNA.
Oh No, Not Again! (Or:
Brush the dust off that resume)
We all are aware that the economy is in such a
muddle that a fight has broken out between
Rocky-Mountain-sized bar graphs and
unfit-for-human-consumption pie charts; we just may
have to invent a tears broom to sweep up after all
the sobbing. Or maybe, the answer can be, we
concoct an environment where we forget all these
worries and spats and live in cabins, caves and
tents; and hunt and fish and plant things for
survival. Whoops, we just came from that living
milieu in the 1800s.
Or the other option, we boomers may have to
continue working until we see that bright light,
instead of being retired, laid back, and basking in
the sun … like we’re suppose to.
You mean, get a job? Oh no, not again? Been
there! Done that!
You know how it goes. You did it after high
school, and maybe college. Hat in hand, you carried
out the most multi-faceted and degrading
action-reaction performance devised for humans
since the beginning of the Industrial Age: A job
interview. The unexpected was always expected.
Humility was the strongest asset you had to bring
to the table. You know that. You had to be pleasant
and have a silk suit and tie on your tongue with a
button-down brain cluttered with pearly smiles and
polished pleases. Do you want to; have to; do that
again.
Just remember what Ogden Nash said when applying
for a job, “People who work sitting down get
paid more than people who work standing
up.”
The interview process, usually, from past
experiences, unfortunately, will go the same way.
The interviewer, typically a fresh very-young
graduate in Human Resources from a Matchbook Trade
School, after glancing halfheartedly at your
resume, seems to base the decision on two
questions: Why the heck do you want this job? And,
can you find the door without tripping? Your gray
hair trips you up every time.
You want to say, ‘Because my nest egg is
growing smaller, or the nest is growing bigger, I
don’t know which. But I need some more income
to pay the pharmacist and grocer … let alone
the gasser upper. If you are already retired, you
have to consider the unthinkable. You may have to
brush the dust off that resume. If you are thinking
about retirement soon, you may have to have second,
maybe third, thoughts. Of course, you can follow
the advice of Edgar Bergen, who was no dummy
(through the mouth of, Charlie McCarthy, who is a
dummy) said, “Hard work never killed anybody,
but why take a chance?” Just say No!
Do you recall what President Clinton so
eloquently orated to an audience a few years ago,
“By the time our young people reach your age,
they will be working jobs that haven’t been
invented yet.” Great! He forgot to say
‘when young people reach retirement age, those
jobs won’t be available, or invented,
yet.’
“What about me?” you will think.
“I’m available, a neat dresser,
experienced, and actively in the job hunt.”
But you will find that the openings for a trained
and proven professional range from Superstore
Greeter, to Café Swamper or Bus Boy (man,
lady). They have pre-determined that any ol’
person can shake a hand or swing a mop or drive a
delivery van. If all else fails you can always
resort back to delivering the morning newspaper
like you did when you were 10 years old. Many
seniors do it these days. Check it out some
morning.
Of course, work, instead of retirement, can
eliminate all those menacing and boring things
you’ve had to do with your spare time: like
taking long walks and improving the golf game;
sleeping in as long as you want to; wasting all
that time deciding whether you want watch a movie
on TV or listen to some cool jazz on the stereo;
preparing a nice lunch instead of a jammed sandwich
with a soda; and even the time you spend in a
totally semi-Zen, relaxed muscle state of bliss as
you lie back in the lounge chair and count the
holes in the ceiling tiles.
You’ll see, going back to work isn’t
all bad. You won’t miss these things;
especially crunching the numbers at the end of each
month. And remember the up side; you will be
meeting all those people on the job you used to
hate, even a boss. Maybe you can get even.
All Grown-up Now?
