Madam President?

During any given presidential election many "isms" get bandied about.  I think it important that as a run-up to the 2016 campaign a bit of agism be injected.  And now is as good a time as any, since we Americans are given to being perpetually in "elections mode" .

Hillary Clinton may be the only American citizen who does not know that she will run for President in 2016.  Or her noncommittal stance may be a sham.  With a politician, this is highly likely.  So what am I getting at?  Suppose that Ms. Clinton does run for the office (she will), then suppose furthermore that she will be elected (highly likely).  Then consider these data.

On Inauguration Day Hillary Clinton will be 69 years, 86 days of age.

The five oldest inaugurates to the office were

69 years, 349 days:  Ronald Reagan (1981-1989)
68 years, 23 days:  William Henry Harrison (1841)
65 years, 315 days:  James Buchanan (1857-1861)
64 years, 223 days:  George H.W. Bush (1989-1993)
64 years, 100 days:  Zachary Taylor (1849-1850)

Which would place Ms. Clinton at number two on the list if she is elected, and by less than nine months difference in age from Mr. Reagan.

Is this really what the nation wants?  Yes, we want maturity, and for sure no one would think of her as a girl or a young woman.  But really?  I pose this question not as a smart-aleck whippersnapper who has nothing but disdain for the elderly.  No, I pose it as a person who has gone through all the previous stages of life up to and including 79 years of age.

What about stamina?  What about alertness and quickness on the uptake?  She would be 73 years old at the end of the term, and if a second term were in the cards, she would be 77 at the end.

Do we really want another President who sleeps during Cabinet meetings?  But then, what could it hurt?

Ooh, I am so ticked.  I wrote this item at six o'clock Friday morning at set it in queue to post at four o'clock Saturday morning.  Then I find on Friday afternoon that the topic has been thrown into the media mix, thereby making me look like a copycat.  Thanks, Charlie Cook of the "National Journal."

One commentator said,  "Pfft.  Seventy is the new fifty."  Yeah, well that commentator is still on the sunny side of fifty, the real chronological fifty.

Conversations with Random People: Six

We had been sitting in the doctor's waiting room forty-five minutes (having arrived the standard five minutes ahead of the appointment)* when BBBH said, "That's it.  I'm leaving."  Now I've seen her pull this on previous occasions.  Her patience with the doctor's scheduling practices is limited.

"Why did you make this appointment?"  I asked.  She rehearsed the litany of complaints, which I already knew, but reiterated that this kind of wait was ridiculous.  I was able to calm her sufficiently to keep her there the additional ten minutes it required before the attendant opened the door and called her name.

Now she is cloistered in the exam room, and heaven alone knows how long I will continue to wait.  And I am cold.  And I have been cold for an hour.  So I decided to step outside for some soothing sunshine.  As I near the exit, I pass a couple who are also waiting.  Guessing ages is difficult, but it is clear that these people have both reached the portals, or have passed through the gates, of "The Golden Age."  The lady is smartly dressed, as though she might have another appointment after this one, in a place somewhat more elegant.  Her hair is that blondish-white that is reflective of the years, and she wears it just a bit longer than do many women of a certain age.  It curls softly to her shoulders.

The gentleman has on an orange and white horizontally striped polo shirt.  His hair is very short, quite curly, and white as the proverbial snow.  He is seated in a wheelchair.  He is strapped into his conveyance.

I stop beside his chair, look at the woman, and say, "Did I hear you say you live in Swayzee?"  Which of course I had heard when they arrived a half-hour earlier.

"Yes, we do.  Except for several years we spent in Utah, we have lived there all our lives."  She described the exact location of their home, and I could picture it in my mind's eye, for I have been up and down that road many, many times over the years.

"I lived in Converse many years ago," I said.  "I worked in Greentown."

"What did you do there?" he asked.

"I was a teacher."

"Oh," she asked by the tone of her voice, "then you knew Dorothy H?"

"Well, no.  I think not.  Perhaps she went there after I left.  I moved from there in '69."

