ceramic clay figure, glazed
MAY 2014
The month of the year in which I turn 91. Hard to believe despite the daily physical challenges which confirm it. But what young person could possibly look ahead -- speculate -- that he or she would be around so long? When reading Orwell's Nineteen Eighty-Four (1949) as a veteran of the European Campaign, World War II, I was convinced that much of what he foresaw in that novel might prove true. Certainly boyhood and youth during a maddening twentieth century left me with few illusions concerning the frailty of humans, our capacity to self-destruct in tyrannous societies. But at that time, it was easy to dismiss concern for 1984, distant, a year I'd likely not live to see. Not to worry.
Clichés: time flies; faster than you can bat an eye; long row to hoe; all in due time; Rome wasn't built in a day; at the eleventh hour; no time like the present. If once inclined to smile at the old bromides, one now recognizes their established validity. And can't help pondering the quote arguably attributed to Francois Guisot and/or Winston Churchill: "Show me a young Conservative and I'll show you someone with no heart. Show me an old Liberal and I'll show you someone with no brain."
Among the indignities of old age, one of the worst for we who most of our lives have been exceedingly active, busy, self-reliant and fiercely independent is the surrender of accompaniment to Sinatra's I Did It My Way. We may persist in yet pushing that envelope, but often are approached by store clerks, friends, even strangers on the street solicitously asking the white-haired, slowed man on a cane "Do you need help?" Though appreciative of their concern, the answer is usually No. And the same response, if any, goes to well-intentioned suggestions that we abandon home maintenance, household and property chores, move into a Retirement Home. Ole Rockin' Chair may beckon, but look aside.
A poor life this if full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
W. H. Davies penned those lines which I've long tried to honor, seek to do so even more today. Every stage of man has its blessings, and a few of late life are freedoms from unjustified commitments, futile pursuits, pettiness and pointless quarrels; the stripping away of most vanities, effort to affect other than who and what one truly is.
I want to live before I die. No poet this time, but words spoken by a rough comrade whom I was trying to persuade to not desert his sentry duty of walking guard. I'd brought a canteen of hot coffee to his cold post, but he gruffly refused it, saying he wanted stronger stuff -- why didn't we just take off for The Three Horseshoes, a country pub a few miles down the road, have some black-and-tans. Stationed at an army camp of Quonset huts in mid-England awaiting transport to the Continent, we'd seen little action in recent weeks, our antiaircraft guns and searchlights idle against the Luftwaffe planes headed west and the Allied ones headed east in skies above us. Rationale for the strict sentry guidelines was that though free of bombings, German parachutists/snipers might infiltrate our area, as it was rumored they'd done elsewhere. Days of training, orientations regarding the Channel Crossing, hikes across the moors, radar vigilance. Considerable leisure and too much boredom. Which is what had led my friend to an infraction of a trivial regulation, cost him his corporal stripes and earned him indefinite assignment of walking guard. I reminded him that deserting post now could result in at least days in the brig if not actual court martial.
One long look into his tired eyes of that haggard face convinced me he wasn't casually repeating the ubiquitous excusable anthem of the day -- wine, women and song for tomorrow we die. He was mouthing the universal silent despair of all soldiers, rarely uttered but at that moment demanding expression from one much wearied and unmindful of exposure. I emptied the canteen of its coffee and tramped beside my comrade to The Three Horseshoes.
There in that lovely ancient room of regional stone, we sat before a blazing fireplace, hound-dogs dozing at our feet, older country gentlemen (not another young face but ours to be seen) nodding salutes to Americans come in their hour of need. Tall mugs of black-and-tans, soldier talk of happy times shared, a few passes at the dartboard. One of the elders cranked up a phonograph and nostalgically listened to recorded tunes of his war -- Roses are Flowering in Picardy, It's a Long Way to Tipperary. Our amble back to camp in the cold came only after the pub closed.
No retribution on our arrival. One of our buddies had discovered my friend's absence, took his place as sentry. Nothing to report, no one else aware of the switch, no alarms or alerts. The substitute was happy to share the bottle of wine we'd brought from the pub. We were still awake at reveille and greeted officers and enlisted men with broad smiles.
