Older By The Minute

 

     Sometime in my earlier years I figured out that the day you are born is the day you start die. This line of reasoning defines the phrase "getting older by the minute".

     Looking back, I never gave getting older much thought, I mean, after all you don't think much about getting old when you are starting first grade but if you really think about it you did a lot of thinking about being older. when you were maybe four you watched other kids head off to school every morning and you wanted to go also but mom said you weren't old enough so you thought - I can't wait till I'm old enough to go to school. There were also the times you wished you were old enough for a bike, walk to school by yourself, can't wait till I'm a teenager - the list of think you wished you were old enough to do at that age is endless. During the whole process you never once thought about the reality that you were in fact getting older by the minute. Those years between birth and adulthood were the greatest times of your life and you won't even realize it for a several decades.

     One of the drawbacks of being a kid is that old age relates to anybody you have to look up to, I mean really bend your head back and look up, when you are five being old is somewhere around fifteen, old age is over thirty and everything else is just antiquated. 

     I couldn't wait till I turned eighteen, at eighteen I would be an adult and could do anything I wanted to do but I quickly learned that I could do those things only as long as someone older had the same ideas. Turns out that "Uncle Sam" wanted me to join one of the Armed Forces, four years later the real world in general said I had to get a earning a living - no more free rides, it didn't sound fair but then nobody said life was fair.

     Turning thirty for most people was a major setback, personally I never understood that but some people went into a major midlife crisis mode becoming moody and crying a lot. Sure it was a milestone, one of life's many but for me it was just another birthday just like all of those that followed. I kept doing what I thought was expected of me, providing for my family, making the boss happy and all the while I was getting older by the minute but still getting older was not something I gave much thought about, when I did I just joked about it.

     I guess I finally started giving my age some thought somewhere in my fifties not that I was slowing down any but it was more that I was tired of having to deal with people younger than me who hadn't lived half the life I had but thought they knew everything, youth is wasted on the young. I made it to retirement age, it felt good not to have to get up and go to work. Linda and I were footloose and fancy free, no one to answer to except each other. Life was great, for a while, anyway.

     I retired in my sixties, older? yeah but I didn't really feel it, there was still that layer of old age above me that I had yet to reach. I qualified as a senior citizen and was moving into "old fogey" status, "older than dirt" is the ultimate goal. I had yet to admit I was old, I didn't feel old and was fairly active but it was only a matter of time as I was getting older by the minute.

     Reality finally reared it's ugly head a few short years later. Linda had been ill for sometime, I assumed the role of caregiver, where ever she needed to go, I took her, whatever she needed ,I got it for her, she could no longer do the simplest things. She could sit up on the edge of the bed and rest for a few minutes before standing, one night she slipped to the floor, when I tried to help her I found I didn't have the strength to help her because she couldn't help me. Luckily there was a young neighbor next door who came to our rescue. This incident was the turning point for me, at that time I felt really old, I could no longer care for the person I loved more than life itself.

     That was more than ten years ago, in many ways I have maintained my individuality but I'm afraid I'm about to cross the threshold into the "old fogey" status. The brain wants to maintain the status quo but the body declines to cooperate on a regular basis. Before I get down on one knee, I make sure there is something nearby to help me back up, the day to day aches and pains accompanied by moans and groans serve to let me know that I'm not only alive but also older than I was the day before. There's not much I can do about getting older, it sort of goes with the territory and while I'm happy to still be in an upright position I know there are many who never made it this far.

     So here I am about to turn 78 in a couple of months, I got arthritis in most of my joints, my left knee is on it's way out. I now see at least six doctors annually and I good nights sleep consist of five or six hour and not consecutively but I wake up each day and find something to do, even if it hurts.

     While I don't dwell on how much longer I will be around, the thought does cross my mind. There is so much more I want to do and see, most importantly, wanting see my grandchildren turn into young adults is high on the list but somewhere there is another list with my name on it and a date, in the mean time I'm getting older by the minute.

Fishermen Make Good Friends

 

     Last week, I was talking to my brother Clint, we must have been talking about fishing because he told me a fishing story about dad that I never knew. 

