Spring Chickens No More
Nearly every weekend, Betty says to me, “Firey, don’t get old.” She means it in both a funny and an honest way. She tells me she was perfectly healthy before the radiation treated her breast cancer, some twenty years ago, when she was sixty-something. The cancer is all gone now, but arthritic aches and pains affect her daily. She can easily recall her phone number and her home address and also the game show that’s on Channel 7 every day at 6:30 post meridiem. She has no problem naming the show’s host and co-host. Monday through Thursday, over the phone, she’ll say to Pop, “Time to watch Vanna.” She means it, too. Ever the accountant, Pop will dryly confess that he “likes to look at figures.” Betty never forgets to call Pop first thing in the morning and last thing at night. But ask Betty to ask her pharmacist three little questions? Forget it. Ask her to repeat those three questions right after you’ve stated them, and she’ll get them all wrong. Poor Betty, she’ll fumble all the words in embarrassed confusion. At least she doesn’t deliberately flout my counsel. Can’t say the same for Pop. As a man who survived the Great Depression, and thereafter thrived, Pop feels the need to prove himself competent. Only, in the process of doing so, he’ll often make a mess of the matter and wind up even more befuddled. Still, he’ll stubbornly press on… until something breaks.
23 March 2006