Not so Grumpy Old Men

Back in Ohio for a visit with my mother and sister, my mother fed me to the wolves. On Saturday mornings at 10 she likes to attend a "coffee klatsch" in the dining room of her retirement living center. When she invited me, I said, sure, I'll come with you even though I don't drink coffee. Upon our arrival, she led me to a nearly full table of men. Wondering where she was going to sit, I looked for another chair to bring to the table. Oh no, I'll be over there, she said, pointing at a larger table filled with women (and one man).


Gulp. Well, maybe it'll be okay, I thought, as I identified myself to Russell, one of my mother's double first cousins, the result of two sisters marrying two brothers so as to deprive their offspring of a set of cousins. Slimming down may be a good idea when you come from a heritage as big as mine that includes a set of great-great-great-grandparents (Christian and Maria) who had 16 children and 165 grandchildren. Rumor has it they once appeared in the Guinness Book of World Records for this feat. Imagine having 16 children! Then, imagine each of them averaging more than 10 children! Ouch!


My double first cousin, once removed, was my first boss, actually co-boss because I worked for him and his brother, Gene, on their "truck" farm. No, we didn't grow trucks, we grew strawberries, corn and melons. Gene and Russell probably deserve much of the credit, or blame, for the fact that my wife and I now "farm" (using the word loosely and generously) a few acres.


Before long, one of my college math professors squeezed into our group, helping to keep my armpits dry. What do elderly men talk about? Russell passed around a puzzle he had made several years ago. Like the proverbial ship in a bottle, the question for the day was how he had managed to get the little wooden sculpture into a very small-mouthed medicine bottle. Maybe that's what men of their generation have in common, an interest in puzzles. 


When Russell asked if we kept up with politics, John, the man who chased this once-upon-a-time grade-schooler down after he lit a cherry bomb, said something like "not now." That was the end of that, probably a good thing. We turned to sex -- polygamy in the goat world, to be precise. Perhaps a relatively large group of men, even older ones, can never escape penis envy. One fellow mentioned he'd read about a man who'd answered an ad seeking immigrants to a country that allowed polygamy. The guy discovered he should have done a bit more research, returning home disappointed and poorer. The ad had been placed because women needed men to join harems of 20 husbands. 


"Harems?" Virginia mutters from her bed.


For an interesting few minutes, Google "male harem" if you think I used that term wrong.

Day After

Let's reprise January 27, 2010, when I blogged about the old Natural Bridge High School track.  I often use the track for speedwork.  This morning I wanted a short relaxing run after spending all of yesterday standing on a concrete floor.

Of course, before we enter, we must buy tickets. 

All right, now read the rules.  You've gotta look up, way up. 

Believe it or not, that's a new sign.  Its use of the term "joggers" reminds me of runners 20 years ago who looked down on "joggers" as fly-by-night and casual.

Before we start our laps, let's check out the schedule.

All right, first time around, admire the scoreboard.

"Those were the days, my friend," sings Virginia.

They were days, maybe not "the days."

Now this is new.  I don't know what it is, maybe for lacrosse.

On the way home, firewood envy struck.

By the way, we had salad for dinner last night, and I'm still wondering when/if I'll want to eat any AVH (Arnold's Valley Hog). Karen worked on the sausage today while I dug post holes for a garden fence.

Tracks

I was not about to challenge the floodwaters running through our nearby railroad tunnel this morning.  Cold, wet feet did not appeal to me, so I turned to the old track on the now defunct Natural Bridge High School campus.

This runners' oval hides on the top of a hill at the end of a gravel path.  Like many of the soccer fields in our son's former high school league, it offers panoramic views of the Blue Ridge.  I imagine retired real estate agents and developers have kicked themselves for failing to construct mcmansions on these properties.

I never feel bored running circles there.  Several deer, including a little bambi, had arrived before me, prancing halfway around.  Someone took a bicycle joyride on the wet cinders, leaving ridges to wobble my ankles.  At one of the turns, chalk lines mark the corner of the football field, which apparently isn't quite big enough for the little league boys.  But this is recent history.  Let's go back to when those retired real estate folks were in school.

It's easy because they left clues.  "Rockets" and "Visitor" top the disused, rusted scoreboard overgrown by weeds and untrimmed tree branches.  Note that the psychology of the singular was in vogue even then to subtly intimidate opponents.  At the opposite end of the field sits a sturdy, dilapidated cement block concession stand.  Since I began running around this area, the doors have been opened, boarded shut, and now lean upon again.  I haven't looked inside because, well, I haven't been in a morbid enough mood to explore what reminds me of an open coffin.

I prefer running past, trying to memorize the teams that appear on the final, painted schedule -- Lexington Hurricanes, Covington Cougars, Rockbridge Rebels, James River Striders and, of course, the Natural Bridge Rockets.  Like faded corporate giants (Sprint, Standard Oil, Citicorp), these names have been swallowed by mergers and consolidations, but I hear cheers and smell the obnoxious fumes of the lineman's cigar.

"Those were the days," says Virginia.

Not really, but it's fun to peak at the haunts of the near octagenarian who shares my drives to orchestra practices.  Maybe some of the stories she tells are true.