"Yes, perhaps she came later.  Let's see.  My oldest started school there in 1972."

"Indeed that would have been after my time there."

"The mister hunts coyotes.  Even though his Parkinson's causes him much grief, our grandson, who is six-four and weighs about 240, takes his Grandpa out with the dogs."  He gets the hides cured, you know, over at. . . " and here she named a well-known taxidermist.  She had pronounced the name of the prey as I do, ky-oats.

Here the old fellow spoke up, eyes alight with memories of his younger day.  "My passion when I was younger was breaking horses.  Could have stayed in Utah forever!"

And he and I had found common ground, for though horses are not my thing, they are definitely the thing of my eldest stepson.  For him, life has its meaning in horses, and thus our conversation had direction until the nurse opened the door and called the next patient.

Flesh Out the Invisible Man

Long time, no see.  I fell into feeling sorry for myself again recently.  Shall I address this on String Too Short? I asked myself.  Oh, that has been done.  So I resurrected this, not because I am a poet, but because I needed to reflect once again on the words that follow the doggerel.  If  I just sit and allow myself to think I am neglected, I need to ask myself why I can't do something about that.  Am I incapable of making a call, reaching out to someone?  Going now to the scriptures.

OH THE INVISIBLE MAN!

HE'S THE GOODEST MAN YOU NEVER SAW!
HE IS HERE EVERY DAY
HE DOES HIS CHORES. IN EVERY WAY
HE'S AS GOOD AS ARY ONE YOU KNOW
AND YET SEE HIM? I' TROW,
SEE HIM, YOU NEVER CAN.
AIN'T HE A' AWFUL GOOD INVISIBLE MAN?
INVISIBLE, INVISIBLE, INVISIBLE MAN.

I'VE SERVED MY BEST IN EVERY WAY

GAVE MY KIDS MY LIFE EVERY DAY
TO THEM I'VE BEEN AWFULLY GOOD
YET TO DATE I'VE NEVER UNDERSTOOD
WHY? EVEN TO THEM I CAN'T BE SEEN
WHAT'S THE MATTER WITH ME 'N
THE THINGS I KNOW? SEE ME?
THEY NEVER CAN.
I'M THE INVISIBLE, INVISIBLE MAN.

I DEVOTED MY LIFE TO A CAREER
THE YOUNGSTERS I ATTEMPTED TO STEER
INTO THE PATHWAYS THEY SHOULD GO
BUT NOW THERE'S SCARCE A ONE I KNOW
WHO SEES ME WHEN I PASS HIM ON THE STREET
I SHUFFLE ALONG ON TIRED FEET
AND WISH A SMILE WOULD SHINE MY WAY,
BUT NO, NOT HAPPENIN' TODAY.
IT'S WHO I AM: THE INVISIBLE, INVISIBLE MAN.

WHOA! YOU SHUFFLIN' OL' INVISIBLE MAN
INVISIBLE, INVISIBLE, INVISIBLE MAN!
DID I HEAR SOMEONE CALL?
NO, NO, NO NOT AT ALL
IT'S MERELY WIND AHOWLIN'
OR ENTS OR ELVES OR SQUIDGICUMBAWLIN'
AS EVER, AS EVER INVISIBLE MAN
CAN'T BE SEEN BY ANYONE IN THE LAN'.
THAT LONELY OL' BONEY OL' INVISIBLE MAN

--

WITH INSINCERE APOLOGIES TO J.W.RILEY AND TO H.G. WELLS

I suspect that all people have times in which feelings such as these creep into their lives. It is part of the human condition to feel alone, lonely or ignored on occasion.

Yet I know that this too shall pass. In truth I have a huge, loving family and many, many friends. They all have lives, too. And it is a busy world in which we live. There are often near-overwhelming responsibilities. A kind and loving word could lift a friend of yours; just let them know they haven't been forgotten.