     Let me preface the story by saying that dad was an old school fisherman extraordinaire. My earliest memories was of him driving away with half a dozen cane poles sticking out the back window of the car, somewhere in the back seat was a can of earthworms he had dug up the night before. His tacklebox was a small metal box filled with bobbers (plastic and cork) some hooks and lead weights although old spark plugs or rusty nuts worked in a pinch. He fished rivers, creeks and farm ponds, a rock, tree stump or maybe a bucket served as a chair. Usually, bream and catfish were the catch of the day.

     Pat and I got to go along with him about the time I started school. Old Hickory Lake was still in the creation stage so dad would seek out a favorite spot along Spencer Creek back when he could drive along a dirt path beside the creek until he found a suitable spot to stop, the banks of Stones River had many good spots when we moved closer to town. Pat and I were still a bit young and had short attention spans, dad spent a lot of time telling us to stop throwing rocks in the water or sit down and be quiet as we were scaring the fish away but somehow we learned to fish.

     It was quite a few years before dad acquired a cheap casting reel that would get his bait further out. He spent a fair amount of time unraveling the back lash in the line until he got a nice spincast reel that eliminated the back lash but the cane poles were ever-present for years to come.

     Bank fishing was the order of the day until about 1960, that's when he had a carpenter friend build him a John boat. All of a sudden there was no place he couldn't get to on the lake. Now dad started planning his vacation around crappie season, imagine fishing every day for two weeks straight. The boat allowed him to do another type of fishing - trot-lining.

      Trot-lining is when you tie a long line (75- 100 feet) to a point on the shore and run it out into the lake or river, one end would be anchored down so the line would be submerged several feet. Hooks were tied to lengths of line maybe 10 inches long and attached to the trot-line about every 18 inches and baited with small bream or old meat. The aim was to attract and catch catfish and dad was very good at it. The line had to be checked and baited every day, the fish were cleaned and put in a freezer waiting for a fish fry cookout later in the summer.

     Now that you understand that dad was a fisherman, I'll tell you the story Clint told me.

     I'm still unclear of the year but at some point in time dad had put out a trot-line, I guess he was not on vacation as he couldn't get to check it but every few days, Clint would check it for him when he could. Clint discovered that when he checked and baited the line and came back later to check it the hooks were all empty of bait and fish which was unusual. He told dad what he found and dad determined he had a trot-line thief running his line so he set out to catch the thief. 

     Dad went out and baited the line one day and went home but he got up before sunrise the next morning and laid in wait in view of the line. It didn't take long after sun rise before a boat approached his line and a stranger started removing fish.

     At this point dad approached the stranger and confronted him. He told the man that the line belonged to him and he was lucky dad didn't have a gun. The stranger looked at dad and said I guess you have caught me. The stranger told dad that he had watched him and knew what days dad would check the line and on the days he didn't the stranger would remove and rebait the line and check it the next day before dad or Clint got there. 

     Normally the stranger would say he was sorry, promise not to do it again and leave but this time things took a different turn of events. The stranger told dad he would like to make a deal with him, he would see to it the line was baited every day and whenever dad ran the line all he had to do was remove the fish and the stranger would do the rebaiting that way they would both benefit. In addition, if dad needed more fish all he had to do was look in the freezer on the stranger's dock and take what he wanted.

     Strangely enough the two of them became fishing buddies and good friends till the day dad died, the man showed up for his funeral, had I known I would have shook his hand.

     That was more than 40 years ago, I have a lot of memories about fishing with dad and although I didn't know about this one until a few weeks ago it will now be among the best of them. Wherever dad is, I hope the fish are biting.

Happy Holidays

 

     The holiday season in the 1950's were the best for a young kid to experience, I know because I was there. 

     In 1956 dad moved us to Donelson, a suburb of Nashville. The family at that time consisted of mom, dad, me, my brother Pat and brother Clint and sister Vickie who was just a baby. We lived in a small four room house, five if you counted the bath. I was nine years old then, young enough that I still believed in Santa Clause.

     The holiday season, for us, started back in September, it was about that time that the Sears Christmas catalogue came out. It contained all sorts of ideas for Christmas gifts of all ages, clothing, furniture, sports equipment and toys. The day the catalogue arrived we tore into it with a vengeance, we went straight to the toy section and started the difficult task of choosing the toys we wanted for Christmas. The task was indeed difficult for Sears offered every toy available at that time, from tinker toys to fire trucks that squirted water.

