Boomer Humor

Facebook? What was he thinking!

I have a friend who likes gadgets.  Any kind of gadget.  Doesn’t really matter what it does.  He’ll buy it.

He bought a breadmaker.  Doesn’t cook.  His wife said, “Why did you get that.  You don’t cook?”  He said, “It’s a cool machine, and I thought you needed to do something in the kitchen.”  He should get out of his body cast in a few weeks.  He even bought the new Magic Jack, which provides “virtually free” long-distance telephone calls, and he doesn’t have a land line – only cell phones.  Go figure.

With this mindset, it stands to reason he’s attracted to new technology.  His grandkids are into Facebook. Now, he is, too.  That’s where you fill your own personal little segment with pictures, video and all matter of personal information – for the world to see.  You can even take tests to see what kind of fruit you’d be (as if, indeed, you wanted to be a fruit.)  It allows even the most mundane and boring people to have autobiographies.

Curiosity drove me to check out what this wonderful “social tool” is all about.  People, whom I suspect would be fairly tasteful in public, post pictures of themselves doing just about anything, in just about any form of dress. 

As I said, it’s there for all the world to see.  At my age, “for all the world to see” is a mega issue.  When I’m exercising, I feel much younger and frequently even visualize the 10Ks I ran on many weekends.  I don’t have a belly in those memories, and I’m quick and strong.  But, when I walk past a mirror, VOILA.  My mirror shouts “NOT YOU!”  (Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the youngest man of all?)

            My Buddy, let’s call him Steve, because that’s his name, must not look at his mirror.  Or perhaps his eyes are worse than I imagined.  He created a Face space and thereon posted digital shots of himself with his grandchildren at the beach – closeups of him kissing a baby – pictures of his hands building a fort for them.  What a nice man he is.  But, at age 64, I would not think he would want to “go public.”  In addition to closeups of his beautiful grandchildren are not-so-beautiful closeups of his expansive backside and flabby arms and so much more I don’t have the tackiness to share.  One photo is of him in a Speedo.  I think this should qualify for him to be arrested for assault.  The old saying that “a picture is worth a thousand words,” is a bit understated in this incident.  This picture is worth nausea, vomiting, temporary blindness, and thousands of other such descriptors. 

Seeing such a picture in his house is manageable.  You pass by it and move on, and it’s not there for posterity.  But, on the website, all the world can see it and say “yuck.”  Or worse.

            As a Baby Boomer I have many good qualities – my belly, the wrinkles on my face, my flabby lower body, and the lines on my hands aren’t the ones I would showcase.  My ankles aren’t all that bad, but they don’t make for captive pictures. 

            Steve harassed me to set up my own Facebook site.  He said, “You do a lot of interesting things.  You need a Facebook.”  “Nope,” I said.  “Bob, you need to get with the times!” he exclaimed. 

            I don’t think he understands that “the times” is precisely the reason I didn’t want to do it.

We don’t grocery shop together.

I do not grocery shop with my wife.  I will not use a shopping list she’s prepared.

            Abuncha years ago, I suggested so delicately that Brenda not wait until she gets home from work to think about supper.  Being AR with a capital AR, I asked her one morning if I could do anything to help plan for supper.  She, without hesitation, said. “You can do the whole thing.”  “Thing” may have had an adjective. I said, “I”ll do it.”  She replied, “Really!!??  If you’ll cook the daily meals, I’ll do the shopping.”  NOPE.  If I’m cooking, I’m buying.

            Thus I shop.  I cherish Brenda, but I don’t want her going with me to the store.  First, she doesn’t know how to make out a list.  She looks at recipes and jots them down as she reads them, then on to the next recipe, until she has a paper full of items to buy.  That’s not how it should be done. Produce goes first, canned items in there soon.  Coffee and baking items probably in the middle of the first column somewhere.  The last column is for dairy and deli, ending with frozen goods.  (You have to double back to get frozen goods last, because they could thaw in the 12 seconds you’re wandering around the bakery.)  I write my list in the order of the store.  Brenda is like a random heat-seeking missile.   She picks her target and hunts until she finds it, then she focuses on the next issue.  She walks 42 miles in one shopping trip.

