New Geezer Rule

It's been very hot and humid in these parts lately, and at times like these we take a far more sympathetic attitude towards those who endure climates like this for much of the year.

Our agemates continue on their merry social way, taking no note of shirts that soak through about three steps outside the front door or that feeling of being really unfocussed when asked a questions like, "How are you?" or the fact that at some fancy social events women can wear next to nothing while men strap on their black wool dinner jackets, bow ties, and long sleeved shirts because they believe they can grin and bear it through damn near anything.

So K and I came up with a new rule - we call it the 70/90 rule - that is, if you're over seventy and the temperature is over ninety degrees (Fahrenheit) you can do or wear anything you want.

Anything.

We know that the accumulation of years tends to provide one with sufficient inner fortitude to behave as outlined above anyway. But we live in a world of rules, so why not play the game - a little?

Our 70/90 rule is completely flexible. Invited to a benefit for a worthy organization on a snowy night in January? Invoke the 70/0 degree rule, accompanied by a "snow and ice rider."

Asked to bring you two left feet to a dinner dance on a May evening? Just remind the host that you follow the 70/60 rule and are unable to attend.

He'll probably be envious.

Doing something you don't want to do isn't fun, may be a waste of time, and there are those rare occasions (c.f., Command Performances) where the rule(s) must be suspended.

Mind you, I said suspended, and nothing more.

Our rule is a gift to you, and may it help guide you to more quiet evenings at home with a movie, popcorn, and a wee dram of a nice single malt.

Cold Water & A Dog

A week ago we had high winds and rain move through the neighborhood in the evening, followed by the loss of power for around six hours - nothing like having the lights pop on at 4:00 am both to surprise and disorient you.

The experience made me realize that I wasn't very well prepared for these irregular occurrences, so the next day I created a "lost power box," which included a crank radio, flashlights, batteries, candles, matches - come to think of it - I should have added a bottle of single malt for purposes of emotional adjustment.

The next day I realized that something had gone wrong with the supply of hot water in the house, so I wandered down to the basement (my own version of Dante's Hell) and noted the boiler pressure was lower than usual. I took the necessary steps to add a little water to bring the pressure up and was startled when the relief valve blew and water started pouring into the basement...and I couldn't stop it.

Ultimately, I cut all the power to the boiler and closed every valve within reach, and the flooding ceased. For a variety of reasons, mainly having to do with a very complicated schedule, I postponed the appointment with the boiler repair person for several days.

In the hot and humid July we've had, the cool water "bath" next to the sink wasn't effective but it was sporadically amusing, and Islay the scotty and I coped reasonably well. As the week wore on I became accountably grumpy - wet basement, uncomfortable weather, no hot water - oh, and I'm not getting any younger, by the way.

The morning I was my grumpiest, I dragged myself out to the car with Islay in tow. As we got underway, she took up one of her favorite positions, sitting on the console, facing front, and ears up, her eyes sweeping from left to right on the lookout for barking opportunities and the like.

I might be bummed, but Islay was not.

In fact, she never is. Life is a smorgasbord of opportunities for her, and she wants to take advantage of as many as she can. She addresses life with perpetual enthusiasm and good humor and reminds me of a friend who has had more than his share of troubles and who if you inquire about his well-being always responds, "Excellent!" Once I asked him about his response, and he asked me, "What choice is there?"

Good questions, and the dog had a better answer than I did. For the moment, I've realized that I'll be better off, if I just follow the precepts by which the Islay the Scotty lives. What's more, I think she knows full well that she is a good model for me and no doubt is pleased that I finally figured it out.

Turns out learning can take place in the oddest places and circumstances...for which I am grateful.

Anticipating The Inevitable

It is said that old age is not for sissies; it is equally true that it is not for the unprepared.

How many people who slip through their forties, decide to remodel the house, and in doing so take no note whatsoever of the possibility that, in just a few years, the toilets in the house may be too "low," grab bars are needed in the bath, even a ramped alternative to the front or back door might make sense.

The infirmity which preceded my hip replacement and the recuperative limitations which followed it made a number of things very clear. But as I looked around the house, I saw that I had done a pretty good job of anticipating many aspects of old age and making some design adjustments.

During a major remodeling of my more than a century old farmhouse about fifteen years ago, the architect balked when I insisted on a ground floor guest bath with a walk-in shower and a sink which could deal with a wheelchair. The slightly higher toilet was a no brainer, as was the wider door for the wheelchair. I emerged victorious, and it's made quite a difference.

On the other hand, I didn't think to add hand rails to the stairs upstairs and to the basement, much less hand rails which made coming up the outside steps easier. But that's been down now, and two things are left.

Because we're redoing the upstairs bath, I'm thinking seriously about a regular bathtub with a side door - if I ever get to the point where I can't step over the edge of the tub. That's not a big deal.

My other ambition is to find some genius who can construct an aluminum dock for use in the lake during the summer; at other times it might be able to be configured as a ramp to one of the entry doors at other times.

These days there are lots of solutions to the challenges which accompany ageing. They are not all expensive - that is until you don't have them and not having them causes a problem which leads to the Emergency Room.

