A Last Will and Testament... Sort Of

I am 62 years old. Now and then over the last forty years I have been told that I will not live forever. I’m starting to believe it. I have had a couple of friends die of what are essentially age-related illnesses. In my family, the preceding generation is almost all gone. There are a couple of non-blood-related aunts that are in their 90s and still living. I think that’s about two people out of twenty or so that made up that generation in my family. Personally, I am in good health, but I can sometimes tell that I am no longer 18 years old. I have chronic inflammation in my right heel. I have occasional back pain. It’s just a few little things, at least for now.

One day, hopefully 30+ years from now, I will wake up with a pain in the area of a vital organ, or it might be I awake with numbness in my arms, or slurred speech, and I’ll soon be informed by a medical professional that my days are numbered. Like I said; hopefully this will be decades from now, but it could conceivably be tomorrow, so I might as well be at least somewhat prepared.

I have wondered what friends and family would think about my time here on earth, looking back on it in retrospect. Someone might ponder what I thought about my own life, such as it was. Have I had a happy life? Well here it is; I have had a great time. To any friend or family member who might read this wacky blog after my demise, know that I have had a marvelous run and my regrets are far and few between.

Looking back, I broke a few hearts, regretfully. But I have had my own heart broken a time or two also, so maybe that’s just the way it is with life. Fact is; I have known love, beauty, excitement, and laughter, sometimes in pretty large doses. I have tried to share the joy as much as possible. When it comes right down to it; I really don’t think I have been all that bad a human being. Hopefully others will think the same thing.

I must admit that sometimes I think it is too bad that I never discovered the cure for cancer, or developed a space craft that could whisk passengers to Mars, but the fact of the matter is; I was never capable of achieving those aspirations, so the personal disappointment is minimal. If I were about to bid my final adieu, the only sorrow I would feel about my life in general is that it did not go on longer, keeping in mind that as of today it has gone on for a while now, and I am owed nothing. Quite the contrary; I am thankful for the time I've had.           

Thoughts Of A Long-Ago Smoker

When I think of social changes, one of the first things I look at is smoking policies, and really, society’s attitudes towards smoking in general. Other social changes have been more important, but few have been more extreme than the social changes and attitudes towards smoking that have taken place in a few short decades.

Many years ago I smoked. I smoked for about seven years between the ages of about 19 and 26. I liked Winston, but Marlboro was okay and in a pinch, I’d puff on an L&M or Raleigh. I remember my work days in 1975 at The Ohio State University when I was a 24 year-old smoker. I’d sit at a table and shuffle some papers with a cigarette between a couple of fingers, and an ashtray on the desktop an arm’s length away half-filled with butts. No one would dare think about asking me to put out my Winston. I paid money for it and I had the right to smoke it, even if it was a public workplace. Not far away, a coworker might have his cigarette perched on the edge of an ashtray, the cigarette’s white smoke curling upward. If a non-smoker came into the area, he or she would simply have to tolerate the hazy environment. Today, to people under the age of 25 or maybe even 30, all of this seems almost unreal.

To be fair, smoking indoors, in public places, was once so common that I think the odor and the general foulness of it went mostly unnoticed. Everything smelled like tobacco smoke, so the nose detected none of it. And I think there was something of a physical tolerance to the actual smoke back in those days, a kind of immunity.

A lot of people smoked. I do not know the percentage, but it seems like it was over 50%. Smoking was cool forty years ago. Paul Newman smoked; as did Beatle George Harrison. The Marlboro Man was the very epitome of rugged coolness forty years ago. But somewhere around the mid-80s things started to change. At first, public buildings nixed smoking except in assigned  “smoking areas”. That lasted a few years and then smokers had to go outside their buildings before lighting-up. Now there are places where smokers have to be not only outside, but a certain distance from doors and windows. There are some places where smoking is prohibited anywhere on the grounds. 

I quit smoking before any of these changes took place. I remember about 35 years ago sitting in a near-empty 6,000 seat arena, smoking a cigarette while watching a hockey game. Smoking in the arena was allowed at that time and besides, there wasn’t a soul within fifty feet. Nevertheless, one section away a man began hollering. I first heard this bellowing, and then a minute later realized that he was directing his shout specifically at me. When he knew he had my attention, he hollered at me to put out my cigarette, that it was bothering him.

