I shouldn't admit this, but I turned 75 on Friday.
Three quarters of a century old.
I can hear the Facebook harpies now, calling me “a man of a certain age,” and “an old Boomer yelling at clouds.” Most unkind (see picture at top of column), an opinionated old coot sitting alone at the bar, because nobody likes him.
Such is the battered, thread-bare state of respecting one's elders these days. I've been known to fire back, referring to some disrespectful young squirt as “Skippy.” (Seems like there's always some young Skippy tail-gating me, blasting around my pickup first chance he gets. Point taken.)
I'm pretty positive about age, though. That's good because - News Flash - you don't have a choice in the matter.
I'm not as positive, however, as my column-writing colleague Bill Sniffin at Cowboy State Daily, who refers to people our age as being in the “seventh-inning stretch of life.” I like that image. Two innings left. Balls, strikes, stolen bases – plenty of ball park beer left in the cup. Maybe a bag of peanuts.
We might even go into extra innings.
In my case, however, other sports analogies come to mind. I'm sort of a frequent flier over at Premier Bone and Joint in Laramie – knee, both shoulders, back, Achilles – you name it, they've fixed it. Next up: A persistent crick in my back that cut short my activities last summer.
The sports term “sudden-death overtime” might be more fitting in my case. Or pulling the goalie in a desperate, last-minute bid to eke out a tie in hockey.
Anything to keep this old geezer in the game.
Back when I was a cub reporter for the Laramie Boomerang, a mere 53 years ago, I was working on a story and ran into an old cowboy talking to some younger guys. Looked like he was pushing 90, thin as a rail, big hat, Levis, worn boots, western shirt, snap buttons. Old rancher. All these years later, I remember something he said:
“I'm no good anymore.”
Sounds harsh, but it wasn't what you might think. It was about the hard work of being a rancher/farmer, and all the physical tasks that entails, tasks he'd done for a lifetime, but at his age he just couldn't do anymore. I hope he had kids to take over.
And I bet his vast experience added much to the brains of the outfit.
I've thought of that old rancher often lately, when a longtime friend and I spent two summers building his cabin up high in the Snowy Range, next to my log cabin that he and I built 40 years ago. (That was back when we had strong backs, but little money - our brash Skippy phase.)
When we started his cabin, we had a combined age of 146 – both of us were 73. It was one tough summer, digging holes for support piers, pouring concrete, building “box beams,” then putting down the plywood floor.
I was the guy who hauled the wheelbarrows full of concrete to the forms.
Last summer, with a combined age of 148, there were walls to frame, sheathing to nail in place, more beams to build, trusses to construct, roof sheathing to lift and nail, and a metal roof.
“Dried in” by mid September, the place is stout as a brick, well, let's say comfort station.
“You're no spring chicken, Dave,” a neighbor said as he watched us work. And he had a point. Because while folks who read about our project (two great feature articles in Cowboy State Daily) thought it was cool to see two old guys building a cabin, truth be told, you probably shouldn't be hauling wheelbarrows full of concrete when you're 73.
At 74 I had to cut way back and become the “gofer” on the project, searching for lost tape measures, smearing glue on roof truss “gussets,” driving to Laramie for stuff we forgot, and serving as camp cook.
This year, at 75, I suspect I'll be recalling that old rancher more and more:
“I'm no good anymore.”
But, strangely enough, I'm OK with that.
No sense fighting the calendar.
Just sit back and let some impertinent young Skippy do the heavy lifting.
Dave Simpson can be reached at DaveSimpson145@hotmail.com