     Over the next few months right up until just days before Christmas our choices would change, the pages were dogeared and wrinkled from constant use. Mom and dad were harassed daily with our latest decision and the reasons for why it had to be that particular toy.

     Thanksgiving was the next stop on the holiday circuit, we were out of school for two days and the weekend. The first thing after breakfast on Thanksgiving Day we turned on the TV and spent the next two plus hours watching the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade on our small black and white TV. It was fascinating to see all of the floats, bands and balloons. Later we would pack up the car and head out to see the family. First stop was grandpa / granny Riggan then later on to grandpa / granny Wade. Back then family holiday gatherings were traditional, we maintained that tradition until the 1970's when Linda and I moved out of state. This was a time when we would see all of our aunts, uncles and cousins, it was not the only time but it was a time made special because it was a holiday.

     The day after Thanksgiving started the Christmas movie and Christmas specials season on TV. Miracle On 34th Street was a favorite along with A Christmas Carole. Everything was in black and white, color TV was still a few years away. Meanwhile there local parades, I marched in one as a Cub Scout, carolers everywhere you went. The department store windows were decorated with a Christmas theme, they were works of art. Everywhere you went people were saying Merry Christmas as they had done all their life. Christmas decorations abounded everywhere.

     Now we get to the big day, Christmas Eve, the day the big guy comes sliding down the chimney but we didn't have a chimney so Santa had to wait until we were asleep or out of the house so he could sneak in. This had to be the longest day of the year, by dinner time mom was exhausted, first it was us kids who were filled with the excitement of the day then dad would come home with a friend or two and maybe another friend or two would just stop by. On rare occasions Uncle Paul and family stopped in and one year Grandpa and granny Wade came for a visit.

     It was a magical time, the smell of our cedar tree filled our nostrils, the bright lights and colored ornaments and tinsel lit up the living room. There were packages for each of us wrapped in Christmas paper and colorful ribbons and bows, our minds constantly wondered what was in them, we must have asked mom a dozen times if we could open just one.

     It was tradition in our house that after we ate dinner that each of us could choose one gift from under the tree and open it, that would usually calm us down some. Later on, one of two things would happen, dad would either load us up in the car and take us on a ride around the neighborhood to see all the colorful decorations or send us off to bed. If we went for a ride, when we came back mom would be standing in the door and as we got out of the car she would tell us that Santa Clause just left. Sure enough, when we went inside there would be new toys under and around the Christmas tree.

     If we were sent to bed, we were expected to go to sleep, the younger ones did but I was to high on the excitement of the moment so I would lay there and pretend. At the age of nine there was doubt in my mind - just how did Santa get in a house with no chimney? At any rate, after a while dad would come in and wake us up, Santa Clause had arrived. Now the fun begins, torn wrapping paper and empty boxes littered the floor of our small living room. As the clock rushed to midnight we kids were still at it  even the little one were to excited to sleep but dad was another story so he would go to bed, mom would have to sit up with us till the wee hours of the morning. Eventually the little ones would tire and mom would shuffle them off to bed. Pat and I being the oldest would stay up sometimes all night.

     Christmas day, we would load up the car and again head off to see the grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins. It was a day filled with more presents, lots of food and candy and cakes galore, talk about a sugar high. Aunts would catch us as we walked past and pull us into their laps and hug and kiss us, uncles would comment on how tall we were getting. It was exhausting, the ride home was pretty quiet dad had to carry us inside when we got home.

     The next few days were toned down, the anticipation was over, now was the time to start wearing off the new of the toys. I wish I could say that toys were all that we got but that didn't happen, we also got new shirts, socks, jeans, and underwear.

     New Years rounded out the season, at nine years old I was not concerned with the staying up all night to ring in the new year nor was I concerned with the football games the next day.  There was though the Rose Parade from Pasadena, California where all the floats were made from flowers, we spent a couple of hours in front of the TV watching the floats and marching bands.

