The Weekly Fare . . .November 18, 2004

Why I Like Old People

The other day I was sitting at a stop light with traffic lined up on both sides of me. On one side was a slick young man. He was driving a brand new red Ford Mustang. It was tricked-out with all manner of gadgetry - shiny "spinner wheels," rear end spoiler, custom fiberglass "ground effects." The interior was more of the same, complete with both steering wheel and rear view mirror "accoutrements." He wore sweeping thin sunglasses that were straight at the temple. His black hair was slicked back - angular sideburns trimmed to sharp perfection. The sticker on the back window in multi-color reflective silver said, "FEAR THIS."

And I suspect that many people do - but for none of the reasons he may wish.

On the other side sat "Ma and Pa Kettle." They were driving a Mercury Marquis the age of which was impossible to discern, as this particular make and model hasn't changed so much as a taillight since 1987. It was grey and square and as nondescript as a box of tomatoes at a farmers market. The gentleman inside was wearing a fedora not unlike the one my grandfather used to wear when there was even a hint of rain in the forecast. The man's wife (just guessing she wasn't a girlfriend) sat steadily by his side. They seemed to be in comfortable conversation. There were no bumper stickers, no adornments, no statements or distractions of any kind - just them, moving solidly and silently through the world.

They looked to be people who were very much at ease in their own skin.

And here I was in between - literally and figuratively - me in my white Chevy Tahoe at age 43 looking out at them as though peering out of a time machine on both sides. To the left sat someone who while obviously quite different from anyone I have ever been, did at least evoke memories of lying on my back to install a pair of amber fog lights on my 1968 Camaro.

I'm not sure what reason I would have given you all those years ago for spending both time and money on that particular project, but I can tell you one thing - there wasn't any more fog than there ever is now. I suspect I installed those lights as well as my under-dash Sanyo tape deck for the same reasons as he had added all his nonessential gear: it looked good - it sounded good - it might get noticed by the people I wanted to impress.

Oh, the footloose and fancy-free call of youth. It has its place I suppose.

I once thought I fully understood the old adage so often repeated on one's birthday that "growing older sure beats the alternative . . ." (As in, "I'd rather grow old than die.")

But now that I find myself getting closer to the target, I have expanded my definition of "alternative," in this context, to include the idea of being young again as well.

Now, I'm not saying that my late teens and early twenties were the worst years of my life - to the contrary, those were some pretty good times. But I will say that Bill Gates doesn't have enough cash on hand to make me go back. Learning the pitfalls and lessons of the last twenty years has been trying enough thank you very much. These days the promise of a simpler existence spent less distracted by the world and more in the company of my loved ones seems far more appealing.

But I suspect that if you had quoted that last line above to me as I lay beneath that fine Chevy muscle car with wrench in hand that I would have promptly slid out from beneath it, stared at you above the shades that I was wearing (even though I was under a car) and said something profound like . . .

"Right."

I then would have asked you for some tool I didn't really need and promptly slid back beneath the vehicle. I can assure you that at the time I was completely unaware that I had a lot further to go than that old Camaro was going to take me . . .

Maybe it is only because I'm getting older as opposed to younger, but I can't help but notice that "old people," by virtue of their being just a bit further down the pike, seem to create far more opportunities for true joy in lieu of momentary happiness. This is a generalization to be sure, but if our lives are like arrows on their way to the target it's nice to know that those further "down range" seem to fly ever more straight and true - becoming less and less influenced by those things that would blow them off course.

They seem to have learned better how to be "in this world but not of this world."

So I'm encouraged by both the young and the old man at the light. On the one hand I am reminded that the recklessness and often ill motivated acts of youth are survivable, if not even necessary as we ply our way towards the goal . . . And on the other, that the abiding peace and genuineness of spirit that we so often observe in the older generation is indeed something that appears to come to most people in time - regardless of socio-economic status or past mistakes or any other circumstances that the world can cast so capriciously upon us.

Who knows where on the target we may end up - or if, indeed, we will hit it at all . . . But one thing's for certain, the opportunity to take flight is a gift that should not be taken for granted no matter our age or our outlook.

So Happy Thanksgiving dear reader, wherever you are in your journey . . .

Fly high, fly well, fly long . . . Fly!