We know the definition of a teenager: that is, we
human creatures who put up with all the trials and
tribulations, the invasion of an acne army and
moaning growing pains, between the ages of 13 to
19. We know a baby is a small human in diapers with
an insatiable appetite, and a tweener is somebody
between a baby and a teenager; 'too young for this'
and 'too old for that'. And it is assumed an adult
is anyone with enough cumulative heartbeats to
legally purchase and drink liquor, smoke cigarettes
and gamble, be qualified to vote (if they want to),
sign a contract, and do generally anything to
enhance or defame the human image.
But when are we officially considered a
grown-up? You know; someone who is full-sized,
full-fledged, fully developed both mentally and
physically and qualified for an enhanced lifestyle.
Is that retirement? Is retirement the natural
passage between adulthood and grownup hood? There
are so many things they didn't tell us when we were
handed a birth certificate and declared to be a
human, and this is one of those transparent smudges
in life we cross with no instructions or even a
amusement-park-type map for directions.
Maybe people must qualify to be a grown-up: A
mental test must be passed or anyone can claim this
status of nobility. To be really qualified I bet
there are questions like: Do you know who Rosie the
Riveter is and the Yankee Clipper? Do Pearl Harbor
and Air Raid Sirens shatter your memories? And to
be a little less qualified I bet there are
questions like: Can you define 'I like Ike', Rock
Around the Clock, Ozzie and Harriet, and the
Brooklyn Dodgers? Do you remember dancing the Twist
or the Bunny Hop in Pegger pants, or pedal pushers,
and a turned up collar, and for some of us, with
our greasy hair shining under the revolving
mirrored globe hanging from the gymnasium ceiling,
while listening to music on the Hi-fi?
The physical qualifications are easier to
ascertain. If your well-weathered face doesn't
qualify for the cover of Elle or GQ magazine,
you're in. Now you might be able to run a marathon
race, but more than likely if your bones ache going
from the front door to the car, you're in. If you
believe gravity is the worst element in all of
nature's wonders, and the southern environment
sunshine is the best, you're in. If you purchase
canned food and you quit purchasing food in jars
because you can no longer open the lids with your
hands, you're in.
Social qualifications take on the traits of a
Bill hop-scotching through Congress. What being
grown-up is to one person is different to the next
person. (You see, lobbyists have already taken a
nibble out of the process.) Responsibility seems to
loom as a defining guideline for grown-ups:
Learning to take responsibility and consequences
for your actions. Learning to treat people as you
would like to be treated yourself. When you realize
the entire world does not revolve around you and
that it will go on tomorrow, with or without you,
you are now socially a grown-up. Come On! Is this
grownup hood or the Boy Scouts?
Then other critical questions arise: Is anyone
ever completely grown-up? Does everyone really want
to be a grown-up? Do we have to go through all this
trouble? Can we be grown-up and still be an adult
and have the energy and attitude of a teenager?
Maybe just being a plain old adult is better. If I
admit to being a grown-up, will somebody fix the
bathroom mirror that makes me look like my grownup
father?
Single Senior Show
(Or: Dinner after the Wallflower Parade)
Eating fine food in a quality restaurant is a dream
for all citizens who have worked a lifetime for it.
So occasionally I have the urge to enjoy a quality
meal while indulging a setting with tablecloths,
linen napkins, and silver not plastic tableware,
please. Eating it alone is the nightmare. You see,
I know what it’s like to be the focus of
attention as I cross a dining room like a
wallflower parade with a of string of toilet paper
stuck to the bottom of my shoe, trailing me like a
bridal train, and people gawking at me, or worse,
averting their eyes so they don’t display any
impression of an I-know-him glance. That’s
what I feel like, sometimes. I’m a single
senior, and this lightning strikes me whenever I
participate in a social occasion of any kind.
The most uncomfortable event, and probably the
most frequent, is at a stylish restaurant. It
inescapably begins when I approach my first
adversary, the hostess, with mild apprehension,
because the first embarrassment typically is
manifested when I say, “One for dinner,
non-smoking, please.” “Only one?”
she asks. “Yes, Please.” Then the
exaggerated yanking of one menu from the rack, and
a full body twist, “This way, please,”
and the show begins.