            The real difference in our shopping is in attitude.  She sees the grocery as a place where you buy food.  How shallow!  Going to the grocery is like all adventures – it’s relationship building.  (Brenda questions my use of the term adventure when going to the grocery, and vows she needs to get me out more, but with supervision.)  Last week, I came home with frozen lobster tails that had been on sale.  They were beautiful.  When asked how I found them, I simply shared that I looked in another guy’s cart when he walked by and saw the lobster.  “Excuse, but where did you find those?”  “They have them thawed behind the seafood counter,” he replied, “but if you ask, they’ll give you frozen ones to have later.”  Brenda said I was rude looking into his cart.  I said, “Did you like the lobsters?”  

            She recently came home without a particular fresh herb she wanted.  “They didn’t have it,” she said.  I shook my head.  “Did you ask Janet or David to see if they had it in the back?”  “No!  Why would I do that?”  “Because you wanted to buy it?”  But, I wouldn’t have had to ask. They know me and would have offered to check for me.

            I come back with sports scores, recipes, the phone number of someone who will trim trees, and a score of other items. I couldn’t have done that when I was younger.        

Several months ago, I had an accident and hurt my knee.  On my next visit to the store, I commandeered one of the motorized buggies and drove down aisles asking the clerks I knew if they wanted a ride.   Boomers, we may be aging a bit, but we don’t have to be boring.     

Toys can be dangerous in a Boomer’s hands.

 

iphones are amazing instruments.  Last year, my wife insisted I get one for my business, especially since it’s so easy to retrieve e-mails from clients when I’m away from the office.

I love it.  It can do nearly everything, except make a sandwich; and I feel sure they’re working on that.

There are some unexpected issues that arise.  Apple has created pretty amazing apps (applications) and keeps adding to the list almost daily it seems.  There’s one that caught my attention recently, because I thought it sounded fairly obnoxious and a wonderful way to annoy people.  It’s called Grenade.  And most importantly, it’s free.  I was under the impression that once it was downloaded, you push the grenade button, and it sounds like one is about to explode.  The statement that caught my attention was that it’s especially fun in crowds.  I don’t like crowds, and this concept of “crowd control” had possibilities.

Old people should not be given toys designed for younger people.  First of all, we don’t really understand how to operate them, and more importantly, we’re old and experienced enough to do some serious damage.

I could envision walking down a narrow aisle at Walmart hoping for a bit more space and activating the grenade button.  No more crowded conditions!  

I thought it might be especially fun to activate in a library.   I understand after more serious consideration that it might possibly be considered a public nuisance or akin to inciting a riot.  But, we older folk sometimes want excitement, like everyone else.  I don’t think it would be a good idea in a cardiac care unit.

But, alas.  My plans didn’t materialize.  I downloaded grenade and pushed the activate button.  Nothing.  No sound.  Nada.  I even texted the application people and complained.  No response.  I erased this program.

Recently when we visited our Savannah family, I asked Parker’s opinion.  I reinstalled the grenade.  Again, nothing.  For me.  Parker’s eyes got big.  “You don’t hear THAT!!!” he said.  “Hear what,” I asked.  “That annoying shrill noise,” Debbie added, “that makes us want to throw your phone away.”  Neither Brenda nor I heard anything.

So, I once again erased that application from my phone.  A few weeks later, Debbie forwarded an interview focusing on the very issue of older people not being able to hear certain frequencies and sounds.  Sounds crazy, and I don’t think researchers know why, but it happens.  I/we can’t hear some sounds younger people can.

After more thought, I reinstalled the grenade application on my phone.  Now when I activate it in the middle of Kroger’s and people scurry about in panic, I can honestly reply, “What noise?  I don’t hear anything.”

 

 

 

 

 

Ah, the beauty of Spring rituals.

My gosh, have you looked out your window?  The birds are flittering and singing and chasing each other all around the yard.  Rabbits are hopping about.  Outside cats are catterwalling all hours of the night, which I deem a bit tacky. 

Our inside cats are harmless, as far as adding to nature is concerned.  But, they’re still spry and frisky.  They know they’re supposed to feel something; they just don’t have a clue what.  So they do the next best thing.  They run through the house at four times warp speed then crash into the French doors leading to the screened porch where they sit on the couch and pretend to threaten the birds, who, incidentally, laugh at them.   In the middle of the night – say about 3:30 a.m. – they run into our bedroom and leap purposefully onto the bed, landing in the middle of my chest before they’re off, waiting until I’m almost asleep to do it again. 

Spring has arrived!  Bringing with it rituals of all sorts.  Every living thing – almost every living thing – is involved in the flirtatious, invigorating activities of spring. 

