Old as the Hills

Musings

~by Mark Blackwell

Old age isn’t so bad when you consider the alternative.

—Maurice Chevalier

Once 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

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.

An ear trumpet was a device made from various materials: sheet metal, wood, or even animal horns, and was shaped like an elongated funnel but with a bend towards the narrow end. That part of the tube went in your ear and the bell gathered sound and amplified it.

But there were several drawbacks to them.

They weren’t discreet, in fact they were very large, and announced one’s infirmity. They weren’t terribly good at what they were designed for. People still had to shout in them to be heard. And portability was a problem as well. If you didn’t attach a cord to them so you could wear it around your neck, then you were apt to set it down and forget what you did with it.

I reckon I’m lucky to be experiencing my golden years here in the twenty-first century. I get glasses with progressive lens “in about an hour” or ten days, which ever comes last. But they do a good job of correcting at least one aspect of my outlook.

And, when I finally concluded that there really wasn’t a wide-spread conspiracy of people gaslighting me by silently mouthing words and/ or mumbling, I was able to get hold of some state-of-the-art, in yer ear (so you can’t misplace them), amplifying and clarifying, hearing aids. It makes me feel like I’m going bionic here in my declining years. I might be turning into “Robo-codger”!

Despite everything, there are some upsides to getting older—one being discounts. In other cultures, elders are given respect and held in high esteem. In our modern culture we give them senior discounts. I remember a time, in the waning days of my youth, somewhere around fifty-five or so, I was offered my first senior discount. I was somewhat taken aback. But nowadays if it comes down to respect or a discount, I’m taking the discount.

Grandkids are another bonus. They help you get more exercise. The little buggers are fast and it’s all I can do to keep up with them. But when it looks like they’re winning or trying to put something over on you, then it’s time to pull out the granddad’s secret weapon—experience—or as I like to call it, cheating and misinformation. It usually works because they think you’re old and therefore wouldn’t stoop to trickery. And besides that, it’s fun.

So, like a lot of people my age, I’m getting old but I ain’t as old as Abe Martin and I don’t reckon I ever will be.