In this instance, when you have plenty of time, you might put "Geriatric Planning" on your schedule.

Geezer Driving Class

Nothing like spending a Saturday morning in a snowy Minnesota February with a group of my generation taking the four hour geezer refresher driving class. All classroom, nothing behind the wheel (probably just as well).

I assume this is done nationwide, but I haven't fact checked that. When you hit double nickels you can sign up for the course, and by showing up and staying awake, you get a certificate that gets you a ten per cent discount on your car insurance. The first round is eight hours in two four hour blocks (just think that you're flying coach to Vladivostok, but the flight attendant speaks English).

Then every three years you take a four hour refresher for around twenty bucks.

Over the years, I have had some average instructors and some quite good ones, and this time my luck continued.

But here's what has surprised me at every round of the geezer course - I learn something very useful. This time it was that in Minnesota my gps can now be positioned low on the windshield - before it was illegal to do that. And you know those handicapped parking thingies that hang off the mirror? Well, not while you're driving - they're obstructing your vision. Probably goes for the pine tree smeller and the pair of dice you sometimes see, but perhaps geezers have moved beyond that sort of thing.

And here in Minnesota, when a police person has got some poor schlub pulled over on the side of the road, you'd damn well better clear the adjacent lane, or you will see all kinds of colored lights, and your wallet will go on a diet.

And I was startled to find a new way to aim your side mirrors to improve your field of view...dismayed to learn what I had begun to accept - that I don't see particularly well at night because of the impact of ageing.

Funny thing, many of my retired friends can't find the time to take the course...go figure that out.

What I can't change is that my reaction time hasn't improved in the last five decades, nor has my vision, and the fact that I tend to observe the speed limit puts me in the minority, and I understand that I am more at risk on the road than many other drivers.

But more and more, the people on our roads seem to think that they are in some sort of informal NASCAR race - they shift from lane to lane every half minute or so, reject the use of their turn signals, and their preferred speed is way the hell and gone beyond what the law allows.

SO YOU, YES, YOU - HOTSHOT UNDER FORTY IN THE BIG FANCY CAR - GET THE HELL OFF MY BACK BUMPER OR I MIGHT TOUCH MY BRAKES JUST ENOUGH TO SCARE THE LIVING CRAP OUT OF YOU, NOT TO MENTION YOUR COMPANION!!!!

And you, YES YOU, THE ONES UNDER FORTY - BACK OFF, STOP TEXTING, GET OFF THE PHONE, STOP GOSSIPING WITH YOUR FRIENDS, AND GET YOUR KIDS UNDER CONTROL

Thank you very much for thinking about it...anyway.

Recalling Dick Francis

During my public radio days, a news reporter stopped by my office to ask my advice. It seems that she was scheduled to interview some writer named Dick Francis and didn't know a thing about him. Did I recognize the name?
But of course.

In the early 1970s, my father - who did not like horses - discovered Dick Francis's mystery novels, each of which was based on some aspect of life with horses. He had been a successful jockey, and upon his retirement began writing. It took him a while to turn his pen to mysteries, and he found his work almost immediately popular.

When the mysteries began to arrive in book shops, many of us found ourselves drawn into this unfamiliar world to the degree that we couldn't wait for the next one. The former jockey who, with his wife doing "research," and presumably providing the kind of critiques at which women excel, became widely admired in this new profession. The plots were clever, the characters sufficiently drawn, and the writing vigorous and direct. Each autumn in the UK a new Francis tale would arrive, to be followed by publication in the USA the following Spring.

Anyway, I filled in Linda P., the young reporter, and asked her to bring Mr Francis by the next day so that I could meet him. When they arrived in my office, I was surprised by the author's deep blue eyes and the softness of his handshake. He spoke quietly, and his manner was gentle.

Immediately I thought I could understand how skilled he must have been in managing a horse at full tilt.
His most recent book which I had acquired in London was on my desk top - I hoped for an autograph - he was intrigued that I would have what he called the "English" edition and pointed out with pride that his wife had designed the book's cover.

By a quirk of fate, I had gotten to know a former jockey in Minnesota who had won the Grand National on an American horse named Jay Trump. I mentioned this to Francis, and he lit up - turns out he was the only turf writer in England who had picked that horse to win. I hadn't known that after retiring from riding, he had become a writer for the Daily Express for a number of years, focussing on - surprise, surprise - horse racing.

Some years later when I was involved with a support group for the Veterinary College at the University of Minnesota, I wrote him to invite him to speak to our members during a forthcoming book tour. He wrote a long, thoughtful, chatty, and exceedingly gracious regret, and I treasure it to this day.

His wife died in 2000, but he carried on with his son Felix, and one surmises that Felix will now take on the burden of continuing what has become a most successful literary enterprise, but I fear that it probably won't be quite the same. The father experienced the joys and the pain of succeeding, falling, and failing in the highly competitive world of horse racing, but we can all hope that Felix can push the enterprise forward in his own special way.