I remember those days.  I remember when I was very young walking home from school with Margaret and thinking she was really really nice, but not having a clue why.  I remember on Spring break in college seeing all the girls at the beach and thinking they were really really wonderful, and knowing why.

Spring is a magic time for excitement, energy and an overall feeling of well being.  It’s when you get an added “spring” in your step, as it were. 

But, I’m telling you what, friends.  The rituals have changed.  The added “spring in my step” now means that I can walk normally after getting up in the morning – without having to shuffle and build up to speed.

All this frivolity makes me smile, knowing that I’d have to increase my blood pressure medicine if I thought about it long.  A friend of mine said the other morning that he woke up and listened to the birds singing outside his window and felt so happy and healthy that he almost went into his wife’s bedroom to give her a kiss on the cheek.  “Why didn’t you,” I asked.  “Wake her up?!?!?!? Are you crazy?  The reason we have separate bedrooms is that she can’t sleep.”  Ah, the sweet mysteries of a tried and true marriage.

After this, I decided to ask friends about their spring rituals.  I would never have done it 30 years ago.  I would have most certainly been told to mind my own business.  However, I stopped asking after the first friend.  “Do you and your wife have a special Spring ritual to bring back the romance?”  “Does setting the clock forward an hour count,” he asked.

When you’re in the Fall of your life, fast approaching Winter, the “spring in your step” may be as simple as not finding a friend’s name in the obit column.  Or not having to get up in the middle of the night.  Or not having your doctor shake her head and tell you to lose weight.

Don’t get me wrong!  I’m not feeling sorry for myself.  The thought of all that springiness and frivolity and energy makes me so tired I want to take a nap.  That’s a good thing. 

I can’t help it if she mumbles.

Brenda and I have been married nearly 41 years.  We have communicated (and not communicated) a lot over the years.  We’ve pretty much understood each other.

She knew what I meant when I stormed out of the room.  I always knew when she meant when she said if I didn’t sit down and shut up I’d die a slow and painful death. 

Now, she thinks we might need a translator.  Brenda says it’s because I’m hard of hearing.  I know that’s not true.  It’s usually because she talks with her mouth closed or speaks to me five rooms away and expects me to comprehend. 

We were eating out one evening and the waitress came by and asked, “Do you need anything else?”.  I said no thank you and got up to leave. Brenda said, “That wasn’t very nice.  I thought she gave good service.”  “She did,” I answered, “and I tipped her 20%.”  “Then why did you say ‘no’ when she asked you if the service was good?”  “Because that’s not what she asked.  She asked if we needed anything else.”  We laughed, but this isn’t an isolated incident.

            When I don’t hear her when she mumbles incoherently under her breath, she proclaims, “You’re in your own little world. You don’t hear anything.”  I silently wondered why that was a problem, as I’ve been in my own little world since birth.  But, I figured her thinking I couldn’t hear was better than her thinking I wasn’t paying attention.

            My hearing is fine.  It’s just that Brenda thinks I should hang on her every word while she’s in the living room and I’m in the far corner of the back yard.  The other day she asked me, “Did you call Rob back today?”  I answered, “I didn’t know he had called to start with, so “no” I didn’t call him back.”

            “I told you this morning that he called,” she argued.

            “No you didn’t.  Sometimes you think you tell me things that you don’t tell me. I don’t hear what you say because you don’t say it when I’m around.  And sometimes you mumble.”  I wanted to touch all my bases.

            “I don’t buy that,” she said a bit too quickly.  “You use that as an excuse!”

            “Who’s a fat recluse?!?!?”

            “See what I’m saying? You don’t half listen, then you jump to conclusions.”

“You’re completely off base,” I snapped.  “And I don’t create confusion. “

I can hear perfectly well.  Just about all the time.  I am not old, I don’t feel old, and I don’t think of myself as old.  But, more and more people do mumble.  They don’t enunciate as clearly as they used to.  

The other day I told her, “Honey I like those linen pants.”

“You think I’m in a trance?”

“You need your hearing checked.”

She looked at me dumbfounded.  “I’ve got an earring in my neck?”

My wife thinks we need a translator – an impartial third party who won’t take sides.  That's not necessary.  Our conversations are much more interesting on our own.

It's NOT about "her." It's about "him."

Brenda and I have been married closing in on 41 years.  I feel very comfortable in saying that telling each other the truth without exception wouldn’t enhance a lasting relationship.  Am I saying lie to the woman you love?  Am I saying lie to the woman who trusts you?  Yep.  That’s what I’m saying.  On occasion!!  Depending on the issue!!

