Memoirs of a Geezer!
Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth
to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!
This Episode: "What was That You Said?... or the 'Simple Joys' of Geezerhood!"
Prior to reaching the age of 40 or so, we humans tend to exist in a bubble that is sometimes slightly diaphanous, more often entirely opaque. That is to say, in our callow youth, we often lack the vision to see beyond our own limited experience. We tend to be unable to project ourselves out of the youthful moment of our 20-something or 30-something spheres of experience, not yet having surrendered the illusions of youthful immortality, intellectual and physical perfection. Thus, the young are frequently disinclined to empathize with the more aged segment of the body politic, but rather tend to enjoy deriving humor from those a generation or two beyond their own, particularly those within the grasp of incipient sensory malfunction.
Here's a case in point: When my wife's parents were traveling by train to some, now forgotten, destination in the western states, her father turned to her mother and whispered something. Her reply: "What did you say, honey?" He repeated himself in a slightly louder whisper. "What?" she responded again. He increased the volume a second time, to which she replied, "Apple pie?"
"Oh for god's sake, Alma, why would I have to whisper 'apple pie'?" And then he repeated the statement in a loud voice, amid the stares and whispers of nearby fellow passengers, "I have to go potty!" ("Alma" was a kind of silly "pet name" for his wife.)
The story became a favorite among the family, and was told and retold repeatedly, engendering considerable mirth, while both storytellers and listeners nodded in knowing assent, affirming the challenges of advancing age and the sensory defects that often accompany. "Oh my... tsk, tsk... poor old dears, but really quite funny..." among other sighs and laments rolling along on a generous stream of laughter.
But things change and tables turn. Retribution knocks upon the door, a specter armed with white paint, a bucket of wrinkles, joint pain, flab, dentures, bunions and other transformative birdshot. There are two episodes I recall in somewhat recent history attesting to my own sensory challenges.
I'm in a restaurant with my wife and daughters. The server arrives and begins her introductory oration using the most extreme "Valley Girl" intonations. She offers her name. "Johnny?" I quiz.
"Dad, her name's Jenny," my older daughter corrects. The server announces the day's special.
"Baronial chicken?" I ask, seeking clarification and detail.
"It's brown ale chicken," my younger daughter amends. Amid the barely stifled laughter of my wife and children, the server continues to announce the day's menu choices, none of which I hear clearly or understood. I order a turkey burger.
More recently, I'm on a toll-free telephone line speaking to a live representative of one of the online hotel-booking sites. In my daughter's home, the dining room is filled with friends and relatives, all discussing an upcoming wedding for which I'm attempting to engage a room. The chatter is spirited, a bit loud, conversation flitting and circling like a flock of hungry pigeons. The customer service agent is speaking with an unusual accent. "What? What?" I say. "What... could you repeat that, a bit louder? Did you say the 'Hotel Frimary'? How are we spelling that? Oh, oh, I see. I'm sorry. Primary. You want the primary card holder. You want my name? You want me to spell my name?" The laughter is intense, making it even harder to hear. "Oh, what the hell's the difference," I say in a muted voice. "I can't hear anything anyway."
A typical conversation with my wife: "Sweetheart, you want me to pause this thing? What? Shall I stop the program until you're finished with what you're doing? What did you say?" I walk into the kitchen, repeating my question.
"No need," she says.
"We have no seed?" I say.
"I heard what you asked the first time," she says. "Do not stop the program. I'm almost done!" She's a bit exasperated.
"You're cooking something?" I ask.
"With the dishes," she shouts. "Go sit down and watch the program; you can fill me in. Whoever told you your hearing's fine is a lunatic!" She's speaking quite loudly. I say nothing more, but wonder if she's cooking something that requires filling. I go back to the television. I can't find the volume button...
There are vision issues too, of course. I see words on billboards that become different words when I'm closer. My knees and shoulders have apparent dice games going on inside them... But, mustn't grumble. I'm still able to find my mouth with a large spoonful of mush...