And above it all, we are held in the loving hand of our Heavenly Father, who will never leave us, nor yet forsake us.  John 14:18

 Let your conversation be without covetousness; and be content with such things as ye have: for he hath said, I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee.  Hebrews 13:5

© 2010 David W. Lacy

Classical Secondary Education

Helen attended school during the second decade of the twentieth century. She had very strong opinions regarding what constituted a proper secondary education. This was formed by her own experiences as a student at Hunter College High School. There she studied Latin all four years, and as a result she could talk on and on about Julius Caesar, and Horace, and Vergil, and so on and so on. Among her learning experiences was her trip to and from school each day. She made this trip from 135th and Lennox Avenue to East 94th Street where the school was located by trolley or by shanks' mare.

This early training translated itself into a love of language, and the daily crossword puzzle in the local paper was a standard part of her day well into her nineties. She did not relish "getting stuck" and rarely asked for my input, but when she did, I knew that she was upset with herself, and that she was showing me the highest degree of respect by asking.

Mother, as I came to call her, which is okay because my own mother was "Mama," was fiercely independent and did not like to depend on others for anything she thought she should be able to do for herself.  She had, since she was widowed at the age of 75, always done her own budgeting and accounting.  She became extremely frustrated as she neared ninety to find that the numbers didn't behave properly sometimes when she was attempting to balance her checkbook.  Again, with reluctance, she turned to me for assistance.  Sometimes things were easily resolved, but sometimes things had gotten into such a state that, though I could straighten it out, she couldn't grasp the root of the problem.  Ironically, just a few years later, my father who was only a few years younger than she, began to have the same sort of difficulty.  As I was working on his bank balances, I was thinking, "What is it with these old people that they cannot deal with something so simple as reconciling a bank statement?"

I have not been able to balance a checkbook for five years now.  And I am not yet eighty.  You just wait.  You are getting older every day!

Helen took up painting at the age of 65.  She had never had an art lesson, but she took her new hobby seriously.  She enrolled in art classes and produced many dozens of oil paintings over the next 25 years.  This one she presented to me personally because I had admired it.  I am presently in possession of a number of her paintings.  One of her large paintings hangs prominently in a hallway at IU Health Tipton Hospital.

Brother and Military Hero

Our last day on the road home included a stop in Mt. Vernon for a visit with BBBH's brother, Glen.

The stop included thirty extra miles of driving, not because Mt. Vernon is off the route, but rather because the driver missed the exit. Oh, well.

Glen is eighty-seven now. A visit with him is always a pleasure. For the siblings it will always include reminiscing about earlier times. For me, it is always a revealing session, because I am not privy to all of their shared experiences. But it is not all nostalgia, for we always take some time to solve the current problems of this sorry world we inhabit. Things will be better now.

Glen went into the army in time to take his basic and his paratrooper training before some of WWII's most noted battles. His experiences included a drop over Corregidor he would like to forget, yet memory has not failed him. Over the course of his military career, he served with the 101st Airborne as well as with the 82nd and the 173rd. He retired from the Army after 22 years of service which included postings in Europe as well as action in the South Pacific.

His varied career following service included several years as an instructor at Rend Lake Community College. He still lives with his wife, Marge, in the home they purchased in the 1950s.

