Lonely ranger

In a crowded Waffle House I’m one of two. At the doctor’s office, I might be one of several but the only patient. At the burger place, the library, the car dealer, the barbershop, and almost everywhere else, I’m the only person in sight who’s still going around with one of these on his face.

Photo by Anna Shvets on Pexels.com

I’m starting to feel like the Lone Ranger. If you don’t remember him, he was a fictional hero of the Old West whose TV show ended with somebody asking, “Who was that masked man?”

We all recall when the question was, “Who’s that idiot without a mask?” Today we’re in much better shape. The winter surge is receding here in Georgia and elsewhere. Yet four years into the age of Covid, people are still dying and thousands of them are seniors like me.

It’s depressing to realize that we didn’t learn from the carnage that hit the elder population a few years ago. It’s infuriating to think a lot of young people don’t care. What else explains the fact that less than 20% of the nation has received the latest (bivalent) booster? Or that a cheap, effective lifesaving tool has disappeared like the autumn leaves?

I don’t look forward to wearing these things forever. At the moment I just don’t feel like I have a choice, even though I’m fully vaxxed and seem to have inherited a strong constitution. I’ve heard about folks who are decades younger than I am, successfully dodged the virus since 2020, and recently got sick.

What I fear most is long Covid, which might not kill me but could make life almost unbearable. I could not live with myself if it destroyed someone who I carelessly infected. Make your own decision about masking but please think of the people around you, especially those who are older and vulnerable. Take care and be safe.

This isn’t me. Photo by Wikipedia.

Porn in the good, old USA

So help me, this came up in the search results for “sex.” (Photo by Dainis Graveris on Pexels.com)

If you’re male, there’s an excellent chance you took part in the ancient ritual that defines a young man’s life: hiding porn from your parents. Those who grew up in the last century might’ve stashed Playboy under the mattress or scrubbed the XXX files from their first PCs. Females are less likely to have done this, though some perused hot goods like Playgirl and Blueboy (meant for gay guys but preferred over Playgirl by a woman friend of mine because “the men are better looking”).

Today, instead of shocking our elders with nekkid pix, we’re the elders and have disapproving children. This conundrum is captured in a New York Times article with one of the all-time headlines, “My 70-Year-Old Mother Spends Too Much on Porn. What Should I Say?”

It seems a man’s recently widowed mum subscribes to four premium porn channels, “adding $160 per month to her already exorbitant cable bill.” Her son says he’s not morally outraged, he just thinks she’d be better off with the “ample” free stuff online. Unfortunately, the story doesn’t identify the channels. Was the editor asleep again? Clearly, this info is one of the vital W’s: Who, What, When, Where, Why, WOWZERS!

However, I imagine the mother picked material that appeals to women or at least doesn’t degrade them. So maybe money isn’t the only source of Sonny’s angst: it could also be based on the fact that his “elderly” mother is sexually alive and aware. Deal with it, man. People her age have been making their own decisions about sexuality for a long time, thank you. Many of us are still expanding our minds and our lives in all sorts of ways, not freezing them in 1970 like a lot of younger folks think. A few wrinkles and some grey or absent hairs don’t change who we are.

Still, as I’ve said before, aging can be a rocky trail. In baseball terms, it’s a barrage of curveballs and exploding sliders (which is not a euphemism for a man’s, uh, Louisville Slugger). No matter how long we’ve been on this Earth, we could all take a lesson from Graham Nash, who’s still making music at 81 and wrote this timeless song.

Believing in spring

February 12, 2024

Photo by Pexels.com

It’s amazing how a few little numbers can make a titanic impact on one’s life. Things like, “Total length: 1.5 millimeters. Involved cores: 2. Maximum core involvement: 10%. Cores with >50% involvement: 0.”

What these dry statistics mean is that at least for now, I’m safe from the biological boogeyman that for months has been shadowing me like Robert Johnson’s hellhound. I won’t go into details except that I have no more tests scheduled until summer, so I get a holiday from “Pill Hill,” the sprawling med zone on the northern edge of Atlanta.

I only wish I could arrange a permanent vacation for the the anxious, irrational part of my soul. Instinctively, I assumed the worst when caution flags about my condition came out, and I couldn’t shake the self-inflicted heebie-jeebies for long. In my head, I knew I was belly-flopping off the deep end. Emotionally, paranoia became a habit, almost a comfort. It’s still tough to resist.