I know the spotlight is on me and I can feel the
buzzing of gnats as they surround me, attracted by
the nervous sweat rolling down my brow and back.
Every eye in the place is directed at me, I’m
sure. ‘Please get me to my table as quickly as
you can,’ I silently plead with the hostess
from the paranoid caverns of my mind. Then, after
weaving around every table so I have been fully
displayed, I arrive at my table. “A table for
six, don’t you have anything smaller?” I
appeal to the hostess. “This is all we have,
unless you want to take a table in the
bar?”
They always ask that. They always want singles
to be with other singles in the bar, drinking, so
maybe we, some day, will be couples and can become
a full-table bigger-tip customer. “No, thank
you, this will be fine.” I want to explain to
her that all bars smell like dirty ashtrays and
carpets soaked with spilt cocktails, and that truly
spoils the taste of the fine dinner I am about to
pay a good hunk of change for.
“OK. Your waiter will be, Smiley, and will
be right with you.”
“Thank you.”
Now the second embarrassing adversarial event
takes place. Smiley’s ally, Busboy Bill,
charges the table and meticulously, with the
grandiose flair of a Las Vegas magician, salvages
the clean place settings of the five friends and
family who obviously must have snubbed my dinner
invitation. One, two, three, etc., the napkins,
silverware, water glasses and placemats are scooped
up and paraded across the room to the little nook
in the corner where waiters and busboys congregate
to plan my social demise. It happens. It must.
These degrading rituals can’t be an accident.
It has to be a social behavior created by
generations of service workers, or taught in
Restaurant 101. Who knows?
“Can I bring you something to drink?”
asks Smiley. “Just coffee.” “Just
coffee?” “With cream, please.”
“Nothing from the bar?” There it is
again: the bar. “No thank you.” From that
time on the dinner goes just fine, except the
eternity between when I’ve ordered the meal,
and the point when the meal arrives. What to do? In
a small diner or café I usually whip out the
daily paper or a paperback and read it while
sipping my coffee. Here? No way. It would be like
waving a red banner, Lonely Person! Lonely
Person!
During the meal, the eating part of it, after it
parades in dish by dish, I get the usual courtesy
drop-bys from Smiley, “More Coffee?”
“Everything OK?” “Will there be
anything else?” And invariably on each of
these occasional visits, my mouth is full of food
and I must either nod my head or spray a mouthful
of it across the table if I say “More coffee,
please”. They must also instruct waiters and
waitresses how to do this with faultless timing at
Restaurant 101. This is where universal sign
language enters. I point at the cup and nod, yes
… or no.
After the meal is complete I need, must obtain,
the check so I can calculate the amount of a tip
and escape out the front door. Smiley walks past me
with 6 desserts somehow attached to all hands and
arms and strides a beeline for a family at another
large table. I move my plate away from me to signal
that I am done. Smiley brings a pot of coffee
… to another table: I need coffee, too. I
don’t get it. I place my napkin atop the
fragments of food I’ve left on the plate and
nudge it to the edge of the table … and wait.
Busboy Bill is more attentive and captures the
plate, silver, cup, saucer, and water glass, and
remaining are a couple of peas I’d
accidentally brushed off my plate. They somehow
have become plugged into an electrical outlet and
develop strobe-light characteristics, which are
attracting the critical eyes of everyone in the
area.
Smiley passes again. I try a casual wave. Once.
Twice. Then I realize I must make a dash for it. I
put enough cash and a proportionate amount of
gratuity, undeserved I must say, on the table and
attempt to sneak out around the happy diners, past
the hostess, and toward the front door, hoping all
the time I don’t get stopped and accused of an
act of Dine and Dash. And again, all the time, of
course, dragging the same toilet paper train behind
me that I dragged in. I must keep, it so I can
display it at my next stop, the theater, alone.
Is FREE a Fixed Price –
Or a Down Payment?