I was stunned. How could the smoke from this lone Marlboro bother a man off in the distance? Well, of course it couldn’t. I looked at my burning cigarette, turned my gaze to the complaining man, and then after a few seconds of dramatic pause, gave him the finger. But the guy taught me a lesson. To this day I am lenient towards smokers and the relatively new rules that they have to follow. On the other hand, it wasn’t much after the “arena incident” that, in spirit, I gave the finger to cigarettes. I became a part of that social change that put cigarettes, once a staple in the American society, out the door… literally. Like most social change, it was not easy for some, but overall it was for the common good.        

Mom's Day

This is Mother's Day. I sort of felt like writing something even though my mother died five years ago this coming July 4th. My mother was a registered nurse. She worked for the Columbus Public School system as a school nurse. I think for a while when I was very young she had thoughts of me being a doctor. She probably envisioned me performing open-heart surgery in some big hospital. By about the time I was in the 7th grade she had to have discarded that notion given the fact that for the first six years of my academic career I received about three A's on my report cards, and all of those were in Physical Education. I would guess that for the next few years she would have settled for my just working in a hospital as a pharmacist or an anesthesiologist. But that dream faded too. By the time I was about sixteen or seventeen my mom had to figure that the only way I was going to get into a hospital was as a patient, and that sometimes seemed pretty likely.

Anyway, many years later, when my mother was diagnosed with cancer, and her days were clearly numbered, I decided that I would make a little video of her life just to remind her that she had enjoyed a long, fruitful life. Unfortunately she died before I got very far on it. But after a few days of thought, I decided to finish it anyhow. However, instead of it being something for my mom, it's just about her.

I always remind the few people who have seen this over the past five years that any time they want to turn it off, it's okay. The life of someone else's mother probably is not the most exciting subject in the world, and the video isn't going to win an Academy Award for excellence anyway. Fact is, my mother probably deserves better, but then, I'd say that most mothers do.

My 2nd Cousin Mike

The other day one of my sisters ran into my 2^nd cousin Mike. She told me that he is still living in town and is healthy. I’ve got to say that the mere thought of Mike brings back all kinds of thoughts and memories. Too many, really.

Mike’s family used to live near my family back when I was a kid, many decades ago. He is the son of an actual cousin, and we share the same last name, which proved to be a mixed blessing, at best. Mike is about four years older than me. His family lived on one side of the school zone, my family lived on the other. Though he lived fairly close-by, I have met Mike only about a half a dozen times in my life.

I got to know him, or rather his legend, when I was going through school. Along my scholastic travels, a handful of teachers remembered Mike when I showed up to class several years after Mike’s departure. He was a great boy, it was declared unanimously. I was informed by one or two of the men teachers that Mike was one rugged lad. In high school, where Mike played baseball, I was edified as to Mike’s incredible athletic ability, his grit and gumption. My 2^nd cousin was a real gamer, apparently. I was told by the women teachers that Mike was polite and courteous, not to mention good-looking. I clearly recall Mrs. Henle describing Mike as “a very handsome young man”.

I first met Mike in person at a family get-together when I was barely more than a toddler. I remember little more than he was this friendly boy who occupied the time of my sisters and me while the grown-ups played with the charcoal grill and drank beer. One of the last times I met Mike was right about his time of graduation from high school. He was 18 and to me he seemed pretty much like a fully-matured man, which was understandable since I was a goofy kid of 12 or 13 at the time.

Though a teenager, somehow Mike came to own a fairly new red, convertible, Dodge Dart. I think it may have been a graduation present. Our family came by to visit and Mike gave my sisters and me a ride around the neighborhood in his shiny automobile. I recall that it was a warm day and the Dart’s top was down. Yeah, there I was, riding around in the car driven by my bigshot 2^nd cousin Mike. I was hoping some pretty female classmate of mine might happen to see me in the company of this Herculean figure. No such luck, of course.