Two interesting aspects of Dick Francis's life were his service as a bomber pilot in the British Air Force in World War II and his years spent as the jockey to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth, The Queen Mother. The former he never wrote about, so far as I know, and the second involved a great disappointment when his horse Devon Loch collapsed while in the lead near the end of the famed Grand National - and lost. That event will never been forgotten, but his novels will probably be read for decades to come.

His was a life of varied outcomes, and he seemed to manage it all with equanimity and grace - the kind of ride one would expect from a good jockey.

Conversation At The Concert

My father was at his happiest in a museum, at a ballet performance, song recital, symphony concert, opera performance, and the theatre - especially the theater. In a museum, he would wander happily by himself and find enormous refreshment in the process.

The other arts required him to sit amongst other people, and this circumstance was a challenge for him. People open cellophane wrapped candies, they cough, they stamp their feet, they arrive late, but worst of all, they talk....before the performance (often) and sometimes during the performance (less frequently).

He required some stillness, probably to allow him to focus on what he was about to watch, and that focus ran from the history of the piece, his knowledge of it (generally considerable), other performances he had seen over the years, and when he was done, he considered himself prepared.

God help you if you were a chatterbox. First you got the turn of the head, then the turn and stare, then the clear the throat, turn, and long stare, and that didn't shut you up, you got a succinct sentence. One night in Boston at the Shubert theatre, he and I, on a high school tour to look at colleges) saw a pre-Broadway performance of "The Most Happy Fella." Sitting behind us were three local dowagers, who chattered on through the overture, so my father went into his drill, finally finishing with the following statement: Will you old broads please shut the XXXX up, so that I can enjoy the performance?"

I sunk into my seat, but for the rest of the evening with Robert Goode and Jo Sullivan and the rest of the cast, we had absolute quiet in the row behind us.

Afterwards, I asked him about what I had witnessed, and he pointed out that he had paid good money for the seats and was entitled to enjoy all of the performance.

For the last several decades, I have employed the same behavior continuum in similar situations. Yesterday, at a morning concert of the Minnesota Orchestra (yeah, I'm that old) three Twin Cities dowagers chatted right up to the first note of the Sibelius, the Grieg, and the two Mozart pieces. I wanted to repeat verbatim what my father had said forty-five years ago on a night in Boston, but here in the midwest our niceness is based on a thick passive aggressive mode, and all I could manage was "And now, we'll all be quiet for Mozart."

OK, so it wasn't dramatic, but it worked, and it reminded me that though my father has been gone for many years, this apple didn't roll very far from that tree.

Keeping One's Balance

My doctor tells me that - at my age - I need to concentrate on maintaining my balance - a polite way of encouraging me not to fall down a lot.

He says that falling often is the first in a short sequence of events which can lead to one's dropping off one's limb on the tree of life. Most of us want to defer that result as long as possible.

Long ago I learned to fall frequently - first on the skating rink and subsequently on the hockey rink. Playing hockey is an education in falling down and getting hit and falling down. After a while, you don't think much about it.

Time passes, and one morning you wake up and find that you are middle-aged, so you set about trying to defer the inevitable impact of ageing...a process very much like trying to defy gravity. More years go by, and then the day arrives when you look into the mirror and wonder, "Who the hell is the old guy looking back at me?"

About a decade ago when I was on the cusp of advanced middle age, I slipped and fell on a patch of ice near our offices and landed smack on the back of my head. I think I was unconscious for a few seconds and subsquently discovered I couldn't get back on my feet. So I crawled into the building and down the hall to the only business open, a tea room.

As I crawled in, the ladies were very amused at this unique attempt at humor, but when I told them what had happened, they brought a chair forthwith and helped me into it. They were most solicitous, and when I felt better, I returned to the office and called my doctor who gave me a brief interview and told me to go home and make no important decisions for the next three days. I asked him about this recommendation; he told me that I would be "goofy" until about the fourth day. Naturally, I thought he was kidding, but it turned out that he was oh so very right. My hockey "intuition' was long gone; there was no doubt about that.

After that fall, I changed my views about walking in the winter in Minnesota and acquired a variety of shoes, boots, and attachments to same to help me navigate the snowy and icy periods typical during our long winter. After the hip was replaced, I was especially cautious, and the winter after the replacement, I got too confident and slipped on the ice seven times during the winter. This led to a further review of walking accessories, and I acquired two molybdenum tipped walking poles and rubbers with the same kind of tips on the soles.

And then I discovered the Nintend Wii game system and their "Fit" program, now called "Fit Plus." One part of the exercises have to do with balance, and I began to do those exercises with a passion. My balance improved, as did my confidence, and my episodes of entertaining strangers in the out of doors diminished.

This winter, we began with heaps of snow followed by rain, yes, rain. So walking and driving have become perpetual exercises in paying attention ('though I still see people on their cell phones - go figure!).

For the time being, it's back to the treadmill and the hiking sticks for Islay the beloved scotty and me, along with even more time on the Wii in my attempts to defer that which needs to be deferred.

Good luck to us all this winter!

I still approach the winter environment with great caution and still do my Wii exercises, as well as occasional stretches on the treadmill when outdoors is just too awful for words other than those of the four letter variety.

Walking in winter is like many of other challenges which face us throughout our lives - questions of balance.