By James Kelly
It was the last night of the annual WVUD Operations Board retreat. This year was interesting, in that the females lead males six to one as far as department heads go. Being outnumbered by the opposite sex has never been an issue for me, however, at chow time, I found myself wanting to sit with the group where conversation tends to cultivate contemplation.
Who do I mean? The Old Farts, of course.
This league of un-extraordinary gentlemen sat out on the screened-in porch of the cottage, discussing what ailed them as well as the foods they could not tolerate. Steve doesn’t like onions and calls mayonnaise a “vile condiment.” He was cleaning the hearth (camping grill) that blazed the meat from a wild beast (cow) that the knights sat ‘round the table (members of the AARP) feasted on.
Steve, who seemed busy and needed help, declined many offers to assist in his task of post-feast sanitation. So, naturally, when one declines offers of help from their peers, they have inadvertently invited those watching to heckle as you struggle. This is what the men did. This is what I did.
I choose to sit with men older than myself because I relate to them more despite being a third of the average age at the table. I quote “M*A*S*H” and listen to Tony Bennett. Men my age have haircuts that resemble broccoli and wear boxer shorts to class. I have very little in common with men my age, and it’s not because I wear my pants over my boxer shorts.
It is due to the fact that I myself am old. Or at least have older values.
If you ask me what the perfect evening is, it would’ve been out there on that porch with The Old Farts. Talking about what ails us and the foods we cannot tolerate. I like listening to what they have to say and engaging in conversation. Turns out they do, too.
Rich, who sat with his back to the water that flowed calmly through the inlet, asked me what younger people were worried most about the upcoming election. I told him “the economy” and “abortion rights.” I told him that we wanted to be able to afford a house someday.
He was looking for the bridge between the generations. Rich knows the value in learning what young people care about and remembering what issues he cared about when he was my age. Turns out, it wasn’t as crazy a time when he was graduating college in the 1980s. He said we have more we worry about than he and his friends ever did.
The inlet bridge, not too far away in the background of this picturesque evening, had just changed its signal lights from white to red, and its pillars lit up red, white, and blue.
To my left sat Dave, the smartest man I have ever met. Dave began to tell me why the lights on the bridge change from white during the day, to red at night. A red light is softer on the eyes in the dark than a white light. I hadn’t thought about that but it made sense to me.
He also explained that the bridge has a second power supply to power the red lights. This is so the power depletion isn’t doubled by the addition of a second bulb to the system. I guess this made sense to me as well.
I sit with men older than myself because I want to learn from them. I could learn new things from men my age, but I have no interest in learning fifteen different ways to make a bong out of household items. I have no desire to learn how much they bench or what their fantasy football standings are.
Drinking, however, is something Larry can’t do anymore. The octogenarian army vet–per his doctor’s instructions–is not allowed to consume alcohol anymore. When this happens to me, I wish to be taken behind the barn and shot. He is in the final stages of his chemotherapy and immunotherapy for lung cancer, leaving his liver in shambles.
This, however, is nothing new to his liver. Larry used to rely on alcohol in his younger years to pass the time until the day he lost his taste for it as a crutch. Up until last year, he would partake in his biannual consumption of a single bottle of beer.
Larry is one of those guys who has seen it all, but would tell you he remembers everything being relatively normal throughout his life. An interesting outlook from this visibly weary and weathered man. Maybe he has seen the worst of what this world has to offer, but also the good to keep the balance.
The evening continued, slowly but surely. The conversation was winding down and the words dwindled. The sunset pierced through the clouds and for a few moments the sky was adorned in acres of orange and gold and purple. God’s parting gift of the day.
I feel a sense of duty to seek out the wisdom and knowledge of older generations. I don’t want to let their stories die with them. I want to be able to say that I sat and talked with them for a while. I want to share an anecdote, laugh, and cry with those who’ve walked this Earth long before I arrived.
I sat with them on the porch, listening, learning, and eventually coming to a realization about life. Well, a fact of life that one day I’ll have to come to terms with myself, but I feel that I will have dutifully prepared should I have listened and learned as much as I could.
That fact? Drinking: a young man’s game. With lots of old men sat around the table.