     On this day we usually went to see grandpa / granny Wade, Grandpa and our uncles were big sports fans and the TV would be ready for the game. In the meantime grandpa held court with his stories and tall tales that made us all laugh and granny just reveled in her children and grandchildren, a constant smile on her face. At the end of the day the season like the old year was over, for the adults it was back to the old grind, for us kids it was like every other day- a new adventure in the waiting.

     They say you never know how much you miss something until it's gone, over the years those days turned to memories something for this old man, on a cold drizzly day, to reflect on. 

The Hierarchy

 

     Growing up with a father who was a butcher you would think we ate a lot of good meat but the reality was that with five kids dad could hardly afford steak for himself. Many times we didn't even have meat for dinner. Often just having a ham hock cooked in with the Navy beans was a bonus but then we were kids who would eat pretty much anything and anything was what we got. 

     Back in the 50's, kids were treated differently, we were supposed to be seen but not heard and when it came to food we ate what was put before us except for me, as for me all food had to look good, smell good and taste good in that order. I admit that I was a picky eater and therefore I had my old standby's of mashed potatoes, Navy beans and cornbread for dinner meals and bologna sandwiches for lunch and Cherrios for breakfast. But every now and then dad would bring home a roast which if it wasn't consumed in one meal it was turned into leftovers in the form of "hash". 

     While we had our old standbys we did eat other things like green beans, peas, cornbread cooked in an iron skillet and cut into triangles, cornbread paddies that looked like small pancakes and sometimes cornbread muffins. We also ate chicken that was fried in the same skillet as the cornbread, in fact the cornbread often had a taste of chicken because some of the leftover grease was used in the making of the cornbread, the rest of the grease was poured into a special can to be used again later to cook something else, nothing was wasted.

     There was a hierarchy for eating and another for the food itself. As for the act of eating the hierarchy started with dad going first then the oldest child, that was me, then on down the line with mom being the last to eat. Moms were the last to sit down at the table after having finished the cooking and getting the food from the pot into a bowl and on the table, then she would prepare a plate for the little ones and spoon feed the baby, I was 13 before there were no babies to feed. By the time I was nine I was mom's assistant with the cooking, washing, ironing and setting the table.

     Then there was the hierarchy for the food itself, generally speaking that meant there was adult food and kid food. Dad, and sometimes mom, got to eat steak and baked potatoes or shrimp and fries. When mom and dad got to eat shrimp we kids had leftover hash and were sent to bed early.

     One food that was popular back then was chicken, it was cheap, quick and easy to prepare. Chicken was usually eaten on Sunday and almost always it was fried, any leftovers were put on a plate, covered with a dishcloth and left on the table so anyone could come in and grab a piece for their "midnight snack". Chicken was one of those foods that involved a hierarchy for the various parts. there were seven different parts to a chicken, four of them were in pairs, then there was the dark meat / light meat factor. Chicken also held an eating order hierarchy, in other words, the adults got the pick of the best pieces. I think I was in my late teens before I got to eat a chicken breast.

     In my opinion, the best part of the chicken was the breast and wish bone, the meat was all white, more tender and therefore more delicious. Because of this, the breast was considered "adult food" but the kids did get the wish bone after a small argument. The other parts contained the dark meat, the thigh, leg and wings were therefore they were considered kid food, the adults started indoctrinating us at an early age that these parts were the best and that we were lucky to have them. That leaves the neck bone and gizzard, I have never eaten either of them, they didn't meet my standards for looks, smell and taste.

     There is an irony about chicken, where as back in the 1950's it was generally served for Sunday meals, it has today become one of the most popular foods. It is served baked, grilled and fried, covered in gravy, filled with various stuffings and consumed any meal of the day or night, it is served in strips (fingers), on buns with fries and purchased by the bucketful for the whole family. There are whole establishments serving nothing but chicken. 

     When I was in Vietnam and aboard ship, chicken seemed to be a staple. When food supplies ran low we always had chicken to the point that when I came home I forbade Linda to serve me chicken, I finally got over my disdain for chicken and it is once again a staple for me, Kay and I have it several times a week.

     I have finally reached the age where I am the oldest of most tables I sit down too so I can pull the first served status if I want but most of the time it's women and children first. My palate has improved a little over the years but I'm still a picky eater, Linda and Kay will both attest to that.