            I’ve said this many times.  Truth is NOT all it’s cracked up to be.  Let me put this in perspective.  Several years ago, I was getting ready for work, “minding my own business,” when my wife, also getting ready for work, said, “do I look fat in these slacks?”  At that time, she may have ballooned up to a size 6 from a size 4.  I didn’t hesitate.  “No honey, you don’t.”  Were the pants even a smidge tight?  May have been, I don’t recall. I wouldn’t have known then.   Was I going to tell her that?  Uh, no.

            Do I tell her the truth about everything else in my life?  Of course I do.  Trust is what our marriage is based upon.  Our marriage is also based on the fact that I’m alive, and telling my wife that she looks fat doesn’t impress me as a very good way to keep that momentum going. 

            Here’s when I first discovered that truth isn’t always a good thing.  In the summer of 1970, Brenda was 150 months pregnant with our first child.  Prior to that, she might have been a size two.  Let’s keep this “fat” issue in perspective.  One night, again at a time when I was “minding my own business,” she came out of the bathroom, clearly “down.”  “I look fat and ugly,” she said.  She was beautiful.  I put my arm around her and said, “Honey, I still think you’re sexy.”  She burst into tears.  Why wouldn’t my mouth lock up?  I didn’t think she looked fat, but that word “still” was in the sentence and indicated I thought that – to her. From that point on, honesty in dealing with my wife’s appearance borders more on self-preservation that honesty. 

            A lady l know was bemoaning the fact that she’s getting – and looking – older.  She, too, is a small lady, and I suspect always has been.  She said she wishes her husband would level with her when she asks him if she looks fat in a particular outfit.  Here’s where I think she’s wrong.  “I know he’s trying to spare my feelings,” she said, “but he could say that he likes another outfit better.”  I laughed out loud.  “Friend, he’s not trying to spare your feelings.  He’s protecting himself.”

            Over the years, I’ve argued with my wife about virtually everything – money, raising kids, work, food, cars, houses, people we like, people who are tacky.  However, there’s one arena that’s taboo for arguing.  This is a woman who has closets of clothes and so many shoes I can’t count them.  My theory is that someone that particular about the way she looks is not wanting someone to tell her she doesn’t look good in an outfit.  She’ll figure it out as the day goes on. 

            Back to my first story, the one where I had told her she looked fine.  Later that morning, she called and said, “You lied to me.  I look fat in these slacks.”  For some reason, I had a moment of lucidness and responded, “Honey, I love you.” 

            “You’re good,” she laughed and hung up.  That night I saw the slacks in the “give away” pile.  But, I was able to stay in the house. 

            I told my friend, if you want to believe your husband is thinking about your feelings when he avoids the truth about how you look, you go right ahead.  By the way, I have some swamp property for sell.  Would you be interested?

Funerals are fairly serious affairs.

 

I’m not morbid.  I don’t sit around worrying about death.  I haven’t bought a cemetery plot.  I figure if I don’t know where I’m being buried, I won’t care.  I haven’t picked out a casket.  I haven’t picked out a head stone.  I’m not going to.  It’s fairly safe to say that I don’t focus on my death.  I’ve got too much to do.

The older I get, however, it seems the more funerals I attend.  I’ve never given much thought to what kind of funeral I want.  But, after experiencing some unusual “celebrations of life,” I have decided what I don’t want.    I don’t want anyone – I repeat ANYONE – aside from the minister “remembering” me in public at my funeral.  Most of the time people feel compelled to share old stories that are, first of all, a bit of a surprise and a tad embarrassing to the wife, and, secondly, an absolute shocker to the kids.

I want the content of my funeral to be much like company retirement benefits –based on the last five years.  I want the minister to focus on the most recent past.  But, I’ve got friends who have already written my epitaphs.  They think they’re fun and clever. They want to dredge up crazy stuff I did years ago.  This is true.  I know everything they have to say, most of it’s correct, and that’s not the way I want to go out.  When people start sharing interesting aspects of their relationship with the deceased, it takes away all doubt.  Once someone goes public with crazy stories at a funeral, everyone will remember that the “dearly departed” was weird, strange, off-the-wall, and a bit of a nut.

I’m not kidding.  Funerals can be serious business.  I told my minister that under no circumstances is he to allow others to stand up during the funeral and memorialize me.  He said, “You need to tell your wife.  That’s between you and her.”