Old Guy y Viejo #T

Had I a bit better facility at languages, I should learn some rudimentary Spanish. The population here in Hidalgo County, where we are currently ensconced, is more than 88% Hispanic. A little while ago, we were in a Wal-Mart and while Beloved Beautiful made a last pass through some of the aisles, I sat on a bench near the entryway. Presently an old gentleman, meaning a man near my own age, came and sat on the other end of the bench. I remarked that old guys had to sit sometimes. His broad smile told me he was friendly, but it also said he didn’t understand a word I said. Presently he asked me habla Espanol? I said, No, not really. Whereupon we engaged in a conversation with much hand-waving and gesticulation. It was not fruitless, either, because before we parted company, we knew that our spouses were still shopping, that he had children, five sons and a daughter, that I had two of each. He learned that I lived in some foreign place called “Indiana,” and I learned that he was originally from Mexico, but had lived in Edinburg for forty years. When I left the store, I gave him a hearty, buenos dias! and he returned the benediction. It was a doubly pleasurable experience, for I spent some pleasant moments with a stranger, and left the encouter feeling that most people are good people. And too, it brought back to mind an experience I had some twenty-three years ago when the father of a daughter-in-law visited us at our place on the lake. He was from Germany, and he had about the same amount of English as I had German, which was very little. We stood on the lakeshore enjoying the sights and the sounds of a summer morning, the sunshine warming our shoulders. The gentle waves lapping at the hull of the boat tied at the pier; the occasional "plop" of a fish reentering the water following its leap for an insect, or of a frog returning to the water from his lilypad puncuated our verbal gymnastics, lending a sense of well-being to the interchange. Opa, we all called him Opa, even though he and I were at most a short generation apart in age, visited for quite a long time, employing the same techniques that I used today with the old gentleman in the Wal-Mart. Much pointing, hand-waving; smiling and exclaiming "Ah, so!" But again, a bond was formed which I treasure to this day, though Karl has long since departed this earthly realm.

Dancing. Not. #T

Thursday nights are “dance nights” here in the park. I don’t dance, although BBBH does on occasion. She inveigled, I succumbed. We went to the dance. I, of course, sat and watched the goings-on. She, too, sat. We ate popcorn and listened to the music which was presented by a duet, two fellows who sang and played keyboard, accordion, and drums. They were actually quite good.

The hall had been transformed into a dance venue, and the lights were dim. In that light, there were no varicose veins, wrinkles or lines in faces visible. The light was good enough to reveal some white heads, but they could have been blond, perhaps. Imagine the party to consist of so many young people out for an evening of fun and dancing. But eventually the cruel lights were turned up. The entertainers were probably two of the youngest people there,and neither of them will see sixty again.

I was asked to dance by the lady who danced with everyone. I said, Daddy don’t dance, and Mama don’t rock ‘n’ roll. Beautiful was not invited to dance, and I did not realize how deeply she was cut by that until we were on the way home. She said, In all my life, that is the first time I’ve ever attended a dance, side-lined for the entire evening for want of an invitation. Insensitive as I am, I laughed. But I soon realized that she was seriously shaken by the experience, and it was not funny. Well, she had the misfortune of having been accompanied by a man who does not dance, a man who is six-three, a deuce and a quarter, and ugly enough to ward off, well, guys who might otherwise have invited her to dance. I’m really a kitten, but they don’t know that.

My Little Sister Writes

Here is a recent story for you. This is the background. A couple of Sunday's ago I talked to a 90 year old lady at church. She told me that she was an artist in Greenwich Village NYC for many years. She made fused glass art and sold it at over 100 stores in the city. When I told her I was in the arts as well, a bond was struck, and she told me I could call her Jan (name Janet) because that is the name she went by when she was a working artist. She said that she did not think Janet to be an artsy name. We proceeded downstairs to the fellowship hall, with her using what she called "TDC" (translation-that damn cane). When we arrived at the basement, she asked if I wanted to hear a joke....And now for the heart of the story...

She glanced around the fellowship hall with a mischievous twinkle in her eye and asked me if I thought it would be ok for her to tell the joke in there. Curiosity and a bit of good natured devilishness got the best of me, and I told her that we weren't in the sanctuary anymore, and that it would be ok. And so she told me this joke.

Walter, a man who had just turned 89 met his friend, Floyd, at a restaurant in a fancy New York hotel. After dinner, Floyd told Walter that he'd brought him a birthday present but had left it in his room on the 4th floor.
"You will have to go up to room 402 to get it," Floyd told him, "Here is my key."
When Walter arrived at the elevator, he discovered it was out of order, and so he proceeded to walk up. With each flight of stairs he became more and more winded, and by the time he reached the 4th floor, he was out of breath. He unlocked the door and was greeted by a voluptuous blond.
"I am your birthday present," she said, "and I am supposed to give you super sex."
He pondered her proposal while he struggled to get his breath. Finally he was able to speak.
"Thank you, he said, I think I will have the soup." --E. I. Carter