Neither my errant comrade or I were casualties of war. If not so long as I, he reached a good advanced age. We'd meet occasionally in later years when travels brought one to the other's vicinity, and I observed he'd had a rich, full, rewarding life -- had lived before he died. His words that night at the sentry post echo on the recurring occasions when apprehension whispers Don't do this, don't do that, play it safe, act your age. Then I remember The Three Horseshoes, its restorative embrace. Admittedly with careful deliberation, I more often than not do it. I do it my way.
Clichés: time flies; faster than you can bat an eye; long row to hoe; all in due time; Rome wasn't built in a day; at the eleventh hour; no time like the present. If once inclined to smile at the old bromides, one now recognizes their established validity. And can't help pondering the quote arguably attributed to Francois Guisot and/or Winston Churchill: "Show me a young Conservative and I'll show you someone with no heart. Show me an old Liberal and I'll show you someone with no brain."
Among the indignities of old age, one of the worst for we who most of our lives have been exceedingly active, busy, self-reliant and fiercely independent is the surrender of accompaniment to Sinatra's I Did It My Way. We may persist in yet pushing that envelope, but often are approached by store clerks, friends, even strangers on the street solicitously asking the white-haired, slowed man on a cane "Do you need help?" Though appreciative of their concern, the answer is usually No. And the same response, if any, goes to well-intentioned suggestions that we abandon home maintenance, household and property chores, move into a Retirement Home. Ole Rockin' Chair may beckon, but look aside.
A poor life this if full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
W. H. Davies penned those lines which I've long tried to honor, seek to do so even more today. Every stage of man has its blessings, and a few of late life are freedoms from unjustified commitments, futile pursuits, pettiness and pointless quarrels; the stripping away of most vanities, effort to affect other than who and what one truly is.
I want to live before I die. No poet this time, but words spoken by a rough comrade whom I was trying to persuade to not desert his sentry duty of walking guard. I'd brought a canteen of hot coffee to his cold post, but he gruffly refused it, saying he wanted stronger stuff -- why didn't we just take off for The Three Horseshoes, a country pub a few miles down the road, have some black-and-tans. Stationed at an army camp of Quonset huts in mid-England awaiting transport to the Continent, we'd seen little action in recent weeks, our antiaircraft guns and searchlights idle against the Luftwaffe planes headed west and the Allied ones headed east in skies above us. Rationale for the strict sentry guidelines was that though free of bombings, German parachutists/snipers might infiltrate our area, as it was rumored they'd done elsewhere. Days of training, orientations regarding the Channel Crossing, hikes across the moors, radar vigilance. Considerable leisure and too much boredom. Which is what had led my friend to an infraction of a trivial regulation, cost him his corporal stripes and earned him indefinite assignment of walking guard. I reminded him that deserting post now could result in at least days in the brig if not actual court martial.
One long look into his tired eyes of that haggard face convinced me he wasn't casually repeating the ubiquitous excusable anthem of the day -- wine, women and song for tomorrow we die. He was mouthing the universal silent despair of all soldiers, rarely uttered but at that moment demanding expression from one much wearied and unmindful of exposure. I emptied the canteen of its coffee and tramped beside my comrade to The Three Horseshoes.
There in that lovely ancient room of regional stone, we sat before a blazing fireplace, hound-dogs dozing at our feet, older country gentlemen (not another young face but ours to be seen) nodding salutes to Americans come in their hour of need. Tall mugs of black-and-tans, soldier talk of happy times shared, a few passes at the dartboard. One of the elders cranked up a phonograph and nostalgically listened to recorded tunes of his war -- Roses are Flowering in Picardy, It's a Long Way to Tipperary. Our amble back to camp in the cold came only after the pub closed.
No retribution on our arrival. One of our buddies had discovered my friend's absence, took his place as sentry. Nothing to report, no one else aware of the switch, no alarms or alerts. The substitute was happy to share the bottle of wine we'd brought from the pub. We were still awake at reveille and greeted officers and enlisted men with broad smiles.
Neither my errant comrade or I were casualties of war. If not so long as I, he reached a good advanced age. We'd meet occasionally in later years when travels brought one to the other's vicinity, and I observed he'd had a rich, full, rewarding life -- had lived before he died. His words that night at the sentry post echo on the recurring occasions when apprehension whispers Don't do this, don't do that, play it safe, act your age. Then I remember The Three Horseshoes, its restorative embrace. Admittedly with careful deliberation, I more often than not do it. I do it my way.