“Nope,” I almost shouted at him.  “She’s wonderful, but when it comes to my tacky friends wanting to share funny stories, I’m afraid she can be bought.”  He said he doesn’t see how this could be stopped.  He scared me and said, “You’ll have to admit, Bob.  Your jesting attitude and sense of humor does make great material for others.”

I threatened to hire Uzi-toting thugs to sit in the balcony and fire over the heads of anyone who stood up to say something about me.  But, my minister thinks that goes against the grain of Christianity. 

Then it became clear what I must do.  I had to write my own funeral.  I started writing about humorous things that happened and how I handled them and Spiritual messages I learned.  Then I threw out anything the least big controversial or damaging to my character.  The two things left were so boring that even I objected.

I guess the only thing worse than people knowing “the real you,” is when the real you is so dull no one wants to speak at your funeral.

 

 

I never liked her anyway.

Last week, I attended a state legislative dinner and sat with a delegation from my community. Half the table consisted of “young professionals” with the emphasis on youngyoungyoung.  I know all of them and enjoy their company.  In fact, when I’m around them individually, I don’t believe in generation gaps.  They are smart, respectful, and wise.  They are involved.  They make me feel young – sometimes they make me feel almost as young as they are.  (That’s actually a scary though.)

            But, when they are together, they do it!  “It” separates them from us. Them being Y and us being O.  Y being young, and O being old(er).  Y multitasks in ways my grandchildren understand all too well. 

I grew up being told I “wasn’t paying attention.” I didn’t know to tell my teacher I was multi-tasking. Daydreaming and drawing pictures in class qualifies, doesn’t it?)  I told my young friends this.  I explained I had read people cannot be effective when they multi-task, that something has to give.  They said ridiculous.  They can do “it” just fine. 

To prove it, one young lady texted me.  Before I read her message, I questioned her to prove she couldn’t write to me and listen to the speaker at the same time.  “What did the speaker say?”  She answered without hesitation.  “About the economic impact of his Senate Bill on the unemployed or the part about the working mothers needing more assistance in single-parent homes.” I never liked her, anyway.

Even before I read her text, I knew without doubt what she had done.  She could recall what was said because she had merely texted me what the speaker was saying.  I was wrong.  The message told me about her two children, and how one was taking horseback riding lessons, but her youngest daughter preferred swimming classes, and it was tough getting them to both lessons twice a week. And, by the way, I hadn’t eaten all my broccoli.   I never liked her, anyway.

            Then I grinned.  Big.  Bigger than Big.  Huge!  “What are you grinning about,” she asked.  ”I knew you couldn’t multi-task without sacrificing something,” I smirked.   “What are you talking about,” she retorted.  “You misspelled a word,” I double smirked.  “Instead of ‘their,’ you said ‘there’.”   She rolled her eyes at me.  I never liked her, anyway.

             I asked, “If you’re sitting next to each other, why on earth would you need to text?”  She didn’t answer.  She just looked at me as if I were a generation or two older.  (Uh Oh.)  What really was happening was that she didn’t consider the question relevant.  Then I remembered Deedie, a neighbor and childhood friend of mine.  We saw each other all the time.  Going to school.  Coming home from school.  After school.  On weekends.  We were friends. Yet, frequently when we were in school, we would pass notes. Even though we saw each other all the time. It’s not any different.  Except that today’s “pencil and paper” costs $400 with a monthly data charge. 

            She said, “Why does it bother you when I don’t give the speaker all my attention?”  “I guess it seems a bit rude,” I said. She reeled me in like the hooked fish I was.  “I noticed during the speech, you leaned over to Larry and asked about his family.  You were quiet, but you weren’t listening.”

            I never liked her, anyway.

Old Men and Christmas Shopping

 

There’s something very fulfilling about being an old guy out Christmas shopping with your wife.  Depending on your attitude at a given moment, people cut you some slack.

Last weekend, we were in Lexington (KY) shopping and had had a pretty calm and productive day.  “So what else needs to be done?” I asked innocently.  And, stupidly.  “I only need to go to Fayette Mall,” Brenda said.  It was 4 in the afternoon, we had a 2-hour drive back home, and I looked at her panic stricken.  We’ll not get back home for church tomorrow.  But, we thought, how bad could it be? 

Let me tell you.  My first mistake was getting off Nicholasville Road to take a short cut in the back way to the Mall.  After it took five times to get through one traffic light, I entered the Mall property.  Cars were almost non-stop. No, let me rephrase that.  They were stopped.  I had intended to drop Brenda off at the other end of the mall and then drive to Critchfield’s a few blocks away to get country ham.  Then I’d quickly circle back and go find my lovely bride. 

