Tag Archives: Golden years

Golden years

Melissa Bean, Congresswoman

Image via Wikipedia

The lady of Tom Roeser’s house calls this sort of thing a digression, he tells us. It happens in the middle of explicating Melissa Bean as a wimp:

Ms. Bean has come up with another formula to protect herself from the public and you can see it on YouTube or Breitbart and elsewhere around the Internet. I would put it here but I don’t know how to do it but, hell, there are enough reproductions of that event to satisfy anyone curious enough to look-see. I’m all thumbs at this technological stuff anyhow.

(Here’s the video with thug, btw).

It’s about being 82:

At eighty-two you’re thrilled when you wake up in the morning, ecstatic when you pull yourself up smoothly from a chair, declining help from those who rush over, stunned when you remember the punch-line of a funny story, saddened beyond words when you read the “Deceased” list of names in your university alumni magazine and find buddies there, edified when you make it up the 18 cement steps leading to the great wooden doors of Saint John Cantius, depressed when you have to pony up a stiff fee for new higher powered hearing aids, humiliated when you tell your family you can hear better now, leading them to  ask “what kind?” and you look at your watch and say “a quarter to four.”

No, Dad, I didn’t ask the  time! I asked:  what kind?

There’s more:

You’re terrified when that sharp pain hits in your chest, electrified with joy when it turns out to be only gas, fervent with sweet resignation (maybe some fear) when you whisper to your God the Act of Contrition before you go to sleep hoping for the best.

Not yet famous last words — he has more where those came from. But an apt contribution to our geriatric treasure chest.

My variation on seeing death notices is this: Look for the ones born before you and figure out how long that gives you before shuffling off, and not to Buffalo either.

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