Sometimes, I try to project my thoughts back in time to those occasions on which I was less than sympathetic and understanding to the senior population of my own acquaintanceship. I consider calling to apologize if the parties in question aren't actually dead. I admonish myself for my lack of compassion. But then I think, "Oh, what the hell. The cycles of life are circular, and now I'm the object of amusement, ridicule and scorn by the younger set." So I guess life has its own method of reconciliation. My wife is shouting something from the other room. "What was that you said, Sweetheart?... The doorbell is leaking?..."
"Oh for god's sake, Alma, why would I have to whisper 'apple pie'?" And then he repeated the statement in a loud voice, amid the stares and whispers of nearby fellow passengers, "I have to go potty!" ("Alma" was a kind of silly "pet name" for his wife.)
The story became a favorite among the family, and was told and retold repeatedly, engendering considerable mirth, while both storytellers and listeners nodded in knowing assent, affirming the challenges of advancing age and the sensory defects that often accompany. "Oh my... tsk, tsk... poor old dears, but really quite funny..." among other sighs and laments rolling along on a generous stream of laughter.
But things change and tables turn. Retribution knocks upon the door, a specter armed with white paint, a bucket of wrinkles, joint pain, flab, dentures, bunions and other transformative birdshot. There are two episodes I recall in somewhat recent history attesting to my own sensory challenges.
I'm in a restaurant with my wife and daughters. The server arrives and begins her introductory oration using the most extreme "Valley Girl" intonations. She offers her name. "Johnny?" I quiz.
"Dad, her name's Jenny," my older daughter corrects. The server announces the day's special.
"Baronial chicken?" I ask, seeking clarification and detail.
"It's brown ale chicken," my younger daughter amends. Amid the barely stifled laughter of my wife and children, the server continues to announce the day's menu choices, none of which I hear clearly or understood. I order a turkey burger.
More recently, I'm on a toll-free telephone line speaking to a live representative of one of the online hotel-booking sites. In my daughter's home, the dining room is filled with friends and relatives, all discussing an upcoming wedding for which I'm attempting to engage a room. The chatter is spirited, a bit loud, conversation flitting and circling like a flock of hungry pigeons. The customer service agent is speaking with an unusual accent. "What? What?" I say. "What... could you repeat that, a bit louder? Did you say the 'Hotel Frimary'? How are we spelling that? Oh, oh, I see. I'm sorry. Primary. You want the primary card holder. You want my name? You want me to spell my name?" The laughter is intense, making it even harder to hear. "Oh, what the hell's the difference," I say in a muted voice. "I can't hear anything anyway."
A typical conversation with my wife: "Sweetheart, you want me to pause this thing? What? Shall I stop the program until you're finished with what you're doing? What did you say?" I walk into the kitchen, repeating my question.
"No need," she says.
"We have no seed?" I say.
"I heard what you asked the first time," she says. "Do not stop the program. I'm almost done!" She's a bit exasperated.
"You're cooking something?" I ask.
"With the dishes," she shouts. "Go sit down and watch the program; you can fill me in. Whoever told you your hearing's fine is a lunatic!" She's speaking quite loudly. I say nothing more, but wonder if she's cooking something that requires filling. I go back to the television. I can't find the volume button...
There are vision issues too, of course. I see words on billboards that become different words when I'm closer. My knees and shoulders have apparent dice games going on inside them... But, mustn't grumble. I'm still able to find my mouth with a large spoonful of mush...
Sometimes, I try to project my thoughts back in time to those occasions on which I was less than sympathetic and understanding to the senior population of my own acquaintanceship. I consider calling to apologize if the parties in question aren't actually dead. I admonish myself for my lack of compassion. But then I think, "Oh, what the hell. The cycles of life are circular, and now I'm the object of amusement, ridicule and scorn by the younger set." So I guess life has its own method of reconciliation. My wife is shouting something from the other room. "What was that you said, Sweetheart?... The doorbell is leaking?..."
(Special Note of Attribution and Gratitude: The perpetrator of this Blog extends enormous thanks to his dearest friend and great love of 40-plus years, Sweetheart, for suggesting the subject matter of this edition, for having an exceptional sense of humor, for putting up with her husband for so many years, for raising two extraordinary daughters with equally exceptional senses of humor!)
Humbly Submitted, 06-07-14 -- Joel K.
