Death on Deck

I’ve noticed lately that a lot of my writing seems to have taken on a death theme.  I don’t know whether to blame myself or my brain, Peanuts.

Maybe it’s just that Peanuts and I are getting older; and when you get to be our age, the future isn’t as wide open and expansive as it used to be.

Peanuts and I have reached the crest of the hill of life, whereupon it’s all downhill from here on out.  Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying the ride down that hill (in a car without any brakes) to one’s final destination (a drop off to the unknown) isn’t fun, as such.

I’m just saying that once you’re hurtling down that hill in the Death Car of Life, the scenery is going by way too fast.  Which is ironic because when you get older, you tend to want to go slower and dwell on the little details of life, like shrubbery, or the quality of the current garbage service or whether or not they overcharged you for that ham.

“Will you hurry up! You’re going to die in an hour and a half!”
“I know, but look at these shrubs!”

When you get to be Peanuts and my age, you’re Christopher Columbus looking through the para-scope and spotting West Indies only instead of spotting the West Indies you’re spotting death.

Oh sure, you’re not there yet, but Death (and/or the West Indies) is looming on the horizon as big as life!

Gulp!

What Peanuts and I usually do when we find ourselves thinking about death is try not to think about death.  And amazingly, this tactic actually works. The thought process goes something like this:

Someday I’m going to die, which means I won’t exist anymore, which means I’ll be dead which means everything I have ever done in my life and everyone and everything I have ever loved in my life will be kaput and I shall never, EVER pass this way again . . . OK, well I guess I’ll go vacuum now.

When you really think about it, death is what motivates the human race to accomplish things because when we’re really busy getting a lot stuff done, it’s a lot easier to pretend we are never going to die.

I only hope that when it’s Peanuts and my turn to be sucked through that tunnel towards the light, that everything on the other side will have lived up to the term “to die for”.

Until next time  . . . I love you

Adventures in Grandma Land or Old Fogey Finds Car!

Old People shopping
Betty and Barney Flurp just seconds before discovering that instead of purchasing a cart full of groceries, they had inadvertently kidnapped a baby.

If you want to find out where all old people go in my neighborhood, (and why wouldn’t you?) look no farther than Nob Hill Grocery Store. (Otherwise known as Nob Over the Hill Grocery Store).

I shop there because they carry all the geezer stuff we aging boomers have to have to ward off heart disease, type-2 diabetes, osteoporosis, lactose intolerance, high cholesterol, warts and gangrene.

Judging from the age of the shopping crowd at Nob Hill, every day is senior discount day.

This means there’s a lot of oblivion happening in the isles which takes the form of obstruction.

Either there’s a motorized cart blocking the aisle you want to go down or an aging big-butt boomer (me) blocking the cold case you want to reach in.

Which is perfectly fine as long as you don’t have too much to grab and you don’t have to be anywhere, in particular, until next summer.

Besides, I don’t want to go shopping for no-sugar-added chocolate chip mint ice cream all over town when I’m sure Nob Hill will have it.  Which means I find myself paying practically twice  as much for ordinary foodstuffs like Cheerios or pop. (In case you’re not that old, pop is an old-fashioned word for sarsaparilla.)

So I can never get in and out of Nob Hill for under $100 — even if I’m just dashing  in to pick up a carton of  unsweetened, vanilla-flavored, almond milk.

Checking out is pleasant enough —  if not a teeny condescending.

The checkers tend to speak a little too loud, and take the items out of the cart for you. (But I suspect only to avoid having to call 911 should some unfortunate boomer’s back suddenly seize up).

Also, the checkers tend to give you a lot of instructions on which buttons to push when sliding your card.  “Push the green button now.”  “Do you see the green button?” “Push the green button.”  “Can you say green?”

Yesterday, when the Bagger and I were trying to find my car in the parking lot, he suggested I do what all their other slightly-senile customers do  – click my car alarm.

I wanted to say,  “Hey buster! I’m that old yet!” but didn’t because apparently I’m too old to know how to turn on my car alarm using my key thingy.

In fact, I don’t even know if I have a car alarm.  I didn’t tell him that though.  I do have my pride.

Until Next time . . . I love you