Offers for FREE goods and services are being
delivered daily to my mail box and sent to me by
e-mail, overwhelming me on TV, and falling like
snowflakes from my magazines. As a frugal
individual I pay attention to saving a buck or two.
If I accept as true these offers, I may never have
to spend another penny, on anything. But what is
FREE to me? I’m not imprisoned or shackled,
and I’m not under the control of
another’s will, except by my Better Half, of
course, who imposes house arrest, so set me free
mostly doesn’t apply here … I hope. That
only leaves the option that someone is going be a
kind spirit and give me something at no cost, no
money that is, complimentary, gratis … I
hope.
For example, the other day a standard 4x6
pre-addressed postcard fell from a magazine and
floated to my floor like a graceful and disarming
dove. After it alit from its flight, the blazing
red letters rose from the card like a ruthless hawk
and cried FREE. I had to inspect the details of
such a blazon command. 10 issues of the magazine
FREE for the mere action of ordering a subscription
for 30 issues at a low cost of $29 plus change. At
the low per-issue rate the card advertised, it was
just like getting 10 issues for FREE. I believe it
was more like a down payment. Some deal, huh? Maybe
the same company would sell me 10 acres in
Manhattan and give me one for free. Fat Chance!
On TV the telemarketer rambles his spiel,
“A FREE bottle of magic liquid cleaner…
just buy one bottle and we will send you a second
one FREE … and we’ll throw in two FREE
bottles of shoe dye, the color of your choice, a
FREE sponge on a stick, two all-purpose rags, and
an entry form that entitles you to enter a contest
that offers a FREE trip to Orlando as first prize.
And if you order now, the telemarketer continues,
for each future order you will receive 2 bottles
for the price of 1 … for life” WOW, I cry
out, all this for just purchasing one 20 oz. bottle
of supernatural cleaner for the dirt-low price of
$10 plus change. Now I no longer wonder why they
immediately fill the TV screen with flashing phone
numbers, replicas of credit cards, and attractive
dusting housewives; because the announcer is
definitely and uncontrollably laughing up his
sleeve off camera after the pitch.
Now another scam (excuse me, offer) that is
closely related to the magazine offer is the
book-club offer printed on an attractive brochure
personally addressed and slipped into my mailbox:
First book, FREE; second book, FREE, third book,
FREE (WOW!); fourth book at the Regular Price plus
Shipping and Handling (OOPS!). All this for just
signing up for a years supply of other and more
books that I may or may not order or want. FREE in
this case is definitely a down payment on my future
reading activities and an iron clad guarantee of
less space in my bookshelf. I like to imagine
I’m just as frugal with my bookshelf space as
I am with my cash … but I really believe I
fall short of both.
Now in most cases Shipping charges I can see and
understand. The product has to get from there to
me, somehow, but Handling charges are a mystery.
Does this mean they wear clean or latex gloves
during the packing process? Does this charge
guarantee the product will not be dented, torn,
wrinkled or maimed, and the order will be complete,
correct and properly addressed? I doubt it. I
believe this handling charge is how they handle the
lost profit on the FREE part of the offer.
I’ve seen some Shipping and Handling charges
range from 6 to 30 bucks, depending upon how fast I
want their FREE product, when in fact postage glued
to a brown envelop would be sufficient for
delivery. Go figure!
Some things are really and truly FREE …
excluding the obvious, air. E-mail offers of FREE
newsletters are a windfall for the penny pinchers
like me. I just sign up for the
weekly/monthly/daily e-mail delivery to my inbox of
a newsletter explaining the values of modern poetry
and its effect on the environmental extinction of
concrete libraries, and the filling in of mud flats
in Nevada, or something along that order of
madness. The neat thing is the newsletter will also
offer bargains on everything. That’s all. But
to sign up I have to fill out 3 web pages of
personal information: likes and dislikes, shopping
habits, income level, sex, etc., and recommend my
friends. Hmmmm! No outlay of cash for me, so it
must be FREE, and since I now loiter in
semi-retirement I have oodles of time on my hands
to read every word of every offer generated and
sent to me in my personalized and valuable FREE
newsletter. Is this a fixed price, or a down
payment?
