Time rushes onward and I simply can’t keep up with it. Before I know it I’ll look and act like a man I saw at the medical clinic yesterday when I went in for my physical. He was waiting near the lab as I was waiting to have an x-ray. I heard him tell someone his birth date—January 11, 1925. Eighty-four, and he looked and acted like he was an infirm hundred. Please, please don’t let me get to that point. I really need a poison capsule, maybe loaded with venom from a Golden Dart frog, inserted in one of my teeth to make my escape if need be. My luck, I’ll probably try to crush a popcorn old maid and I’ll make my exit, screaming, "I made a mistake! I didn’t mean it!" On the positive side, I know plenty of men here who are 84 or older and they don’t look or act like he did. I realize the numbers are only numbers, but sometimes we lose our physicality and nothing we do can help us keep it. I don’t fear death nearly as much as I did a few decades ago. I could let go quite easily if I had to. Lots of unfinished business I’d regret, though. So, just go on living as well as I can. But, oh how I wish the days wouldn’t go shooting by like heavenly debris showers during one of the Perseids.
I've always collected errors in diction, things people mis-hear, like "windshield factor" and "the next store neighbors." Years ago, one of my students wrote an essay in which she described the world as being harsh and cruel, "a doggy-dog world." I've since come to think she may have been more astute and accurate than those who describe it in the usual way. My Stories - Mobridge Memories -
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