One Shade of Gray

I turned 50 last year, and one thing I noticed, other than the fact that I got irrationally indignant over receiving an AARP card in the mail, is that people start responding to you differently. You say certain things you’ve said for years, and suddenly, you get different responses.

Here’s an example. About the time I turned 40, I would punctuate some statement by saying, “But what do I know, I’m old.”

And the person would inevitably respond, “Hush, you’re not old!” Which is exactly what I wanted them to say. As each year passed, though, the responses changed. They would say “You’re not old,” but without the exclamation point in their voice. Then they would just kind of laugh. And finally, when you hit 50, the response is, “Well, that happens to everybody.”

Similar thing happened with my hair. At 40, gray hair started creeping in, so I would jokingly say, “I should dye my hair.” And the response would be, “No! It looks good.” Over the years that changed to “I like men with a little gray hair,” to “You look distinguished,” to what I get now, which is, “Yeah. You probably should.”

Speaking of hair, I was at the Fancy French salon where I get my hair styled – Le Fantastique’ du Sam’s, or as we call it in Henry County, Fantastic Sam’s – getting my voluminous locks shorn by my favorite stylist, Whitney or Lindsey or something like that. They have a lot of turnover there.

Is it a coincidence that the cute young hair stylist is the one who cuts my hair the best? Perhaps, but that’s beside the point. Anyway, she was talking to me, and admiring how much hair I have, and wisely avoiding mentioning the color, and I jokingly said, yeah, you’d hardly know I was an old man from looking at that.

“How old are you?” she asked.

“I’m 50,” I said, with the pride of a 3-year-old holding up fingers to show his age. This is where the young hair stylist is supposed to say, “You’re 50? No way are you that old!”

Instead she says, “Oh, my mother just turned 50. But she doesn’t act old.”

Clearly, this girl was not interested in getting a big tip.

Reeling from that shot to the jaw, I went down to see my dad, and his friend was there, and she said “Your daddy told me you’re 54. Is that right?” Of COURSE it’s not RIGHT! Surely you misheard him, I said. So then he got in the car and I said “How old am I?” And he said “You’re 54.” I looked at him and said, “Are you sure about that?” He looked sheepish and said, “You’re right. I forgot. You’re 56.” I said, “You know, THIS is why we’re moving you into assisted living.”

People! What is wrong with you? I mean, heck, come on, I don’t care. I’m not sensitive about my age. I don’t care that people know that I AM 50 YEARS OLD! And yes, my doctor did tell me I should not get excited like this, but I just can’t help it.

My day got worse. An aunt I haven’t seen in a long time stopped by to visit. She’s 84 herself, but I marveled at how sharp she still seemed to be mentally, even though she was breaking down physically. She looked at me at one point and said, “What are you now, about 60?”
Did I mention that she appears to be losing it mentally????

I don’t know when you cross that threshold from being younger than you look, to looking your age, to just looking old. Short of buying a Corvette, there’s not a lot I can do about it now, anyway. I will go gracefully into that good night, be proud of my experience, impart wisdom to younger folks, and embrace my status as a seasoned citizen. Just after I get through burning that @#$^%W@%^ing AARP card I got in the mail last week.

There really is no place like home

I remember being a teenager, and my dad drove me and my mom out to this God-forsaken piece of land in the middle of nowhere in Lamar County to show it to us. I don’t remember the details exactly, but I’m pretty sure I was acting bored and petulant and pouty, because, as I mentioned, I was a teenager.

We got out of the car and all I saw was trees and undergrowth and no signs of civilization. I said, “Why are we here?”

Daddy said, “I bought this land. I’m going to build a house and we’re going to move here.”

Well, I thought, this poor man has gone insane. We already HAVE a house. Who in the world would want to live out here? This is not the boonies. You can’t even SEE the boonies from here. This is like the suburb of the boonies.

Anyway, he decided not to build there, but soon solid that lot and bought some more land nearby, and set to work building a house.

Did you hear what I said? He BUILT a house. I can’t fathom doing this. The last time I opened something from IKEA I cradled a bottle of whiskey and sat on the floor crying for 30 minutes.

He didn’t totally build the house by himself – he contracted some of the work out – but the nails were hammered in by him, the bricks laid, the concrete poured. And did I mention he did this while still working at a real job at General Motors? He built cars all day, then went and built a house. Oh, and he built a barn. And he built a fence, to hold in the cow that he bought.

Ok, so the fence wasn’t so great. The wily cow managed to escape enough that it earned an early trip to the freezer. We ate steaks for quite some time after that. The message to other cows – remain content.

I helped build the barn. By help I mean, I scrambled up and down a rickety wooden ladder and toted his tools to him, while he tried to ignore the fact that I didn’t seem to know a socket wrench from a flugelhorn. And I helped build that fence. By help I mean took post-hole diggers and dug holes and whined it was too hot.

That house is still standing. The barn is still standing and full of farming implements that we can’t identify. The trees he planted have grown tall and provide shade over the impossibly large lawn that he has insisted on maintaining himself, even though he will turn 88 in May. Did you hear me? 88! This man served in the Navy and witnessed atomic bomb tests. He sweated in the foul air of a textile mill and then went to work building cars and trucks until he retired.

He has lived in that house for 35 years, the last 9 of them alone since my mother died. Other than his little dog Daisy, there’s been little to keep him company other than the crickets singing at night and the incessant crowing of the roosters from the nearby neighbor who decided to raise chickens (not many zoning regulations out in the country).

And now, he has decided it is time. It is time to stop driving his car everywhere. Time to stop sitting alone in that house and waiting in the driveway for the mailman to come. He has decided it is time to move into assisted living.

I promise you, this is not easy. After a year of driving dangerously that involved more than one accident, my brother and I had to tell him that we felt it was in his best interest – and everyone else on the road’s – if he discontinued driving. He took it about like you would expect a very independent man to take it. I think he knew we were right, but he also knew that he was having to give up a vital part of himself. It was heartbreaking.

I honestly think he will move into assisted living and take the place over. He’s never met a person who didn’t become his friend. The ladies will find him charming and the men will find him to a good fella. He may not always remember my name, but he is still sharp. He may not get around like he used to, but he is nowhere near feeble. I’m quite sure he could still kick my butt.

I am dreading the day, and it won’t be long, when he says goodbye to that house for the last time – the house he built, the house where finished raising me, the house where he loved my mama, his refuge after hard days of work, his castle. There will be tears shed, and sad faces, but there will be memories, memories of a house that was so much more than just wood and brick and concrete. It was, and will always be, home.