Some other things are FREE: Samples of products
delivered to my home by a charming, bright-eyed,
gray-haired lady; Catalogs, for obvious reasons,
are FREE; CDs with multi-purpose programs to
install on my computer are FREE (but SAFE?);
Kittens are FREE if I want to take one home; Coins
are FREE if I want to stand on a street corner with
a cup in my hand; FREE tips; FREE hand up; and FREE
peanuts or popcorn at the bar where I will
contemplate and categorize all the FREEEEEE stuff
in the world.
But here is some FREE advice; the most important
and generally FREE item is my will or self control.
I can or can not, will or will not, or must or must
not, fall for FREE offers from even the most
attractive offerer person.
The Enemies I Buy
I, as a red-blooded and very experience human
being, have always had the self-belief that I was
smarter than a toaster. I know the younger
generation with all their gizmos and thingamabobs
could fry me in a one-on-one contest of technology
trivia. But I always thought my discount-store
inventory of appliances was a safe haven. I know
it’s a hard choice between saving money, and
saving sanity. But things happen.
This morning I was rudely attacked from the
blind side by a blood-curdling scream that
interrupted my canoe ride through a softly tinted
forest on a serene stream. My nighttime dream world
had been shattered like a cheap mirror.
My first reaction was self-defense. I grabbed
the pillows and crushed them to the sides of my
head, for self-protection, to muffle the eventual
mushing of my brain by those ultra-violent sound
waves. It took a few seconds to clear the fog and
readjust my wits so I could analyze how I’d
been thrown from my serene stream into the front
row of an acid rock concert in hell.
My second reaction, an automatic motor function,
was to open my eyes, blink, then adjust to the
daylight and investigate to see if the room was
spinning around me or me around it. My third
reaction was descriptive, ‘Dagnabit!’ If
you haven’t figured it out, my first enemy of
the day was a whirly little electronic
black-blazer-butler Made-In-China hammer located
somewhere inside my newly purchased inexpensive
snooze-alarm-radio clock. My fourth reaction was to
moan, ‘why is it screeching, and how do I turn
it off.’ I hadn’t turned the alarm on in
the first place the night before. I can sleep in
these days. That’s what I’ve worked for.
I must have placed one of the ten or dozen knobs
and switches in the wrong position. I don’t
punch a clock anymore, but this time I did.
To fix this little box of horrors before the
next morning, I set each switch in the desired
position, just like the multi-language
instructional pamphlet suggested, secured them into
position with a lump of Scotch Tape, and said a
little prayer to Thomas Edison, who I’m sure,
is the God of electronics.
The coffee pot is a mostly harmless, but a
sometimes sneaky, enemy. I ran water into the
coffee pot, placed a new clean white filter into
the little basket with the magical hole at the
bottom, measured in the proper ratio of coffee
grounds per cup of water, poured in the exact
amount of water, anticipating a little extra boost
to help me forget the morning’s dashed dreams,
closed it all up, and pushed the brew button.
I could hear the babbling and singing of the
coffee maker. About once a week, or so, it’s
an accepted disaster, one of the sides of the nice
new white paper filter will collapse and allow
pure, unsaturated, gritty bits of ground coffee to
pass through the magic hole and into the pot. And
So! The first cup I pour in that morning looks like
a mud puddle in a freshly turned garden plot with
dirt floating around the edges like baby bugs.
Again, I have three choices of defense to act
out here: First, I could yell Dagnabit! Which I
already know solves nothing; Second, I know lumps
of Scotch Tape won’t work in this situation,
so I can either repeat the steps above for a new
pot; or Third, I can give ground (no pun intended)
to the enemy and attempt to dab up the grit from
the suspicious liquid with the corner of a paper
towel. Next time, I muttered, I’ll remember to
inspect the filter like my Army Captain used to
scrutinize my footlocker.