     Another irony is that the wings have become the most popular of all the parts, to me it is the most aggravating.  of the parts as a lot of time and trouble is spent trying to get at the little bit of meat there is but Buffalo wings as they are called are eaten by the dozens. It is not uncommon for one individual to eat twenty or more at a time then wash them down with a cold beer.

     

The Six "P's" of Life

 

     Back in the 1980's, I did a stint as a salesman and as a salesman attended several annual sales meetings. On the whole the meetings were both raucous and boring at the same time, you wound up drinking and eating too much and sleeping was something you did on the flight home. Anything that may or may not have happened during that week was never spoken about in mixed company. Every now and then you would get something from the meetings that would stick with you and hopefully improve your sales if not your life. The meetings lasted four days starting on Monday and ending Thursday night, every day held a different subject and one of those days was the highlight subject of the week. 

     I attended several sales meetings, most of them are faded memories but there was this one that stood out above the rest. I couldn't tell you who was there what year it was held or where but the highlight subject of the week has visited my memory banks often over the years. Don't ask me why it stands out so much it just does. The narrator started the meeting by writing the letter "P" six times on the dry erase board and asked what they meant, we all scratched our heads and came up clueless. The six "P,s" stood for a formula which when applied to our sales tactics would improve our sales, at least that was the general idea. Turns out that I needed more than application of an idea to improve my sales, my sales position didn't last long. I remembered those six "P's" over the years, the principal was sound but the practice left me wanting.

     So just what was the theory of the six "P's", they stood for " Prior Planning Prevents Piss Poor Performance". It's one of those little things that is so easy to understand and you would think so easy to put into practice but everybody is not wired the same. Seems that I can't slow down long enough to develop a plan much less put one into practice.

      It took me a long time to understand what the six "P's" meant, they had little to do with sales but everything to do with managing life but they were one of those things that I learned too late. Doing things in a smooth practical way was never my style, still isn't. I always thought that I didn't have time to make a plan especially since most plans were subject to change the moment they were stamped for approval.

     I never again heard of the six "P'S" but I never forgot them, I think that somehow they were being held in probate waiting for this moment when I would share this tidbit of wisdom in the hopes that maybe it would help a future offspring to live a better life. So whoever is reading this I hope you have a good life even if you don't use the theory of the "P's".

The Barefoot Kid

 

     Growing up in the 1950's was a lot different than today, the technology of today was still a few decades away. Our parents had a different view of life, they were more frugal in general because of the way they grew up during the depression of the 1920's and 30's. Everything they had back then was shared, hoarded and carefully maintained, shoes, articles of clothes, tools, equipment, even the food that was left over from meals was reheated for a later meal in the form of "leftovers", even bath water shared, nothing went to waste. Money was in short supply so many times the barter system was used to pay for goods and services, this way of life continued on into the 1950's and 60's. Nothing was thrown out, whenever possible items that were no longer needed, worn out or outgrown were repurposed and made useful as something else. Take for instance a pair of shoes, shoes today are a "throw away" item, outgrow them - toss them in the trash, wear them out - throw them in the trash., yet my grandfather's dress shoes were handed down to my father who handed them down to me along with his Sunday church suit, outdated yes but still usable.

     I am the oldest of five kids and dad's paycheck was the only money we had coming in so we didn't have the luxury back then of tossing something we no longer wanted. Let's take shoes for instance, today they are a a throwaway item made from cloth, rubber and very thin or even fake leather. Back in the 50's we had two types of shoes, dress up and play. Dress up shoes were worn to school or any place where you needed to look good. The dress up shoes were all leather including the sole and heel, they required polishing with a shoe polish that made them shine and resisted moisture. Over time the heels and soles would show wear patterns, when this occurred, they could be taken to the shoe repair shop where the heels and soles could be replaced. Being the oldest, when I outgrew shoes they might be handed down to one of my brothers or to a neighbor's boy. Mothers had a network where they swapped items of clothing for growing kids.

