If beauty is in the eyes
of the beholder then it
appears that estimates of
an individual’s age operate in
the same manner.
Despite just having passed
the halfway point of my
seventieth decade, I have yet
to feel old _ at all. In many
respects I feel better now
than I did years ago when I
did absolutely nothing at all
to keep in any semblance of
decent physical condition.
I still run, walk, and, when
weather permits, do quite a
bit of demanding work up
here on the hill.
But pictures and mirrors
and the perceptions of others
have a not so subtle way of
reining in any disillusions one
might have as to the realities
of mortal life. Fact is, as one
ages one’s exterior belies the
biological truth.
The other day I was changing
for a run at the gym. I
gave up running the roads
several years ago because
of a tricky lower back and
irascible knees. My locker is in
the boys’ locker room. I share
a bank of lockers with several
other geezers. I am there for
two reasons: no lockers were
available in the mens’ locker
room and, perhaps the best
reason, lockers in the boys’
locker room are cheaper. I
never shy from a better deal.
Most of the time I have
the place to myself because
I get there pretty early in the
morning. On this day I had
some things to take care of
early on, so the run waited
until later afternoon. As I was
slipping on my sneakers, two
little boys came out of the
shower and one looked up
at me and said, ``This is the
boys’ locker room!’’ Cheeky
little bugger! I smiled, looked
down at him, and explained
that indeed several men did
have lockers in their hallowed
space as well. I tied my
laces and started for the door
leading to the adjacent locker
room. As I was closing the
door, I overheard the rascal
who questioned my presence
say to his friend, ``He was old,
at least one hundred years
old.’’ I resisted the temptation
to set him straight. I really
wanted to give the kid a piece
of my one-hundred-year-old
mind, but closed the door
behind me and went upstairs
to run. Clearly, it is still on my
mind.
I have been wondering
what I thought when in the
company of ancients at that
age. Nothing comes to mind.
However, looking at the situation
from the inside out, it is
clear that people’s perceptions
(and misconceptions) determine
how they act in certain
situations. I have noticed lately
that more young people tend
to refer to me as sir when, for
instance, opening a door for
me, or when I check out at the
supermarket counter. I do not
mind the sir stuff at all. I am
aware that it connotes respect
as well as a polite recognition
of advanced age. Since
the decline of civility in our
culture is but another symptom
of the moral barbarism
that characterizes the times,
any and all vestiges of a more
civilized past are welcome. I
also do not mind being asked
if I am eligible for a senior
discount, since a bargain is a
bargain and I will take it any
way I can get it.
One of the lessons of my
locker room encounter is that
whether or not one is suffering
the inevitable ill effects of
the aging process, perception
rules the day and reality
counts for little. The kid did
not know that behind that
beard lurked a sixty-six year
old just back from a threeday
cross country ski trip to
Canada, preceded by a ten
day African excursion, now to
be topped off by a three-mile
indoor track run. Best of all, it
is a hell of a good story to tell.
Meanwhile, I plod through
time ignoring the outer trappings
knowing full well that is
never the whole story.
Hawthorn Hill
Up on Hawthorn Hill: He must be at least 100!
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Up On Hawthorn Hill: Spring inventions
The second line of Lawrence Durrell’s novel “Justine” reads as follows: “In the midst of winter you can feel the inventions of Spring.” I first read all four novels of his magnificent Alexandria Quartet during the year I traveled from Saigon to Paris after working in Vietnam for a refugee organization for several years.
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Up On Hawthorn Hill: The past in the present
Clichés abound about the value of photographs. Most are probably true at least to a certain extent. What I do know about an image is that it represents something of the past that is not the pastitself. But that is the power of any image. It represents something that once was. The beauty of an image, revisited, is that it functions as a catalystfor reliving in the present a past experience. My own view, one that I thank the Spanish writer Jorge Luis Borges for, is that all we ever can experience is the present.
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Up On Hawthorn Hill: Quiet wisdom
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Up On Hawthorn Hill: Bird Feeder?
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Up on Hawthorn Hill: Making sense of things
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Up on Hawthorn Hill: Of birds and faith
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Up on Hawthorn Hill: Circularity
When she was a puppy my dog Gabby would run in what I described then as “circles of joy.” She celebrated her15th birthday a few weeks ago and despite the inevitable frailties that old age imposes upon all of us, she is doing pretty well.
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Up on Hawthorn Hill: Irony abounds
These are querulous times. Dissent and disagreement, as uncomfortable as they sometimes are, are essential components of a viable democracy. Democracies are always messy because everyone has a right to speak his mind and because whenever a majority is able to gain the numerical upper hand it pretty much runs the show. Several political philosophers have written quite persuasively of what they characterize as the “tyranny of the majority.” Get enough people on your side and you have the opportunity to get your way so long as you are able to maintain power. I suspect that most thoughtful people would agree that wisdom is hard to come by.
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Up on Hawthorn Hill: Of kinglets and mortality
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Up On Hawthorn Hill: Wisdom
I do not know about anyone else, but I tired of selfcongratulatory political talk a long time ago. Fact is, I have never liked it much. One candidate interviewed yesterday had nothing at all good to say about the present administration. In the process of lambasting its record on just about every front, this individual never once offered any specifics as to how he would go about creating jobs, ending Medicare fraud, or terminating these idiotic wars that we seem intent on embroiling ourselves in.
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Up On Hawthorn Hill: Spring inventions
