Never surrender

I think it starts when you hit 60. That’s a hard number. Deep inside everybody “celebrating” their 60th, is a 16 year old wondering what the fuck happened. And it only gets worse from there. There’s a lot of societal pressure to see yourself as “old,” a “senior citizen,” etc. They lure you in with so-called “senior’s discounts.” Who doesn’t want to save five bucks on a haircut? Succumb to that, and you’ve embraced the senior citizen identity. Which I have, to be perfectly honest. I do like to save five bucks on a haircut… and it pays to visit Shoppers Drug Mart on seniors day. But there is a dark side to getting old. You get old. For the first time in your life you’re following your bowel movements the way you once followed your favorite sports teams. Go Leafs go! Then there’s the testosterone thing. Your testosterone factory has pretty much shut down by the time you’re a pensioner. There’s a lot of guys who are in denial about that. They take pills for that “special moment.” Ya right. You wake up every morning of your life with a boner, and now you have to take a pill? That doesn’t make a “special moment” for anyone who remembers their youth. But we want to delude ourselves with the fantasy that we still “have it.” While it’s inevitable that one make allowances for the passage of time, “old age” catches up to you sooner or later if you live long enough. That in itself is a cause for celebration! I’ve already passed the life expectancy I had at birth… party like it’s 1955! Nobody actually celebrates old people in our culture. My understanding of Indigenous societies is they revere and respect their elders. They’re way ahead of us in that department. In our society, elders are viewed more as a profit centre for nursing homes and pharmaceutical companies. But here’s my point; just because you’re old, doesn’t mean you have to act like it. My role model in that respect is my dear father. When we first arrived at Falling Downs, nearly twenty years ago, he was well into his seventies. We’d invited Mom and Dad up for an al fresco luncheon. They brought the fluffy white buns from Bunsmaster in the city, and we provided the cold cuts. I glance out the kitchen window while I’m putting things together, and there’s Dad, a good thirty feet up a pine tree, hacking away with a pruning saw because some of those branches might eventually impede the power line. You can’t stop the clock, and you ain’t gonna get younger no matter what pill you take. But you can keep climbing trees and living your life. That’s my shout-out to Dad this father’s day.

Life is good

Gotta get hold of my old pal Kipling soon. He's been my primary source of the weed 'o wisdom for years. By God, we used to share the sacrament whilst still in our teens.

Kipling has had an extraordinary life, and probably the most extraordinary thing about it is that he's still living it!

Somebody should write a book about him.

He's a grampa now, and apparently that little fact eclipses all prior relationships with folks who have come to depend on his primo organic weed to deal with the ebb and flow of life's many challenges.

But I digress...

My dear daughter called me today. She lives in Thornhill. She's got it all going on. She hardly ever calls her dear Daddy. She wants to know what I'd like for Father's Day.

Huh?

Father's Day?

Oh ya... that's when I call my dad and say happy father's day...

Never in my life has a child or a near child or a step-child called and inquired as to what I might like for Father's Day.

She was wondering if I might appreciate a subscription to the New Yorker Magazine as a Father's Day gift.

Get the fuck outta here!

You mean it's gonna come right to the local post office?

All the time?

I vaguely hinted I might prefer The Atlantic, but whatever.

A couple hours later I was rooting through the junk file on my Outlook account, and there was the New Yorker wishing me happy reading on my gift subscription.

Thank you, dear daughter!