If I tallied up the time I wasted on worry, and the anxiety my anxiety caused for the person I love, I’d never get out of bed. But in the early morning hours when sleep melts away and fear comes calling, I gently tell myself, “Relax, nudnik! You can be happy again!”

When looking at life from the perspective of being well, I have no reason to be unhappy about anything. Writer’s block? Temporary. A literary mag rejecting my story? Tons of fish in the sea. Raw, freezing weather? I don’t have to work outdoors. Clogged roads, cretins at the wheel, wilted produce, and online goons? Small stuff I’ll no longer sweat even when it’s 95° in the shade.

Right now it’s closer to 35° but the days are stretching out. Pitchers and catchers report in a couple weeks, spring officially arrives in March, and there’s a beach with my name on it (at least on the hotel reservation). Did I mention that my team won a national championship? Life is just fine. See y’all at the shore.

How to be an overnight centenarian

August 28, 2023

Save those cute pics for posterity (Photo by Guillaume Meurice on Pexels.com)

Friends, are you anxious to leave a legacy in this world? Something that keeps your essence alive for your descendants, and for the unborn generations that won’t have the pleasure of knowing you before you check out?

You could freeze your body (or just your head), so if medical science ever cures what ailed you, you’ll be thawed out fresh as a daisy for your second act. But if that sounds a tad extreme, take heart because you can now extend your digital life for the next century!

The folks at WordPress who host my blog (and hopefully won’t vaporize it if they read this post) are offering a “100-Year Plan” for maintaining digital assets. It sounds like a sort of online museum or mausoleum for families who want to hold onto their history, business leaders seeking to document their achievements, and anyone who needs a long-term home for the electronic remnants of a life.

WP promises to keep your domain active for the duration with top-tier hosting, multiple backups, and “24/7 Premier Support.” Just think: you can upload all 23,971 of your photos and videos, 30+ years of work email, web pages, love letters, diplomas, pickleball awards, music, paintings, unpublished novels, whatever!

Best of all, you can curate the stuff to leave a glorious impression of your probably imperfect self. It’ll be like writing your own eulogy instead of trusting it to relatives who won’t even miss you. You can probably take a few posthumous potshots at the exes who dragged you down, the bosses you loathed, and that kid who gave you a wedgie in fourth grade.

If all this appeals to you, that’s great. But when I’m gone, my blog and all my other digital footprints go with me.

As a genealogy enthusiast and the husband of a librarian, I know the importance of preserving the things that make us who we are. I’m just not delusional enough to think my mostly ordinary life will interest anyone in 2123, especially since I have no children to remember me or foist off the site on their children.

I also don’t see how the company will, “adapt to whatever changes the future of technology will bring,” because nobody’s crystal ball can peer that far ahead. Most of us had no idea until very recently that AI would threaten to upend everything. Besides, we won’t get “Premier Support” if WP goes under and no one answers the phone, email, or whatever we’ll be using to harass each other in the 22nd century, if we haven’t fried our planet to a crisp by then. (No one thought climate change would get this serious this soon either.)

I hope to leave a legacy of good writing when my time comes (and to see what I’ve produced so far, check out my author site). I’d also like to be remembered for my smashing good looks, like the dazzling blue eyes that remind people of Paul Newman. But I’ll be happy if y’all just recall my sense of humor.

You don’t want to read this, but…

August 8, 2023

Is it a surge or an uptick? A brief blip on the radar or—like thicker-than-normal corn husks, halos around the moon, and other folklore—an omen of a hard winter ahead?

Whatever it’s called, we’re seeing an increase in Covid. The CDC doesn’t track cases anymore but reports other metrics are rising, including hospitalizations and test positivity. One of my medical providers quietly acknowledged the trend by “encouraging” patients to mask up, which the office didn’t do earlier this summer.

As usual, the experts are divided about how serious the upturn is and how bad it might become in the next few months. The overall numbers are still low, with deaths a small fraction of what they were in January.

However, most of the people we’re losing are over 65, like me. It’s not over for us and may never end for the many millions with long Covid. In one of the most sobering accounts I’ve read, novelist Madeline Miller writes about how the disease gutted her work and family life: “Nothing was more painful than hearing my kids delightedly laughing and being too sick to join them.”

Unlike Miller, I’ve never been ridiculed or heckled for wearing an N95. I still use them in public spaces, even if I’m the only masked person in the room. I couldn’t care less what others think when my life and quality of life are at stake.

My wife and I are among the careful (and lucky) few who’ve never been infected, and we’re determined not to become long haulers. Right now we’re waiting for the new vaccine that will target the latest variant. No, it’s not fun to think about this again but ignorance can be fatal. Take care and stay safe.