The next time I saw Mike three decades had passed. On that occasion my uncle -Mike’s grandfather- had recently died. I could not get to the funeral but I was able to make it to the cemetery for the graveside service. I arrived a little early and the only people there were one of my sisters and a few strangers. My sister informed me that Mike was due to show up at any time. A flood of nervous anticipation swept over me. My eyes focused on the distant entranceway of the cemetery. What would Mike be driving, a Mercedes, a $200,000 Lamborghini? And what of Mike himself? I pictured this handsome, debonair, 6’2” man in a $3,000 pinstripe suit tailor-cut to his muscular body. Since it was a solemn occasion, I figured Mike would likely not have a luscious woman on his arm.

A few minutes before the service was set to begin a car pulled to a halt along the gravel drive that passed near the gravesite. I knew it wasn’t Mike since it was the automobile was a 10 year-old Mercury. Out stepped this short, balding man with a paunch under his belt buckle. My sister, who was standing alongside me, leaned over and whispered that Mike had arrived. I glanced around in confusion. The only person I saw was the rotund gentleman who had just pulled up in the old car.

“Where?” I muttered to my sister in a low, discreet voice.

“That fat guy,” she mumbled, tossing her head in the direction of the man.

My eyes focused on the person in question. Oh my god, it's really him! I was horrorstruck, simply horrorstruck.

By the end of the service I had somehow managed to regain my composure. I wandered over to Mike and introduced myself. With a smile, I told him that I remembered being driven around in his Dodge Dart, and up to that point it was one of the coolest moments in my life.

Without a hint of a smile, Mike just stared at me as though I were crazy. He murmured something about how that was a long time ago, and we were all a lot older now. He then turned and trekked back to his car.

I watched Mike drive down the slender driveway that led to the cemetery gate. I did not know quite what to think. I suppose my overriding sentiment was sadness. First to fall was the Easter Bunny, then Santa Claus, lastly my 2^nd cousin Mike. At least Mrs. Henle was spared of any disappointment. But then, to her he was not a superhuman boyhood legend, as he was to me. 

I guess it is partially my fault. A few too many accolades from others, and a little too much imagination from myself. Sorry about that Mike.   

A Drifter In Spirit

I’m 62 and I’m going to guess that there are more guys in my generation who would be okay, and maybe even proud of being labeled a “drifter” when compared to a younger generation. In my generation I am going to guess that about .02% of the male population would be fine with that tag. Obviously I am not talking about an overwhelming percentage. But I would guess that of the 20-something males, the percentage that would want to be referred to as a “drifter” would be about .005%.

This all comes from the fact that the men of my generation grew up on westerns while the males of the 20-something generation grew up on basic action flicks, or, simply put, car chases. I cut my teeth on westerns and I have occasionally dubbed myself a drifter: that enigmatic stranger of the silver screen who would quietly ride into town and for a short time alter the local temperament, and not always for the good. Other possible tags would be “saddle tramp” and “vagabond”. I do not like such titles as “hobo” or “vagrant”. Those words bring to mind someone with bad teeth, sprawling on a downtown sidewalk in smelly clothes, a person completely devoid of mystery and adventure, unlike a saddle tramp or drifter.

As I see it, a modern-day saddle tramp would probably ride a motorcycle, although he might drive a small, well-worn car. He would travel into a small town and find work as a laborer, perhaps in the housing sector. He would hole-up in a cheap motel on the outskirts of town, a motel with monthly rates. Somehow, someway he would come across some pretty woman who would find him fascinating, though she would be puzzled with his many deep, philosophical thoughts. He would treat her with kindness and even chivalry which would utterly delight her, but infuriate her ex-boyfriend who looked on from afar.

Sadly, after six or eight weeks the drifter would feel the urge to move on. He is, after all, a drifter and his very nature compels him to wander down the trail, or in his case, the highway. He would say goodbye to a few new, admiring friends, and bid a melancholy farewell to the enticing lady who would shed a tear as she watched this captivating man disappear out of her life, vanishing forever over the horizon.

In reality the life of a drifter is of course nothing like what I have described. It is anything but romantic, and it is without a hint of intrigue. Not that I would know, of course, for in truth I am a drifter in spirit only. But I’ll tell you, if the life of a drifter really were adventurous and romantic I would… naw, I’d still just be me; a guy daydreaming at his computer.