     Play shoes were made to play in. often they were tennis shoes with rubber soles and canvas tops. The TV ads of the day said they would make you run faster, they came in two colors - black or white. Mostly they were worn in gym class and maybe when visiting the grandparents or any place where shoes could get dirty, torn or scuffed. Once you reached a certain age, it was not uncommon to outgrow shoes every six months, rather than toss them and if they didn't fit a sibling there would be someone in the neighborhood who could use them.

     Before you get the idea that we wore shoes all the time you have to understand, this was the south and in the summertime we often ran around barefoot. Going barefoot was one way of getting the most out of a pair of shoes, it didn't matter that you probably outgrew them over the summer, soap and water were cheaper than shoes. In Tennessee, barefoot weather started about mid May and continued on through September but to be honest even in the cold of January we could be seen making a quick barefoot run to the mailbox and back.

     As a kid of the times my feet were hardened to the elements and conditions of nature, get me on a dirt path or a grassy lawn and I could run like a deer. It was one thing to be able to run around in the grass, it actually felt good on your feet just be aware of the honey bees in the clover, nothing hurts worse than being stung between the toes. You also needed to be careful of "poop" left behind by cats, dogs, cows and chickens, it wasn't easy cleaning "poop" from between the toes with a twig or green leaf from a tree. Running on dirt wasn't too bad, generally it was smooth but watch out for things that may be embedded in it, when wet it felt different when it oozed between your toes. Running on gravel was not fun, to be blunt about it, gravel hurt and if stepped on the wrong way you could get what we called a stone bruise on the bottom of your feet. Paved roads were only a problem when they were hot, it added a whole new meaning to the term "hotfoot", crossing a paved road when it was hot required a quick step, hop or jump.

     Probably the main problem with going barefoot was when you got in a hurry and stubbed your toe, that results because you failed to pick your feet up particularly when running. The results of stubbing your toe meant that the big toe on either foot (sometimes both feet) had the skin removed on the end of the toe and a scab would cover the injured area for weeks. Often a barefooter would have a continuous scab all summer, before the first injury could heel you could stub it again and forget about putting on a pair of shoes with scabs on your big toe. 

     I'm 77 years old now, I can't walk from one room to another without putting on house slippers and my feet are paying the price for my youth but I would give anything to walk barefoot through a lawn of clover again.

     Growing up in the 1950's was an experience you had to live, I can tell you all about it here and kids today will have a hard time believing me, how in the world did I survive. I look back on those days with fond memories, we didn't know how bad we had it because we had it so good.

     

     

Be Happy

 

     I can't remember if I have previously written about this but I love this memory and want to be sure it's in the blog.

     When I went back to California in 1986, there was an older guy who had a business next door making top of the line office furniture. His name was Norm and at the time I was still in my 30's, Norm was retired from 25 years with and aerospace company so he was at least in his 60's. He had a heart condition but didn't let it stop him from anything he wanted to do. We became good friends and spent a good deal of time solving the world's problems.

     I was a workaholic back then but Norm put me to shame, when I got to work at 7:00 am he had been there since 5:30am. When I went home at 5:30 or 6:00 he was still at work and when I would come in to check on something on a Saturday Norm would be at his desk.

     One of the things Norm Talked about was the fact that he was retired, after hearing him say this on several occasions I finally pointed out all of the hours and days that I found him at work. I told him it didn't seem to me that he was retired. It was at this time that Norm gave me an education on the meaning of retirement.

     He went on to explain to me that he worked 25 years for Aerojet and hated every minute but it paid the bills.  and allowed him to raise a family and put a few dollars in the bank. When he finally got to the point that he could retire he found something that he wanted to do, something that gave him a reason for getting out of bed every morning, building office furniture was it and he enjoyed it.

     So, according to Norm, the true meaning of retirement was that you quit doing something you didn't like doing and started doing something that you liked.

     I got laid off from a job back in 2007 or 8, I searched for a new job but the economy was not very good and jobs were hard to find so Linda told me to just retire - I did. I stumbled around for a time looking for something to keep me interested. I work in my shop making things from wood, sometimes I just make sawdust. Linda and I would take day trips now and again till she got sick. Kay and I shoot pool and take trips, go fishing and generally do things that make us want to get out of bed in the morning. We are doing something that makes us happy.