Worry warp

July 17, 2013

Photo by samer daboul on Pexels.com

Though I’m busy writing stories and editing other people’s work, I’m always looking for ways to fill the gaps in my retirement. Luckily, I have one talent that (unlike my body) never gets old: I am a highly experienced Worrier.

This syndrome appears in many forms, like the did I’s and the what if’s. Did I: lock that door? Scarf down some past-its-prime fish? Remember to pack my hearing aids? What if: that tiny skin patch is the big C? This dangerous heat doesn’t lift like the forecast says? I’ll never get a book deal and might have blown the endgame of my life? You get the idea. (I hope you do. Did I not write clearly enough?)

This is nothing new; even as a kid, I felt an uncommon amount of anxiety, which I didn’t get from my folks. My dad was cheerful, easygoing, and undaunted by rejection from customers for the office supplies he sold. Mom was generally unflappable and fond of saying, “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” with the kind of level-headedness President Obama possessed.

Of course, a certain amount of fear and paranoia is useful if not essential for survival in these times. I just wish mine didn’t always leap forward to DefCon 5 / worst-case mode. The great majority of the stuff I fret about never comes to pass, while the real problems are bizarre and unexpected, like the pandemic and Ron DeSantis.

I could worry myself into a lather over the fact that I worry so much. Luckily I did inherit my parents’ sense of humor, or at least they told me I did (and if you argue with my mother I’m going to get seriously mad!). So I’ll end this by reminding myself to chill and have a little faith. I hope you’ll join me.

Mindful mess

June 7, 2023

I sure wish people would stop slinging unsolicited life advice at me. The other day an email from one of my medical providers breathlessly urged me to “Tap Into the Benefits of Mindfulness.”

When I was a kid, being mindful meant “Mind your manners,” or “Mind your mother!” (On the London Underground, announcements warn riders to “Mind the gap” between the platform and the train. But I digress.) Mindfulness today involves, “focusing one’s awareness on the present moment, while calmly acknowledging and accepting one’s feelings, thoughts, and bodily sensations.”

The email asks, “Do you often rehash the past or worry about the future?” which makes me fear I’ll have to choose one or the other. It suggests this exercise to bring myself back from “time traveling:” Stretch out a hand and focus on it. Notice the lines, separations, curves, connections, colors, textures and movements as you open and close it. Reflect on what you’re observing. How do you feel?

Well, when I stare at my hand I zero in on the life line, and right about now, that sucker looks mighty short. My wedding ring reminds me of how lucky I am, but I still get mad at the damn tourists who ruined the Florida beach where my wife and I said our vows. And when I read those instructions, I immediately flashed back to Richard Pryor’s classic bit about LSD. (Ignore the subtitles.)

I hope the doctors who sent the email aren’t the ones who told a teenager to try a mindfulness app to cope with pain and missed her now-terminal cancer. If mindfulness works for you, that’s fine. It just ain’t for me, babe, the same way I’m not buying this pitch for a senior romance novel: “Seventy is the new fifty and senior citizens are more active than ever.”

Not so fast there, Sparky. I’m all for senior love (and sex) but I remember fifty, and this isn’t it. Back then I didn’t need hearing aids or any of my current meds. I hadn’t spent three years dodging a virus, nor was I losing old friends like my college radio buddies, grad school classmates, and work colleagues. Five of these folks have passed since last fall.

“Seventy is the new fifty” smacks of ageism, implying we’re not worthwhile unless we transcend our chronological years. AARP keeps pushing this same mantra, which is one reason I’m not a member. I don’t need to be 50 again and don’t want to be mindful either. So kindly lose my email address, “mind” your own business, and get off my lawn before I open one of these.

Mug shots

March 31, 2023

Design © Janet Stevenson

If you’re a zealous coffee drinker, you probably have a favorite mug like my new one above, made of ceramic and memories. The image shows a sunset reflected in the waters of Eastern Lake, one of the rare and beautiful coastal dune lakes in and around South Walton County on the Florida panhandle. My very talented wife took the photo when we owned a home there.

With this, my morning java not only gives me a jolt of caffeine but reminds me of the beach and brightens my mood for the coming day. But since the designated mug space in our kitchen is pretty full, it might be time to clear out a few others, all of which have stories of their own.

