Until the Bitter End

 

Nature is a lender; its ledgers are precise. The loan always comes due, sooner or later. 

                                                                     * * *

A couple weeks ago the sports sections set on fire the course of nature. Tom Brady, the celebrated NFL quarterback, is back. Mass hysteria ensued. The fans were delirious, the bookies recalculated their algorithms, and the Bucs increased their credit line. 

It took a 41-day vacation for him to realize, It ain’t over till it’s over. He quipped, “Never say never.” Equivocation leaves doors open. The Sunday afternoon NFL Church of Perpetual Football will be packed.

Look at it this way: Brady’s six-week hiatus begs us question, “Why quit?” Right. Why quit until it’s time, football or anything else?

And when is it time to say enough, to closet the clubs, retire the racket, jettison the jogging and take up bridge and bird watching? Or that matter, just generally hang it all up? 

Nobody wants to look back at life with regret and lament with Brando, “I coulda had class, Charlie. I coulda been a contender, I coulda been somebody.” No, we want to keep on until nature has called its loan due, until the bitter end.

It’s the devil’s pixie dust that spikes our delusional perseverance. It’s a witch’s brew we swill that swells the coffers of orthopedic surgeons, crams cardiac waiting rooms and fills the sofas of psychiatrists.  

We’re die-hard Americans, we endure until the bitter end, renewing our loans with nature’s palliatives that promise the fountain of youth. Nature is happy to oblige. It’ll collect full payment sooner or later. Saying ‘enough is enough’ is defeat.     

But the pressure of perpetual youth and relevance is real. They’re shadows with substance. We feel their pressure, their desire pulsates from behind. We look over our shoulder, they’re there, ever smiling, ever young, ever pertinent. We can’t quit. Not now. Not ever.

Why? Because we’re hounded by the relentless bloodhounds of the Culture of Achievement, or worse, the nagging fear of irrelevance. We dance around the ‘has-been’ dust bin of obsolescence as though it were leprosy.

We need more trophies, more bragging rights, more business accolades. But we don’t have wall space for that stuff now. Our past exploits are old news. They draw no audience. So, what drive us then, this insatiable urge to achieve, to ‘stay in the game’ at any cost?  

Short answer…the brevity of time and the world-beating lust for life. Thoughts of capitulation constantly assail us as they slide across the threshold of the mind’s psyche. When we throw in the towel, it’s game-over.

Maybe we’re not cut out of the same cloth as Tom Brady. Yet there’s one common thread we share, whether you give a rip about football or not. It’s his ‘fire-in-the-belly’ attitude, the burning passion of squeezing out everything life has to offer with utter disregard of shelf-life or expiration dates.

But sadly, sooner or later we must face the cold casino of life’s realities. Prosthetic joints and pharmaceutical remedies run their course. It’s ‘take a number,’ find your slot in the cycle of shutdown. The days of handicap improvement are over. Tennis is morphing into pickleball, and jogging is becoming a spectator sport. Worse, you’re finding it harder to remember your own name.

And, so we ask, “Now what? When is it time to hang it up?” I pose these questions to my friend, Arnold, a retired shade-tree mechanic who analogizes all conundrums to a car engine.

“Arnold, what’s Brady’s secret to relevance?”

“Maintenance and luck,” he says.

“That simple?”

“Yeah. Keep a spark in the plugs, oil in the engine and gas in the tank.”  

“Is there an end to the illusions of longevity we enshrine?”

“Not as long as there’s a heartbeat. Has Willie quit singing, or Clint quit acting? Heck, Jimmy Carter might live forever. Never quit. It’s in the blood, my boy, in the blood.”

“How will we know when it’s time to quit?”

“Nature will send you a friendly reminder. Meanwhile, keep on trucking.”   

Pretty simple. No second guessing necessary. Just keep on trucking.

* * *

Brady has just renewed his loan with Nature…how about you?

 

Bud Hearn

March 28, 2022

      

  

Killing Time and Digging Up Bones

“Sometimes it’s hard to know what to do.” Charles Bukowski 

* * *

What do we do when we don’t know what to do? That’s not as stupid as it sounds. It’s the Universal Conundrum we’ve all faced at one time or another, and it’s what I’m facing today.

You know the effects, the days when passion flames out, desire dries up like a desiccated desert mud hole and inspiration refuses to ignite. Indeed, what to do? Nothing or something, anything? 

I hear you now. Get a pen, a pad, make a list, you say. Maybe the ashes of inspiration will spark to life. It’s a start. But why not just kick back, chill out, hang loose. You know the synonyms. The mood will pass. What are you afraid of, a guilty conscience?

I sit looking out of the window at a miserably wet day. There’s not much to do but sit around the office killing time. For born slackers, killing time takes less effort than blinking the eyelids. Even making a phone call requires too much effort. Simply thinking about nothing works just fine.  

Now killing time might qualify as ‘nothingism,’ but it’s not nihilism. Look at it this way…it washes the brain clean, squeezes the soul’s sponge, unties stomach knots, unwinds the nerves and is better for you than booze, though not necessarily preferable given a choice. But it’s not 5:00 yet.  

Killing time has one rule: let go. No Pharisaic constraints, no yoke of the woke dictates. You’re the boss, no critiques to endure, and the noose of guilt hangs empty on the gallows. You’re free to stroll in the metaverse of virtual reality where imagination trumps reality (note the lower case ‘t’).    

