On the Way Out series
Vol. 5
Part 4
I could spend hours in a tavern -- the local watering hole, if you will.
No longer do I imbibe. No longer do I return to those days of my youth, at a time when my teammates gathered, after a hot, contested ball game and proceeded to see how many pitchers of beer we could empty in a span of two hours.
I'm no longer a party animal like I was in my twenties, thirties and forties. Now at 76 years of age, a tavern to me, with three quarters of a century of my life in the books, is now a dwelling where I sit down with the local characters and communicate with those beautiful human beings -- the ones who are retired, in most cases, are senior citizens and have their share of wrinkles on their forehead -- just like me.
Especially those informative types who are willing to sit for hours and discuss their special footprints in time -- their ups and their downs, the obstacles they faced in their lifetime -- a life...a meaningful life...a similar life we all, men and women, have ventured through.
The big differences are the decisions each one of us made in our lifetime; that timely or untimely fork in the road decisions where we have pulled up to the yield sign and suddenly we let off the gas pedal...and we begin to ponder our next move.
With our heart sputtering and our mind racing, we make that spur of the moment decision to go left, right...or maybe even turn and go back the way we came and push back our decision for another day.
Maybe we look down and see not a fork, but more of a spoon-like landscape ahead...weaving in a circular path into the night and disappearing over a distant mountain range. Or, maybe the highway is more knife-like with sharp edges at certain intervals down the road, stretching for miles and miles -- leaving a bit of a "mystery" to its unknown destination.
The more I visit with such human beings the more I discover a "sameness"we all have in common. Yes, some will not join in the conversation as they stare into the mirror behind the bar, still trying to get their story straight, so maybe later on down the road we can get acquainted and discuss what happened in their life.
Maybe it was simply a marriage or a relationship that went south. Maybe it's pure loneliness. Maybe the beautiful human being sitting across from me wants to vent. Maybe, he or she, has lost the love of their life after fifty years of togetherness.
Yes, it can get personal. But it can be uplifting as well. I do not probe. I never do that. I may even tell my story first, while they size me up and utter, under their breath: "Do I really want to talk to this gray-haired elderly gentleman, who looks like a cross between Steve Martin and Jack Nicholson.
Usually, within minutes, we are friends and the conversation is on. Where are you from? What college did you attend? How's the grandkids? You from Florida, Arizona or the Midwest? Where were you when JFK was shot?
"Life's tough!" I'd say.
"You can say that again. Back in my day..."
The conversation now is off and running. The conversation may last less than two minutes, but maybe I'll hook on to a winner and that little safe deposit box in my head will open up and I can store some of the life and times of a character -- a beautiful human being I have just met -- who desperately wants someone to listen to his or her story.
That's what I do. That's what I've always done.
I simply love characters. You can't write a story without characters.
All my life the people I have met are simply more interesting...their backgrounds filled with experiences so foreign to me. Their successes...their failures so different then mine. Risks takers, in many cases. Also something foreign to me.
Until now!
A guy at a diner in Blanding, Utah said. "You are going the wrong way, aren't you?
A lady at a coffee shop in Grand Junction, Colorado asked: Do you even have a winter coat?
Suddenly, the questioning is on the other foot!
Am I that interesting? Or, are people praying I get winterized soon.
I am an elderly and vulnerable human being, according to some of the television news channels. Even on my own blog, which has been around since 2009 and recently renamed Bookemdano's Senior Center, I have started a new series for my followers entitled: On the Way Out -- a look at the plight the older generation currently faces, while the powers-to-be battle on and on and on, trying desperately to get a handle on things as chaos continues to be the norm month after month...and now year...after year.
In less than two months it'll be 2022 and that five letter word, Virus, continues to be accompanied by a stack of ugly four-letter words.
As for me, only 44 months from my 80th birthday, I have taken that jagged fork in the road and moved to Parachute, Colorado -- some two-hundred miles west of Denver on I-70. If you miss the exit, it's on to the big city of 65,000, the metropolis of Grand Junction and one hour and 16 minutes, obeying the speed limit, from Parachute to the Utah border.
I'm a desert rat, went to high school with Linda Ronstadt. I graduated in 1963 and for the most part rode a bicycle to school until I finally obtained a 1954 Chevy, during my senior year. No snow...no cold weather...needed air conditioning in the classroom year around. Wore short sleeved shirts and Bermuda shorts...and stayed in the pool to avoid the constant 100-plus temperatures for six of the 12 months.
The hot air will hit you in the face in the summer and please stay clear of the rattlesnakes. Not really. I'm a city boy and I haven't seen a rattler in five years.
Then there's the Western Slope of Colorado.
I must adapt quickly.
I took the lady's advice in Grand Junction. I now own a winter coat, a pair of waterproof gloves, a beanie to cover my ears...and a Denver Bronco hat.
I'm becoming the Colorado Kid.
Did I finally come to my final fork in the road?
I'm old with white hair...not even gray anymore. I wear reading glasses and I'm always losing them. Arthritis is setting in. Hopefully, I can continue to pound the keys on my laptop for years to come.
I hope so.
There's a lot of characters I haven't met yet.
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