In the meantime, the new toaster, the one with
the unpretentious knob that assigns Light to the
left, and Dark to the right, and neither means
anything anyhow, smoked like a three-alarm fire in
the corner of the kitchen cabinet, contentedly and
warmly creating black tiles of bread. Enough said!
I won’t get into the color of the butter as I
took up the challenge and tried to spread it with
non-crumbling agility across the flat sides of the
tiles. This enemy is easy to defeat, but may take a
whole loaf of bread. Starting from the left I
toasted slices of bread until the exact color mix
of $700-dollar-an-ounce gold and charcoal was
attained. Then, with a dab of enamel paint (nail
polish will do) I marked the spot for perfect toast
… just in case someone turns the knob. Toast
quality is personal choice and not an exact
science.
The bowl of oatmeal gruel in the microwave had
just bubbled and exploded. This enemy is a subtle
sniper. The muted hum of the electromagnetic waves
rattled my breakfast into an edible temperature
zone and lulled me into a sense of false security.
The muted crack of an explosion rocked the morning
air like a sniper’s gunshot. I’d
overlooked the warning sign: Cover All Food. The
inside of the zap contraption looked like my enemy
had layered stucco on the walls with a paint gun
filled with my gray matter. I’ve forgotten to
put a cover over the bowl. Never do that. Just a
paper plate over the top is easy, and
disposable.
My enemy started to resemble me.
Warning here, Juicers are armed land mines if
the lid is taken off too soon, unless you want to
wear a shirt with an orange spatter pattern. I
think this remedy is obvious.
These lessons are disturbing for someone like me
who is trying to be a non-morning person and sleep
in, relax, read, etc. My enemies are lurking in
every doodad convenience gadget I buy at the
discount store. It’s part of the deal and
clearly printed within the barcode I can’t
read, also on the label I can’t remove from my
appliance without a blowtorch or strong acid.
I’ve found, just because these appliances are
cheap and have been designed with all the friendly
colors and curves, it doesn’t make them
friendly, or trustworthy.
Well then, if you can’t beat them, join
them. I’ve learned to fix and work around all
these appliance attacks, and pass the information
along to friends. It has built for me the
reputation as the Appliance Guy: There are many
enemy appliances lurking out there, this is just a
sampling. I don’t make much money, but free
coffee and lunch in exchange for that small
appliance repair or hint can be an entertaining
hobby, and if you get good at it, you can make lots
of friends.
Yard Sales Inch by
Inch
Finally, the apples of our eye have moved on to
clutter up their own homes, and we may now think
about moving to smaller and cleaner abodes, or
southern and warmer climates. It’s the natural
order of life. And this without a doubt means a
yard sale, to clear out the clutter, must be
considered. As enterprising senior citizens with
the genes of a pack rat, we must scatter treasures
atop folding tables and across lawns to grudgingly
part with precious icons from our materialistic
histories. But first, we should examine this
commercial experience so we can understand it, and
possibly make it a constructive and profitable
event. We need a plan that will be meticulously
crafted and followed, and probably just as
meticulously abandoned. There are several areas to
be scrutinized before setting up this scavenger
boutique, and a little of my hesitant advice may
help.
Advertising Fun: Hanging the letter-size posters
everywhere is a requirement before any yard sale.
What to say? Junk Sale sounds too trashy. Closet
Clutter Sale reeks of desperation. Good Stuff For
Sale sounds too iffy. Pre-used Trash Sale is too
honest, and too negative, and definitely not very
inviting, and Pre-loved Trash Sale…sounds too
cute. Keep it simple stupid and just call it a Yard
Sale. A map and an address must be included on the
poster. Bright-red arrows painted on cardboard and
tacked on telephone poles at the nearest busy
street are a big help. Just make sure the wind
can’t blow them upside down. Also, an A-frame
sign on the curb in front of the house can stop any
potential customer. A chain across the road
isn’t necessary. Get the apple of your eye to
help with this if you must.
