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A few months
back I wrote a piece I called “On Reaching 100,” reflecting on my 100th
offering in this space. Pecking out that headline, it occurred to me it might
look as if I was finishing my first century, not 100 columns. I don’t like to
confuse people but I finally decided that even the picture they hang here isn’t
that bad and folks would figure it out.
My editor
wisely changed the title. She’s seen me in person.
On second
thought (proving one should probably stick with their first), I wondered whether
a column on turning 100 might not be more interesting anyway. And my birthday
actually is this week, though there is the little matter of being a few decades
short. Still, an idea is an idea ...
November 16, 2054
Happy
birthday to me, happy birthday to me! Happy birthday dear me, happy birthday to
me!
Well,
somebody had to do it. The worst thing about turning 100 is that there’s no one
around to sing to you; the best is that I can’t hear myself anymore.
Oh the family hasn’t passed on, it’s just that
100 is no big deal these days. You don’t even get a “hello” from Willard Scott
till 150. Heck, it’s barely retirement age since President Clinton raised the
Social Security limit back in ’29. Yeah, Chelsea was a real pistol. A lot
better than that earlier President Clinton though; Ol’ Roger was enough to make
me nostalgic for Bill, if you can remember him.
But I
ramble, one of the few marks of age they haven’t cured yet. Baldness was on the
way out back in the 1990s, glasses too. Then senility, osteoporosis, cellulite,
gray hair, liver spots, and the urge to wear black socks and wingtips with
Bermuda shorts – which I do anyway, out of cussedness more than anything. A man
needs a hobby.
You can look like you’re 30 if you want and can
afford it except that 30-year-olds look about 15, zits and all. If it weren’t
for the rambling you could hardly tell anyone got old anymore, that and ear
hair, which has defied all science can throw at it. I could get implants for
the deafness I suppose, but it’s the only peace I get what with the
grandchildren, great grandchildren, great, great ... but there I go again.
Back at the
turn of the century I might have guessed that the kids would be living on the
moon or in outer space by now, but that turned out to be just a fad. Let’s face
it: there’s nothing to do up there but float. You can only watch the cat bob
around the house half motion sick for so long before you wish you had your feet
planted back on Earth. You don’t even want to think about what zero gravity
does to kitty litter.
No,
Girl-Codger and Boy-Codger (I dropped the “Child” when they turned 60) live
right here in Butte County. They visit often, bless their hearts, but I hope to
see even more of them after the powers-that-be decide whether to choose Highway
99 or Highway 70 for a freeway. Just hope they get it built before I get that
call from Willard.
Well, here
comes that jug-eared boy that mows our yard. They say you can tell someone is
over 100 if they still keep a lawn, but I don’t care. Just look at that kid –
tie-dyed shirt, bell bottom jeans, puka shells, you’d think he just stepped out
of 1969. Or 1999. Or 2029, for that matter. I may still like grass stains on
my toes, but for fashion give me the classics. Like Bermuda shorts.
I’ll admit
to getting a little crotchety, but it’s more for sport than anything. The Lord
has blessed me mightily: I have His grace, my wife, our kids, their kids (and so
on), and as much health and good looks as I care to buy.
I’m still
not in Strom Thurmond’s league, though. That man will bury Willard yet.
© 1997 – 2002 Brent Morrison
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