FADING AWAY? NOT WHEN LOVE IS LOVE

Fading away is a constant marvel with aging baby boomers.

We grew up worried about turning into our moms and dads.

Now we hope we’re decent enough to resemble our grandparents.

Who’da thunk it?

If you pinch the back of your hand and the skin stays pooched up, welcome aboard the Boomer Express.

When you smile you still see your sweet face, but it comes with a harsh evaluation:

Where did that come from?

I’ve never seen this before.

If you’re married or seeing someone you care about over the years, you hear, “Get that looked at.”

Love may not be fading away, but you will if you ignore health warnings.

Nothing is ever a BIG DEAL until it is. But by then it could be too big.

Fading Away Too Soon

Ernest Hemingway, who died younger than me, wrote a story about slow death through negligence.

It had begun very simply. She liked what he wrote and she had always envied the life he led. She thought he did exactly what he wanted to. The steps by which she had acquired him and the way in which she had finally fallen in love with him were all part of a regular progression in which she had built herself a new life and he had traded away what remained of his old life.

He had traded it for security, for comfort too, there was no denying that, and for what else? He did not know. She would have bought him anything he wanted. He knew that. She was a damned nice woman too. He would as soon be in bed with her as any one; rather with her, because she was richer, because she was very pleasant and appreciative and because she never made scenes. And now this life that she had built again was coming to a term because he had not used iodine two weeks ago when a thorn had scratched his knee as they moved forward trying to photograph a herd of waterbuck standing, their heads up, peering while their nostrils searched the air, their ears spread wide to hear the first noise that would send them rushing into the bush. They had bolted, too, before he got the picture.

2

Drinking together, with no pain now except the discomfort of lying in the one position, the boys lighting a fire, its shadow jumping on the tents, he could feel the return of acquiescence in this life of pleasant surrender. She was very good to him. He had been cruel and unjust in the afternoon. She was a fine woman, marvellous really. And just then it occurred to him that he was going to die.

It came with a rush; not as a rush of water nor of wind; but of a sudden, evil-smelling emptiness and the odd thing was that the hyena slipped lightly along the edge of it.

Give It If You’ve Got It

We don’t lived forever, but memories of who we were will.

I know how I’m going to be remembered.

I’ve given until it hurts, and I’d do it again.

Some people need help, and it’s not dramatic help.

It’s listening kind of help.

They need to talk, someone needs to listen.

If you find yourself in the listening role, be a good listener.

Know when enough is enough, just in case the other person hasn’t figured it out.

I’ll also be remembered as a yacky fucker when the occasions calls.

And that’s why I write a blog. It keeps things from getting too yacky too often.

If you’re a blogger, and that’s why you do it, leave a link in comments.