Old as the Hills Musings
~by Mark Blackwell “Old age isn’t so bad when you consider the alternative.” —Maurice Chevalier
O
nce again, the seasons change from the multi-hued palette of October leaves to the browns and grays of November and December. There is a chill in the air. The forest quiets from the hum of insects and birdsongs. The days grow shorter with an overcast of clouds. Fall is a time for reflection especially for those of us who have entered the autumn of our lives. As I watch the leaves of brown come tumbling down this year I am reminded of my own, once luxuriant, thatch that has faded, thinned, and finally fallen away. I am sure that I’m not the first person to notice that there are a lot of similarities between fall, the onset of winter, and the human aging process. That chill in the air now migrates to my bones. There is a haze in the hills and my eyesight has gone hazy. The soft sounds of summer have given way to a hardness of hearing. And that snap of dry twigs and the crunch of fall leaves mimic the sounds of my joints. These days, the sun gets up later, and so do I. When I roll out of bed, if some part of my body isn’t hurting, I must check to see if it’s still attached. Things could always be worse—and I’m sure that if I stick around long enough, they will get that way. But getting old in Brown County ain’t too bad. Except that I kinda regret not getting old back when Frank Hohenberger was still around
30 Our Brown County • Nov./Dec. 2023
Nashville. He took some mighty fine portraits of some of our more seasoned citizens, and I would like to see what he could have done with me as a subject. I do think that it was quite a bit tougher to be an old-timer back then than it is now. Folks suffered from all the same ailments that I’m dealing with but without the modern interventions we have. They didn’t have central heating, or stylish, synthetic puffer jackets to diminish the chill. If they were lucky, they might have a wool shawl and a couple of baked potatoes to put in their pockets. Those that could afford them could get spectacles to mitigate dimming eyesight. That likely entailed an all-day trip to Bloomington or Columbus and back. If they had to spend any time in the waiting room, it meant staying overnight. And when their hearing started to fail, the only assistance available was something called an ear trumpet.
