The long, dark road

In many respects, the day you’re born you start your journey down a long, dark road to death. It doesn’t seem that way for much of your life because the sun is usually shining, and you’re getting on with things. But that doesn’t last.

I’ll be 77 later this year, not ancient, but certainly not young, not even middle-aged. At this stage, stuff starts to happen, to change. In just the past year, two notable things have befallen me, one is worse than the other.

The lighter one, so to speak, is that I’m not skinny anymore. Since I trimmed down from 225 pounds to about 170 in the early 1980s, I’ve been what I preferred to call svelte. In the past year, I’ve put on some poundage, mostly in the middle, and now my jeans are too tight. I’m planning to purchase new ones at Walmart next week.

No one would look at me now and call me fat, but no one would call me svelte either. I’m more of a normal fellow, aesthetically speaking, and that’s okay by me.

The second thing is worse. Some months ago I noticed that my night vision was failing. I see fine during the day, but at night things get sorta blurry. This is not good for night driving, something that was put to the test this week when we had to return from the nearby state capital in the dark due to a medical appointment that started at 6 p.m.

Before going there, I told myself: It’s mostly a straight shot. What can go wrong?

After leaving the doc’s office about 7, and stopping at a drugstore for some medicine, we headed up the highway. Not too bad, but not too good either. It was worse than I had anticipated. At one point, just for a couple of seconds, I actually lost track of the asphalt. My child bride noticed, asked about it, and I responded, er, nothing.

Fortunately, we made it home intact, but we had a chat the next morning, and I came clean with her. No more driving to or from the state capital, which is about 30 miles away, after dark, something I’ve done off and on for 20 years. If, for some reason, we must be there late, we’ll spend the night in a hotel.

Why not let her drive? Because she has no experience driving on highways at night. None, zip, zero. What driving she’s done in her life has been town travel, plus she’s prone to nervousness, not a good combination for a Mexican highway in the gloom.

And she does not want to.

Life consists of stages. We’ve just debuted on a new one. Drat!

An evening alone

View from the scarlet sofa.

I’ve been in this house for over 17 years, far longer than I’ve lived anywhere.

As happens most weekdays, my child bride headed off last night to one of the two gyms she patronizes. Last evening, she was at the closer, more elegant, one only about two miles down the road, leaving me home alone like MacCaulay Culkin.

When she left I went outside and watered yard plants with a hose, the first time this season. Then I came inside and sat on the scarlet sofa with my Kindle. I’m currently plowing through a strange book titled Vagabonding Down the Andes by an oddball named Harry Alverson Franck who in the first decade of the 1900s walked from Panama through Colombia, Ecuador, Peru and, well, I don’t know how far because I’m only about halfway through the 1,000-plus-page book. The guy must have been nuts, but he writes interestingly.

Did you know llama is a word from the original Inca tongue, and it means simply “domesticated animal”? Before the Spaniards arrived, the llama was the only domesticated animal in the Inca world, so that’s what they called the beast.

There was still some daylight as I started reading, but night fell, as they say, and I did not turn on the living room light because the Kindle has its own light. It got darker and darker. I looked toward the kitchen where a light was lit in the stove hood. The only other light was what passed through glass bricks that abut the stairwell.

I wonder how many more nights await me. It’s an issue as you age.

My dad died today

us
The two of us in Atlanta around 1989.

NOT TODAY exactly, but at this point in his life, which is to say, as of tomorrow, I will have lived longer than he did. He died in 1991 at the age I am on this day.

Outliving a parent feels strange. I doubt I will live longer than my mother, however, because she made it to 90. I’m feeling quite creaky already, so another decade and a half doesn’t present much appeal.

I never called him Dad or Father or anything like that. I called him Charlie because that was his name, Charles. His middle name was Born. He was a Junior. I was almost a Third, my paternal grandparents’ wish, but my mother put her foot down on that. My father wanted to name me after Confederate Cavalry Gen. Nathan Bedford Forrest, but that’s when my mother’s other foot came down.

forrestSince Forrest went on to be a founder of the Ku Klux Klan, that name might have been problematic now were I living above the border. But my father, being a lifelong leftist and advocate of “civil rights,” did not admire Forrest for the Klan connection. He admired him for his generalship. Charlie was a Civil War buff, and Forrest was the best general in the Confederacy.

I guess my father just ignored that Klan crap. People rationalize.

Why I never called him Dad I do not know. And I never called my mother Mom or Mother or anything like that. I called her Dee, a nickname my sister invented.

We were a very odd family and remain so today, those of us still breathing. That would be just three — me, my sister and my daughter. No grandkids, no nieces, no nephews, no aunts, no uncles, nada. My mother often called us peculiar. She was referring to Charlie and his family plus my sister and me, her own kids.

She wasn’t referring to her side, the Powells. They were peanut and cotton farmers in the red clay of southwest Georgia, and not peculiar at all, just country folks, but I loved them more than the peculiar clan on my father’s side.

Charlie’s parents were devout Christians, one Baptist, one Methodist, and his one sibling was a lesbian, and so is mine, which explains the absence of nieces and nephews. The peculiarities go uphill from there. Or downhill.

My father and I were clones. We looked alike, sounded alike, had very similar personalities, were both career newspapermen, a field he entered purposefully, and I entered by necessity. He retired early, and I did too. He was a lousy father and, apparently, I am too.

In retirement he became famous in the small world of Haiku poetry. After I retired, I amused and irritated millions here on The Unseen Moon.

Perhaps that count is a tad high.

There were differences too. He lived through the Great Depression, and it affected him mightily. He detested travel, which I love. He married just once, and I married thrice. There was not an adventuresome bone in his body, and I am the opposite.

He was in the U.S. Army in the waning days of World War II, drafted late due to being almost 30 and having a wife and kids. He was sent to Korea on a troop ship. Yes, Korea, and he had a desk job. I never asked him about that experience. Wish I had.

We didn’t talk much.

On discharge, he returned to Georgia, never wanting to leave again. He had been an Atlanta newspaper editor when drafted, but he returned to start a rural life of chicken farming and writing short stories for pulp magazines. That didn’t pan out, and in about five years he was back in the newspaper business, this time in Florida.

Similarly, I left the newspaper business for a spell when I was in my early 30s in New Orleans, and it too did not pan out. I returned to newspapering in Texas.

We were both boozers, and we each stopped in our mid-50s. Life improved immensely for both when we took that smart step decades apart.

But I was never the drinker he was. I was an amateur in comparison.

I did not much like him, and now I’ve outlived him. Well, hold off on that because he died in the evening of his last day, so I won’t have outlived him till tomorrow.

He died in a hospital in Atlanta where he was overnighting for a colon cancer checkup. His cancer was in remission, they learned on the day he died from a massive heart attack right there in his hospital bed. We didn’t even know he had a heart issue.

I was in the Houston Chronicle newsroom that evening. I phoned him, and we spoke briefly before he brushed me off as he was wont to do. We hung up.

Within minutes, my sister called and said he was dead.

And tomorrow morning, I’ll wake to a day he never reached.

The Goddess willing.