But Utopia doesn’t exist, and we can stomach only so much of this nirvanic mental state before boredom sets in. Then the internal wheels begin to spin, breaking the deadlock of inertia. Not all bad, since killing time can also include activity, but definitely not chores. Chores are curses imposed on us by you-know-who.  

Suddenly a flash of inspiration flares up. Call on a miracle, make something alive again the Voice whispers. But what? The flash sorts through its options.   

And then another brain flash occurs. It’d really be cool to make the ‘60s alive again when love was ‘free’ and music was freeing. But alas…besides, Lynyrd Skynyrd’s ‘Free Bird’ has flown. So, I’m back to reality. Miraculously, another idea materializes

I sort through the bone yard of hundreds of old business cards to see if there’s flicker of life left in any of them. It’s amazing the miles you can travel, the places you can go and the memories you can resurrect by rummaging through a stack of old business cards.

Like old photographs, the cards open windows of yesterday and doors once entered. Some are now closed permanently, and you can still hear them slamming shut when you left. A few remain open to your call or knock, and others continually swing both ways with little effort.

If you’re a metaphor freak, old business cards and photos are your playground. Their rectangular shapes remind me of graveyards where there was once life, but which has now moved on. Only thing missing is a vase of plastic flowers.

Others remind me of failed experiments, dreams that died with the passing of the card. Some bring a smile, others a blank stare. But all of them remind me of some event and relationship that was created, some ephemeral, others permanent.

Enough of nostalgia for one day. I decide to construct a business-card pyramid for the hell of it. Maybe it will reveal a comatose bone that still has life left in it, or some useful metaphor.

I build away, one card at a time. It grows till it covers half of my desk. I stare at the creation, looking for revelation. Nothing. Exactly what I expected. Nothing lives in a dusty old pyramid of business cards. In retrospect, perhaps I should have constructed a Cross. There’s the metaphor.

* * *

Killing time is the antidote to the Universal Conundrum. And if you plan on digging through your own bone yard, remember: some bones need to remain buried.

  

Bud Hearn

March 14, 2022

 

 

 

  

 

   

 

 

Ruminations on the Eve of Eighty

There comes a time in a person’s life when they must take the bull by the tail and face the consequences. Four score years of age is one of them.

 --80-- 

I never thought I’d see it, but here it is, staring me in the face. Turning 80 has sneaked up on me. Some things are purely theoretical, actuarial, but when that day arrives, hey, it’s Hello reality.

We’re always making assumptions. I’m optimistic that Friday will dawn with me on this side of the grass, but you never know. So, just in case my assumptions fail, I’m passing along some insights 80 has synthesized. Here’s just a short list:

* * *

Take nothing for granted, not even your own opinions, which should not be formed before coffee clears the morning brain fog and there’s spousal consensus.  

Trust but verify, which includes being certain both feet are on the floor when getting out of bed. Hold on to the bed while your legs stretch. You might have lost a knee joint while you slept.

You will not like what you see in the mirror in the early morning, or for that matter most anytime. But it doesn’t lie…your imagination does.  It’s never wise to look at a profile of your mid-section before inhaling.

“Walk faster,” she says.  I ask why. She says its more aerobic. I tell her I’m not in a hurry. I ask her if there’s any correlation between aerobic activity and the age of eighty. A blank stare ensues.

Always check in with the dog. He’s your pal of last resort. He will love you whether you walk fast or slow and cares little what the mirror reflects.

Creeping age brings with it creepy situations.  Second opinions are advisable except in marital controversies. In such there are no authorities. Go with intuition.

We tend to jump around from this to that. Jumping to conclusions is a mistake. Nothing is as it appears. In fact, there’s no reason at 80 to jump at all. Watch basketball.

Get used to making adjustments. Maintenance and repairs are a fact of life. Especially on your body. You can’t do much with the brain so forget yesterday.  

While in the kitchen recently I pass on this important tip: If you value your eyesight, never open an overhead cabinet with the same hand that holds a sharp knife. The thing speaks for itself.

Smaller is not a sign of utter resignation but evidence of a sound mind. Downsizing will not cost you friends or engender gossip on the state of your financial affairs.

No one will judge you unfavorably if you avoid voguish fads and fashions in clothing. Tommy Bahama has run its course with men.

When faced with unpleasant situations or touchy questions, like what to have for dinner or spousal conundrums like, “Do you think I’m fat,” silence is the best policy.  

Decisions often come easier when evaluated with a simple formula: is it a Want or a Need?

At this venerable age, “NO” comes easier. Use it often. It has gravitas.

I find myself needing a new knee. A friend asked what I was going to do. I told him, “I’ll die with it if I can live with it.” This might apply to other situations as well.     

My daughter asks, “Dad, do you have a goal at this age?”  I tell her it’s one thing:        “Breathing.”

Will someone please explain cryptocurrency to me again?

Convenience is not overrated now.

Put on a good front, a brilliant disguise. People ask, “How are you doing”?  Reply, “Do you really want to know?” Trapped, they must listen. Come clean, tell it like it is, use hyperbole. Life history and all. They’ll be impressed at your memory.

* * *

Well, so much for ruminations on the eve of 80. Everyone who has crossed this threshold seems to get through it all right, so it shouldn’t be too difficult for me.

You have your own speed bumps…go slow, enjoy the ride.

 

Bud Hearn

March 3, 2022