The big blue and gold one on the left is a souvenir of the 1996 Democratic presidential convention in Chicago, which I reported on for the Voice of America. I did a live shot from the floor of the arena after President Clinton’s speech, shouting to be heard over the delirious crowd and picking confetti out of my suit for days afterward. “Lipstick on a pig,” a classic image, was made by a colleague on a different job. I don’t think it was aimed at anything in particular, just a comment on our general situation.

The Black Walnut Point Inn is on Tilghman Island in the Chesapeake Bay, which my wife and I visited early in our relationship. I went to the Delta Blues Museum in Mississippi on a trip that also took me to the Civil War battlefield at Vicksburg, searching for the grave of a Union relative. WCBN is the University of Michigan radio station where I first got behind the mic, reported news, and spun stacks of wax (for the young and digitized, that’s vinyl LPs and 45s).

Honestly, I’m not overly sentimental about “stuff.” I hope I don’t sound like Leonid Andreieveitch Gayev, the character in Chekhov’s The Cherry Orchard who delivers an impassioned speech to a bookcase. (“My dear and honored case! I congratulate you on your existence,” etc.) However, as my journey grows longer, it’s comforting to have little signposts from my many stops along the way. I’ll let y’all know if I ever have a yard sale.

Water under the radar

January 15, 2023

Are you lonesome for this? Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

If the last three years have taught me anything, it should have been to count my blessings and take nothing for granted. You’ll notice I began this confessional by saying should have. Should have. Shoulda, and definitely coulda. Yet…

Tuesday I stepped into the shower, my aging skin and bones eager for a cleansing, relaxing blast. After waiting a couple of minutes for the water to get hot, I started to worry. Several minutes later I grabbed a robe, and my wife and I set off ISO a plumber to heal the water heater.

He couldn’t come until Friday and didn’t show up then. We showered at a gym and were blessed with a dishwasher that had its own heating element, which saved us from having to haul out the teakettle and pour boiling water over the plates and silverware.

It turned out the water heater problem was a wiring issue, which an electrician fixed. We were relieved and happy – until I spotted an Alert on the thermostat and the inside temperature started falling, on a day when it was 40⁰ outside. (For those of y’all in the Twin Cities, Detroit, Buffalo, Bangor etc., around here that qualifies as cold.)

Blessing 2 was an HVAC tech who works on Saturday and didn’t quit until we had heat again. Blessing 3, the biggest of all, was that we haven’t lost our water completely like some folks in the Arizona desert. As the song says, you don’t miss your water until your well runs dry.

Though I might be revealing my geezerhood, I’m reminded that we used to get by with a whole lot less than many of us enjoy now. My mother managed with no dishwasher, one car, a rotary phone, and a black-and-white TV. This meant I was in college before I found out The Wizard of Oz was mostly in color. I somehow survived this cultural deprivation.

My belated New Year’s resolution is to learn from our recent past for a change and be grateful for the many good things in this life. Hopefully, I won’t miss my water as badly as Otis did.

Gimme some ears with hair!

December 14, 2022

Geezer warning: keep these handy! (Photo by Karolina Grabowska on Pexels.com)

Like any self-respecting writer, I obsess about being read, wondering if anyone out there cares or even notices what I say. So naturally I was delighted when the New York Times, no less, picked up a story I broke right here on this blog a few years back, “Why Do Men Sprout Hairs in Weird Places With Age?”

The odd places are the ears and nose. If you’re a woman, or a guy who’s not as “aged” as me, you might think this is trivial, and you’d be wrong. For one thing, ear hair has a fearsome-sounding medical name, which is auricular hypertrichosis. Left unchecked, it can lead to complications like deafness, though it’s hard to picture even the most clueless dude letting it go that far.

It’s still quite a shock when one day you look fine and the next there’s a clump of little tentacles sticking out of your helix and antitragus (the upper and lower portions of the ear). Like daffodils in spring, these babies shoot up fast. If I don’t clip and nip ’em in the bud, they get so long I can use them for dental floss. Okay, maybe not, although an Indian gent made Guinness when his shrub hit 13 centimeters (about five inches).

Nose hair is the lesser problem for me. The trouble is that it comes out whiter than a snow-covered mountain on a sunny day and instantly catches everyone’s eye except mine. However, I’m not about to embark on some painful, expensive treatment like lasers or electrolysis.

According to the Times, there’s a theory that long ago, baldness or ear hair “may have been seen as a sign of high testosterone and virility, making men with those characteristics appear to be viable mates.” YES! But, “Whatever the possible benefit might have been, long nose hair doesn’t seem to be serving the same purpose these days.”