Blog #97

Gabriel Garcia Marquez said that older folks are people whose lives are slow, who do not see themselves growing old, but who disappear little by little in their own time, turning into memories until they are absorbed into oblivion.

My maternal grandfather died when I was 21.  He lived on an eight-acre estate, and my brother and I used to sleep there often.  There was a small, shallow swimming pool, a few acres of lawn and a forest in the back, dog sheds and big dogs (collies, I think) and Claude, the caretaker, who let us ride in the back of his pickup truck.  The house was a rambling ranch, and in the hall leading to the master bedroom was a door that opened onto a stairway.  You climbed the stairway into the attic, walked above the driveway and came down inside the garage.  The place was a magical adventure for young boys.

Grandpa is dead now and his first wife and his second wife and her sister.  Claude is dead and the dogs.  The house is gone.  The forest is gone, replaced by tract homes.  But I still remember him and somehow that makes him still alive.  I want my grandchildren to remember me so that I can keep living beyond my years.  And I know they will.  Maybe they’ll even sing Dinosaur in my Diaper to their kids or grandkids.  Maybe they’ll read my letters and blogs.  I hope so.  And then I can live – with them and their kids and their grandkids – for a long, long time before I am absorbed into the oblivion Marquez speaks of.

Ok, that was heavy!  Let’s try something lighter – like Gangsta Rap.  Do your grandchildren like Gangsta Rap?  I’m not really sure what it is, but my grandchildren like it.  My, how popular music has changed!  We’ve gone from I Wanna Hold Your Hand to I Wanna Be Your Pimp.  From You Light Up My Life to You Light Up My Bong.  From Bye Bye Miss American Pie to Hello You Bitch Ho!  I made up those Gangsta Rap song titles because I looked up the real songs and the names were not fit to print.  What a world!

Hi there and welcome back.  Hope you’re staying warm and dry in this blustery January.  Next week, we will celebrate Martin Luther King Day.  Dr. King would have been 90, but he’s not because he’s dead.  You know, of all the National Holidays, only three recognize an individual – ML King Day, Christmas and Columbus Day.  I’m not sure why we have a day for Columbus, an Italian guy working for a Spanish queen who never actually set foot anywhere in the United States.  The only American who has his own day is Dr. King.  Not George Washington, not Abraham Lincoln, not Jefferson, not FDR or JFK or LBJ or Benjamin Franklin or even Michael Avenatti.

In January of 1969, the year after Dr. King was assassinated, before there was a day attached to his name, I was teaching math at Kinloch High School, a school with all black students, all black staff and all black teachers – except for me.  On his birthday, which was January 15^th back then, not some convenient Monday, the school had an assembly to mourn Dr. King’s death, and every speaker denounced the devil white people.  That was fun.  I actually hid under the bleachers.  True!  Here’s another true story.

I was in a bank recently, and I noticed the name-plate in front of one of the tellers said her name was Robirda.  I said to her, “You know, fifty years ago I taught high school and I had a student named Robirda.”  Where did you teach, she asked?  Kinloch, I said.  She smiled at me.  That was my Gran-mama, she said. 

I started the New Year by getting something done that I should have done years ago.  I completed my Health Care Directive.  You probably have one.  It’s the document which delegates the authority to terminate life support.  I do not consider this subject verboten.  It’s part of life (and death, for that matter) and needs to be addressed.  So I did it.  But I’m having a bit of buyer’s remorse.  Obviously, I named my wife as the Designated Agent to decide when to – well, let’s just say it – pull the plug.  I’m worried, though, that she’d pull the plug frivolously, like if I wore linen in October or forgot to drop her off at the door of the restaurant.

Seriously, the thing that really bothers me is that Carol is always in a big hurry.  A big hurry!  My Princess of Lickety Split has no patience for silly, mundane things like slow restaurant service, telephone wait times or recovering from a coma.  What?  His temperature went down to 98.5?  Turn off the juice!  And he’s not going to get out before my next nail appointment?  Sayonara, Sucker!

Actually, I’m not worried.  Why would Carol ever get rid of me?  I do everything for her.  One day this week we had bad weather.  My wife hates bad weather, so I made sure she could stay under cover while I ran the necessary errands.  The only time I run anymore is when I’m running errands.  It’s called being a gofer.  The pharmacy for pills, the library for a book, the grocery for two bananas (one greenish-yellow and the other yellowish-green), the gas station for a Powerball ticket. I was busier than a pickpocket in a herd of kangaroos

I know I’m the best Gofer yet

Cause I run and I go and I get

I bring her the goods

Like a good gofer should

Making sure that she never gets wet.

Yes, I know the lottery thing is a waste of money, but you never know.  I have a chance, about as much chance as Donald Trump and Nancy Pelosi sharing an Uber.

All this talk about end of life directives brings up another question.  Once you're in heaven, do you get stuck wearing the clothes you were buried in for eternity?  Just think about that.  They don’t exactly have retail stores up there, do they?  Like a Burlington Halo Factory or a luluheaven or J.C. Couture?  That’s probably for the best.  For once, I won’t have to check whether my shoes match my belt.  Now that’s Heaven!

But let’s not worry about that, hopefully, for a long, long time.  Just stay well, count your blessings and come back next week.  I want you here.  You light up my bong. 

Michael                                    Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com