Beyond 60... WAY Beyond

 

By George Eleon Shuman

 

 

A few days ago, my nine-year-old granddaughter Nahla came to me and asked if she could ask me a question. I don’t know why she does this and doesn’t just ask the question in the first place, but she always does, and our short conversation went something like this:

“Papa, I have a question.” (See what I told you?)

“Sure. What is it?” I answered, as I always do.

“Do you remember when you were sixty, Papa?”

“Yes, I replied. Well, I don’t remember anything specific about being sixty, I guess.”

“But do you remember things that you did when you were sixty?”

“Um. No, I guess I don’t.”

And that was it. She didn’t ask anything more and left me puzzled at her query as she left the room. And then it hit me just a bit, with that sort of sinking ‘wait a minute’ feeling we probably have all had from time to time, that my ‘sixties’ were all gone; every one of them.

I did remember being on the other side of those years and considering and thinking that sixty-something ‘retirement aged’ people were moldy-oldie, crunchy, cranky, wrinkled wheezer geezers. I will admit that it scared me a bit to realize that the sixty-year-olds of today were just being born when I had my eleventh birthday. That that decade of life, which for so many years was squarely but distantly in front of me, was now getting smaller in my rear-view mirror. It was already small enough that I didn’t even remember much about it when my granddaughter asked.

You know… I know that I’m not as spry as I might have once been, although ‘spry’ is a relative term. (George Burns once said that he could do anything at 95 that he could when he was 18. And then said: “That just proves how pathetic I was at 18.”) At my age now I sort of resemble that remark.  Still, I truly hope that the younger people in my life don’t think of me as some dried-up old codger… at least not yet.

I do remember one other short conversation with my granddaughter. This one happened last spring. I had just hauled my bicycle up from the cellar, for the summer, as I always had, and she laughingly, but kind of seriously said: “Papa, don’t get on that. You CAN’T ride that bike. You’re going to hurt yourself.”

Well, I proved her wrong, at least briefly, but didn’t get much joy from mounting my old green ‘steed’ that day. I remember that everything hurt that night in ways and locations that I won’t describe here. I left the bike outside for the rest of the summer, without getting on it even one more time.

I am convinced that age is ‘mostly’ in our minds, although mine is also somewhat in my bones and in my bathroom mirror. (I hate that mirror.) Mentally, I don’t feel old at all. I know some others feel the same about those things. My wife’s grandmother, a woman Lorna and I both loved very much, once told me that she was just an eighteen-year-old girl in a ninety-five-year-old body. There is a lot of food for thought in that.

Also, my own mom, who is still with us, and who we both love very much too, still calls me every single evening, just to see if I’m okay or if I have some ailment that she can worry about, (I don’t.) She just took a trip to Florida and then back again to Maine to celebrate her 102^nd birthday with a huge party of family members whose very existence is entirely her fault. She’s a true treasure!

I never found out why Nahla wanted to know if I remembered being sixty that day. Maybe it was so that I could write this column?

 

Long Winters / Long Johns

 

By George Eleon Shuman

 

Last weekend, sort of as a joke, sort of not, my mom sent me a pair of long johns. You know, thermal underwear. I haven’t had a pair of those since way before Reagan won the presidency, but they haven’t changed a bit.

Mom will be 102 next month and is spending her first winter in many years in the north, specifically, in central Maine. She is very sensitive to the cold. Mom knows through our nightly phone conversations, that for the past several years, winters have not been fun for me, either. (Actually, the past seventy or so haven’t been fun for me, {I think I liked the first one.} but these recent winters have been even worse.) My circulation is probably not great, I guess. Either that or my body is just desperately trying to assume room temperature.

I try not to complain too much about the cold, but it’s hard to hide how I’m feeling when I’m hiding everything else up to my nose in several layers of blankets and comforters, as I recline in a fetal position on the couch; tough guy that I am.

Not that many years ago members of a certain segment of our country’s political class were terribly upset by what they referred to as global warming. You know, with the melting polar ice caps as proof and everything. Personally, I never thought these people were right, but I was secretly hoping they were. Longer, warmer summers seemed like a good thing to me, and they still do. Besides, I’m not anxious to visit any polar ice caps anyway.

To me, the proof of global warming is much closer to home. It’s actually right out under my carport in the form of a big, slightly rusting chunk of metal called a snow blower. I must admit to having a love-hate relationship with that thing. I’m glad I have it, but I kind of hate using it or even getting too close to it. Nearly every time I touch it something seems to fall off; (I mean off of it, not off of me. Not yet anyway.) Every time I use it, it seems louder and clunkier than it did the last time.

My barometer of global warming, climate change, whatever you want to call it, since the politicians keep changing the term because they really have no idea what’s going on in the world, weather-wise or otherwise, is this. I just keep track, loosely, of the number of times each winter that I have to crank the old thing up and do the driveway. Truthfully, for the past three winters or so, I’ve only used it three or four times each. And yes, I mean here in Vermont.

Unfortunately, this winter is proving to be a little more ‘traditional’ up here, this year. The massive storm that everyone in the US is painfully aware of experiencing earlier this week, might have been unusual for some areas, but has just been a reminder of a ‘regular’ winter here. Monday, I watched the snow fall all day. It would start and stop, and several times I almost worked up my courage to dig myself out from under the couch blankets so I could get our and our neighbor’s driveways out from under that blanket of white stuff. Finally, when the storm really seemed to be almost over, I got up and got to spend a few hours of quality time brushing the snow from my face, glasses, jacket, and nether regions, which I won’t discuss further.

Then, the snow started up again, allowing me to have all that fun, all over again, on Tuesday. What a wonderful surprise it was to learn that my phone was wrong, and it wasn’t partly sunny at all outside. No, it wasn’t.

I will end this time of whining with this. In truth, God has always been incredibly good to me and so has my family. I have a snow blower, which is much better than a shovel, and I have a big old warm home with lots of comforters on the couches. I also have a brand-new set of long johns, which came in very handy this week. Thanks Mom.

It Gets No Better

 

By George Eleon Shuman

 

This evening, I sat in my recliner, or at least on ‘my’ end of a reclining couch in our living room, with one of my dearest friends snuggled right up against my right side. His name, chosen because of his mother’s faith that he has been chosen for important things, is Chosen.

At this writing, Chosen is about fifteen months old, and, he has, as has his nine-year-old sister Nahla, completely wrapped this old person around his tiny little fingers. I surrender willingly to that fact and really don’t care much what others think about it.

It is Lorna’s and my agreed, mutual opinion that we have been wonderfully and completely blessed with our great family. As of today we have five kids, (That number is unlikely to change.) about sixteen grandkids, (That number may change.) and four great grandkids, (That number IS going to change, for sure, and already includes one who will make his appearance sometime this coming April. I am quite anxious to meet him!)

 “What a brood,” some might say. To us, it is better said: “What a great God we have, to have blessed us so completely.” For sure, all those kids, grandkids, and greats are what Lorna’s and my lives are all about. But now, back to my buddy Chosen.

I have often called Chosen my little teddy bear. I think of him this way as he sits beside me on that couch, snuggling beside his papa, under the blanket on both our laps. He almost always chuckles as I drape the blanket over us so we can share the comfort and warmth. It is nearly a ritual as I put my arm around his back and hold him close. He then always wraps his little arms around my forearm, patting with tiny hands as he squeezes it. The ultimate feeling, at least for this papa, comes a few minutes later, as my Chosen slips into slumber beside me, and that adorable little head relaxes and presses against my arm; as this priceless child trusts his papa’s care as he sleeps.

Life? It gets no better than this.