My on the Way Out series, Vol. 1, Part 10
Toby Keith's song, Don't Let the Old Man In hits home...After nine posts, using humor when discussing the aging process, I need to fess up and surprise my readers: I, too...will not let the old man in...in this post we'll sprinkle in a little more country for fun with Alan Jackson and a special look back at the life and times of The Man from Rawhide: Clint Eastwood.
Rowdy Yates. Now there's a ramrod who could get the job done. Of course, Clint Eastwood played Yates and Eric Fleming played the trail boss, Gil Favor, in Rawhide, the American Western TV series that aired from 1959 to 1966 -- a total of 217 black and white episodes.
I was 14 years old when I first saw Eastwood mount his horse on Rawhide and rush off to save the day. I was 74 when The Mule hit the silver screen and, at 76, I leaned back in one of those huge reclining seats at the theatre today and witnessed another Clint Eastwood movie, Cry Macho. His last two films will not garner Academy Awards, but setting in the theatre...watching Eastwood at work is an award for me, just a splendid way to spend an afternoon out of the hot Arizona sun.
I have watched Eastwood progress from a Rowdy Yates to playing roles like Dave in Play Misty for Me...Robert Kincaid in The Bridges of Madison County...William Munny in Unforgiven... Frankie Dunn in Million Dollar Baby...Walt Kowalski in Gran Torino...and still running around in my head, the current Eastwood films -- The Mule, as Eastwood portrays the reluctant, elderly drug dealer, Earl Stone, and Eastwood's latest release, Cry Macho -- a must see for Eastwood fans. Mike Milo is a broken down cowboy icon who is out to clear himself of a life-long debt. Eastwood directs and stars as Milo...and from his director chair, Eastwood has a lot to say about being old and the pain we carry for our past deeds.
As I said in a previous post, I'm a big fan of the older generation of which I'm now part of. Eastwood is 91 and he's no longer a Josie Wales or a Dirty Harry...instead he still has a lot to say and he has that avenue, by the way of the Cinema, to get the job done: to pass on life's lessons to a young cowboy or cowgirl out there.
As fo me, I continue on my narrow highway...my place in the sun and I will not let the old man in.
My thoughts are my own, as crazy as they may be, and I struggle to find the reasoning behind them. I was never one to solve a puzzle, sit at a table and agonize over each piece, searching and searching in hopes of completing the masterpiece in record time.
Instead, I keep my thoughts in my head, until I can't handle them anymore and then I let the words explode right off my finger tips. Suddenly, I begin to see them in printed form and I finally can take a big sigh of relief and sleep comfortable. My mind finally uncluttered, at least until the next barrage of thoughts arrive.
Is it a curse? I don't know. Is it God telling me so? I hope that's the case.
Right now I struggle with the rest of the world trying to understand this deadly virus as it gobbles up my dear friends...neighbors...citizens in my town and human beings all over the world. I'm frightened this puzzle has no end.
So, if I'm not writing I can unwind a bit by listening to music (maybe there are times I can do two things at once, but honestly, I'm not much of a juggler). There are plenty of songs to choose from and across the way, miles away, in another part of my brain is an old jukebox. The sounds roar through my head, each one of them popping up like a fresh bowl of popcorn. I just grab a kernel and go with it -- the right song at the right time.
The one that always finds its way to the turntable (and again... my jukebox is old), is Alan Jackson's Remember When.
Yes, Remember When is a love song, but words through out the tune take me back to my childhood, my days as a teenager, my days as I young adult and finally a man.
I'm no longer macho like Eastwood suggest we males will finally and suddenly be faced with as we enter that part of our lives. I question whether I ever was. My outlet to release my feelings comes from a dark alley somewhere, unlike Eastwood's huge avenue -- a big street, if you will, where he lights up the world for us all in a short two-hour movie. I envy him...I salute him...and men like Toby Keith and Alan Jackson all of them able through their talents to uplift us all.
As for me, I continue to remember when and look forward to the future -- no matter how short that future is.
Bottom line: Find your own avenue, enjoy life...and follow that yellow brick road as long as you can.
Photo: The author of this piece, trying to find an avenue home.
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