Money: Pennies on the dollar is a fair swap for
your time and material while planning for your
less-than-cluttered future, and is a
straightforward and obvious motivation for a Yard
Sale. And what to charge for items? It’s a
give-and-take situation and the master business
plan of all Yard Sales is to barter.
How much change should be on hand? How about
accepting checks? Take them on trust or not? Since
it is all junk anyway, if the check doesn’t
clear there still is a positive transaction because
the customer has carted away another unwanted,
unused item that took up space in the garage or
attic.
Physical Layout of the Sale: How do you post the
prices on the items: Big, small, or none at all?
Everything listed as OBO (or best offer)? Or should
there be a secret price list that only you know
about and can reference? How many display tables do
you have? Need? Should you put mats down on your
beautifully manicured lawn so it won’t look
like a cow pasture the next day? Should you open
the garage door and put stuff in there? All these
are legitimate multiple-choice questions with so
many answers they can’t be listed here.
The Inventory: Rule One – Everything goes
since you are moving out of town. Rule Two –
Everything worthless goes.
Some have suggested that all the items should be
cleaned and polished: Another option is to leave
all that clean-up labor to the buyer. That’s
part of their fun. Besides, when I buy things, I
always want to clean off all their germs and
replace them with mine. It gives the item more of a
personal touch.
The Customers: Some early arrivers are looking
for that unnoticed antique article of artwork they
can snap up for a few pennies and a belittling
snicker. Remember that a sale is a sale and anyhow,
you never would have known the value of that old
needlepoint anyhow.
The bargain hunters, the wheeler-dealers, the
price whittlers, the I-want-something-for-nothing
shoppers will make your day. They bring the real
spirit of a Greek Market. The best solution is to
participate in the game and negotiate to make the
sale a win-win result. It just feels good to bicker
with a person one-on-one instead of handing a
bar-coded plastic artifact to the clerk at the
local discount store.
The real shoppers are the young couples setting
up a new household, and the teenagers who have
finally been booted from their homes by their
parents: Like you possibly just did. These are the
real customers. They have a limited vocabulary and
a limited bankroll, but also have an empty house or
apartment to furnish, thus about half of everything
you display is needed.
Pre-Pre-Planning: If you’ve really thought
ahead to the unmentionable, that is, the reality
that some items might not be on the Yard Sale
shoppers’ list, you have already called an
organized charity to pick up the remaining items,
and then found out, My God, even the most desperate
charitable organizations refuse to pick up some of
the items! And then you also found out, of all
things, that these organizations specialize, or
have a list of items they do and do not take. You
must call two or three of them.
It’s Over: After the Yard Sale is over,
there are going to be plenty of items left over
that even the most addicted Yard Sale shopper
couldn’t purchase. The reality is, the dust
gathering process has restarted with a vigorous
flamboyance enhanced by the parting potential
customers spinning their tires in the dirt
driveway. And a further reality is revealed, as the
sun sets, that all this time, unknown to you, all
your precious icons of personal materialistic
history are just dust magnets attracting all the
particles from the cosmos. You probably will have
to move them to the dust magnet headquarters, which
is called the dump.
The 5th of July
Yes, the 4th is Wham Bam Bang and Sizzle
Independence Day and it is packed to the horizon
with picnics, parades and band concerts all over
the place; with decorations of red, white, and blue
stuck to everything. But the 5th is the first day
of the next 364 where the practice of freedom is
really celebrated. A day to mull over what went
before, and what will be from now on; sort of like
a day playing country-store checkers after a day of
an international chess competition. The fire
crackers have cracked and the rocket red glare is
no longer in the air where the odor of burnt sulfur
hangs around like an irritable family member. The
ground is carpeted with paper confetti scattered by
the fireworks and parades. But remember, the 5th is
also the birthday of P. T. Barnum, the
self-proclaimed prince of humbug; the day the
Salvation Army was formed; the Secret Service was
started on this day; and in 1946 the first bikini
was worn in public. I don’t know if any of
these events have a connection, but if so,
let’s celebrate again! And some of us do.
