The old man - Big Al - would have been 90 years old last Friday. That he saw his 85th birthday was something of a miracle, given how little he took care of himself. His last years were spent in a series of institutions. He suffered from dementia and a host of physical ills.
His end-of-life travails were the least of his story, though. He was a larger than life fellow in all ways. Crusty, with a soft center. Was stubborn as a mule and loyal to a fault. Made friends easily who lasted forever. Pop took care of our family as best he could through my mother’s protracted illnesses. It took an obvious toll on him, but as adolescents, that was not apparent until much later.
Juxtaposed, this past weekend we celebrated the pending birth of the next generation of semi-B’s at a swank gathering for our niece. The kids are having kids. The oldest of that cohort started a few years back, and several - including our own - are still a ways off. (Thankfully.)
The years are peeling off at an accelerating pace, like an animation in a cartoon. I’ll be 65 by mid-year, which is unfathomable to me, thought not to my joints. Medicare, retirement and the hereafter are next up, coming at me like Willoughby.
But I have miles to go yet, and the best is yet to be.
So, take and use Thy work,
Amend what flaws may lurk,
What strain o' the stuff, what warpings past the
aim!
My times be in Thy hand!
Perfect the cup as planned!
Let age approve of youth, and death complete
the same!
-Robert Browning