Our car made a snail look like a shell on speed, so Brenda said, “Just let me off here.”  Here was next to the road “near” the other end of the Mall where she wanted to be.  We agreed that was efficient.  I let her off and got back into the traffic. However, this time I was going against the mall traffic.  It wasn’t too bad. 

Three pounds of country ham later, I head back to the Mall.  No short cuts.  Once on Mall property, I searched for a spot in all the many acres of parking.  Nothing.  I even went to an adjacent shopping center.  So did 600 million of my friends.  Just as I decided to call Brenda and tell her I would circle the wagons until she got outside, I saw a young mother and her daughter with packages walking from the Mall.  Stalking isn’t a nice word.  But, I pulled up next to her. “Are you parked close by?”  “Yes,” she laughed.  “Follow me.”  I did. I stuck to her like ugly on an ape.

They got in their car and I parked alongside.  A tired shopper behind me took exception with my not moving and gestured.  I didn’t care.  I was old.  I was tired.  And, that parking place was MINE!!!!!  Just as the lady began pulling out from her parking place, a car pulled around me to take claim to the opening.  I jumped out of the car, pointed at the space and said, “That one’s mine!!!”

He watched as I pulled in.  I figure he either thought I was old and might have a heart attack or was afraid I was so old I didn’t have much longer to live anyway.  But, he didn’t challenge me. 

Another old codger in a passing car applauded me and gave me the gray panther closed fist victory sign that I hadn’t seen in 30 years. There may be nothing more unified than grumpy old men.

I parked and called Brenda as I walked into the Mall. “I’m at the Disney store,” she said.  “I’ll be there,” I told her.

I approached the store, and 15 gazillion people were in there.  I called her and said, “No way I’m coming in.  I’ll wait in the front of the store.”

“I’m not there anymore,” she said.  “Actually, I’m right behind you.”  I turned and there she was.

She immediately said, “I’m through and ready to go.”

She didn’t know about my parking excursion.  “After what I’ve been through,” I stammered, “I’m not leaving. Buy something!!!!”

My body is a living calendar.

I have friends who remember what they had for dinner two years ago on the Thursday night after their dog, Beatrice, had puppies for the fourth time.  “Oh that was the night we had shrimp risotto.”  That amazes me. “With spinach salad.”  Actually, I don’t know why you would want to remember that.  But, it’s a non-issue with me.  I couldn’t.  Fact is I’m not real sure what I had for dinner last night.  I remember liking it, though.  I think I cooked it.  I’ll have to check.

Those same remembering friends also seem to recall what they were doing on just about any given day.  (I do believe some of them are lying and making it all up.  No one would know.  I’m pretty sure no one would care, either.)

I remember important dates, but I can’t just pick a day and tell you what I was doing.  I remember when I got married.  August 21, 1968.  (No, wait a minute.  My brother once got married August 21.  I got married August 24.  I’m pretty sure about the year.)

I vividly remember situations, such as births and funerals and weddings and walking into a glass patio door at a neighbor’s party.  But, don’t ask me ordinary dates. 

I credit this with me being more of a generalist.  My wife says it has more to do with the fact that I don’t pay attention. 

But, now, as a gently aging Baby Boomer (I’m writing this, I’ll describe myself as “gently aging” if I want to), I’m finding I now mark my time according to scars and cuts all over my body.  As a young man, I healed – quickly and completely.  I could cut my finger deeply, and in a few weeks there would be no sign of it – no scar.  Now, I’m a visual calendar of accidents.

When did you get that scar on your nose?  “That was when I fell off Parker’s front porch two years ago this past October.”

What about that fresh cut on your ankle?  “Oh, that was four months ago when we watched the grand girls take horseback riding.  The ‘no-see-ums’ were unmerciful and bit me all over my legs.”

The cut on my upper arm was from falling into an oyster bed on the beach back in ’06.  The pale pink scar on my right wrist was an oven burn when I was baking cookies for a party.

It’s ridiculous to the point of being pitiful.  Why would I want to know all this stuff?  I don’t.  But, it’s etched in my memory forever.  

But, what did I have last night for supper?  That’s easy.  Pork barbecue!  No that was two nights ago.  Meatloaf!  No, that’s what we’re having tonight.  Vegetable soup!!  Yea, that’s it.  Maybe.