This day-after day has always had a special
meaning to those in the slower lane. The 4th of
July conveniently this year falls on a Monday and
provides another glorious three-day weekend. But
those of us in a not-working-every-day phase of
life say, “Who cares?” Mondays
disappeared from the calendar a long time ago. We
no longer have to suffer through Blue Mondays
because it was the first visible benefit after the
last day of work. A favorite question on Monday
morning in the elevator use to be, ‘is it
Friday yet?’ And the normal response was,
‘the third best day of the week, after
Saturday and Sunday.’ Many of us in the past
took the 5th off of work solely to gently
recuperate from the 4th.
The 5th inescapably suffers as it is the day
after the giant rotating backyard BBQs, this year
your house and next year someone else’s, with
all the trimmings, all the friends and neighbors,
and all the merriment mess. The day after everyone
has contributed their favorite casserole, salad,
snack and dip, or a suspicious glob of something in
the middle of a platter surrounded by a concoction
even more puzzling. Some bring their favorite meat
or fish to smoke and broil in the open air
barbeques, and everyone tries to top everyone else
in the taste department; which makes for a
wonderful feast. Many even drag in their own
portable barbeques and lawn chairs so there’ll
never be a shortage of hot-coal surfaces or
cool-comfortable seats under the trees. Ice chests
brimmed with cooled beverages and tasty snacks are
lugged in and spread to convenient spots around the
back yard; and even in the house for those odd
bodies who desire to dodge the sun’s rays.
Following the afternoon and early evening filled
with food and beverages, as usual, a short parade
is organized to march to and then re-gather at the
high-ground point in a nearby park. The fireworks
show begins at the edge of darkness and provides a
spectacle full of oooh and aaah highlights, and
concludes with the eye and ear shattering flurry of
fire in the sky. The day is done for most of the
partiers after that, especially those with kids,
but some retreat back to the house and backyard. A
few of the beverages hadn’t been tapped, the
kids are gone, and a poker game seems to break out
in the kitchen. Conversations and cards are dealt
and replayed, and rehashed and reshuffled; food is
eaten until the platters are clean; and one-by-one
the players retire to the living room as the game
diminishes down to a couple of winners.
And the celebration of the 5th of July begins a
slow crawl to life.
“Remember when … Remember where we
used to … Remember the time … Do you know
… Can you recall … Do you think
we’ll ever?” The warm radiance of the
slight beverage buzz, or it could be the ambiance
of old friends recalling memories, fills the room
along with the morning sun and the flies seeking
leftovers. Old friends who hadn’t gathered for
a while, for some of them a year, take the weight
off their feet and relax in a comfort zone built by
years of experiences together, and slow down. The
distractions of the present are left at the door
like dirty boots.
Someone always brings up the issue of those who
aren’t here this year. So-and-so has made a
break for it and escaped south to warmer weather
and the stories of “I wish I could
…” and ‘Maybe I’ll …”
begin to be fictionalized and exaggerated. Another
soul mate has passed to the other side since last
year and a rousing toast of beer bottles clang in a
ring around the group, and an equaling rousing
round of memorial stories bend the ears.
“Remember the time when we all hopped that
freight car and …” and on and on the
conversations spin, like a great habit: A
déjà vu day that really has happened
before and will happen again.
Yes, the 4th ignited the roasting fire, but the
5th maintains the warmth of the celebration. It is
one of those rare days, year after year, when old
friends gather and randomly reminisce. It is an
annual day-after day, sort of like the 26th of
December and the 2nd of January and the Tuesdays
after Labor and Memorial Days.
©2008, Patrick
Kennedy
* * *
Man arrives as a novice at each age of his life.
- Nicolas Chamfort
Contact
Us |
Disclaimer
| Privacy
Statement
Menstuff®
Directory
Menstuff® is a registered trademark of Gordon
Clay
©1996-2008, Gordon Clay
|
