You know you’re old when….

Viejo y vieja comiendo sopa by Francisco de Goya

One of the ironies of aging–at least, in my own particular case–is that no matter how my chronological age cranks upward, my inner Peter Pan merrily cruises along at roughly 16, 17 years old.

If I can’t find my keys, it’s not because I forgot that I left them in my big boy britches; it’s because one of AnniePie’s damn cats played with them and failed to return them to the top nightstand drawer.

So it is one need become aware of a few outward signs of aging such as this smattering offered here for your consideration and contemplation. Heed, dear friends, the tell tale signs of cresting that proverbial hill. You know you are getting old when….

Illustration for story La Mère Bontemps” by Lorenz Frølich (1820-1908)

Your posse wants to go for a night on the town, but you would rather stay home and curry comb the cat.

You go to Las Vegas for the buffets.

Your “Get Up and Go” is the name of your fiber supplement.

Your artsy fartsy apartment is just fartsy.

You plan a road trip to Canada for prescription meds.

Your mate starts softly singing “Light My Fire” so you go crank up the heating unit thermostat.

You still go fishing to get away from it all, but somehow you always forget to take any bait.

Photo by Kenneth Allen

 

 

Elderly American Songbook: Accustomed To This Pace

I’ve grown accustomed to this pace,
So slowly does the day begin.
I’ve grown content to mostly shuffle
My way from room to room;
No bumps, no falls,
No hip replacement thralls.
I’ve come to love this granny gear,
No ducking out nor dashing in.
Where once I was so speedy,
Not to mention nimble and quick,
I might could crank it out again, you see, but heck….
I’ve grown accustomed to this clip,
Accustomed to this gait,
Accustomed to this pace.

For an original rendition of this great Lerner & Loewe standard, check out Ms Diana Krall.

 

 

What a friend we have in cheeses

Come on, now, fess up. Surely, I’m not the only hardshell Baptist child to ever hear “What a friend we have in cheeses” in that venerable Sacred Harp hymn.

Cheese is older than recorded history, probably originating as if by magic back when Middle Eastern nomads began toting milk in goatskin bags. And what fare is more basic, more down to Earth for road trip picnicking than a loaf of bread, a hunk of cheese and a bottle of good wine?

So here’s to cheese in all its marvelous forms and flavors! Our salute from The Elderly American Songbook.

What A Friend We Have In Cheeses

What a friend we have in cheeses; cheddar, brie and Camembert.
What a privilege to marry country ham with smoked Gruyere.
Oh, what peas so often forfeit, Oh, what tasteless dishes bear
All because we do not marry yummy cheese with all our fare!

Have we trials and temptations? Is there trouble anywhere?
We should never be discouraged, so long as we have cheese to share.
Can we find a friend so faithful to grace our table oh so fair?
Cheeses fit for every palette, to every meal a special flare.

Such a friend to macaroni! Comfort food beyond compare!
And who can imagine poor bologna, without an American slice to share?
But be it wedge or slice or circle, be it spread or in a can,
There’s no food you may mention that’s been a better friend to man!

 

 

Roll Up a Doobie

As a salute to the voters in Colorado and Washington state, I have morphed yet another ditty to my growing collection, The Elderly American Songbook.

The seed for this one is Bobby Vinton’s 1975 recording of Beer Barrel Polka.

 

In a garden, closet garden, only leaves and big buds grow there;

And there’s scarcely any room there or a whisper of dark doom there.

Here is music, loads of laughter, toking happily e’er after.

When we pass around a fat one, we all get in the mood.

Every time that grass cloud starts to bloom.

We all feel the sweet smoke fill the room.

Then we throw all cares into the pot,

Feelin’ fine with what we’ve got.

When the munchies hit we hardly care.

Grab a bag o’ chips we all can share.

Or we’ll make a Stoned Soup pie

With whatever we find nigh.

So-o-o-o-o-o……

Roll up a doobie, we’ll have a doobie-doo high.

Roll up a doobie, we’ll put the blue in the sky.

Who‘s up for nachos? Let’s make a run to Taco Bell.

Now’s the time to roll up a doobie, and pass the pipe as well.

Here’s to tokin’, we’re not jokin’, though our Golden Years be broken.

There’s no hurry; what, us worry? For the voters now have spoken.

Colorado, in the Northwest, where the finest herbals grow best.

Fire our bowls up without protest, and just blow all cares away.

When that old “Black Water” starts to flow

Through that place in which all dreamers grow.

Just kick back and light a fire;

Into the haze let us retire.

Roll up a doobie, we’ll have a mellow good time!

Roll up a doobie, tokin’s no longer a crime!

So what if it’s taxed now? Give Uncle Sammy his cut!

Everybody roll up a dobie, and smoke us out of this rut!

 

Elderly

[May be sung to the tune of “Tenderly”, that great old American Songbook standard by composer Walter Lloyd Gross]

You take a slip and break a hip. Elderly.
Your still in bed. She thinks you’re dead. Elderly.
Then you start for the store and get to the door
But can’t find the goddam keys!
There’s another face that you can’t place. Elderly.
It’s just a shame to feel so lame. Elderly.
But let fools rush on by because you and I
Don’t give a damn, we’re on the lam so elderly!