age spots
The day begins. Candles are lighted and incense is burning. Cold beer at my side and flashing skeletons are keeping me company. The bay is a bit choppy and sort of resembles my jeans.
One knee place is now just a hole with tattered white threads hanging from it. One of the front pockets looks just the same. Come to think of it, I've worn said pants for what must be closing in on a decade. (Yes, they have been washed a few times.)
These things probably will not even achieve cutoff status after I finally, and with reluctance, retire them. I’m not a material guy, but have to admit to an attachment here.
The thing is, there are signs of growing older with all of us and all things. Growling clutches, thinning fabric, calendars that have become obsolete, etc.
One period recognizing my age increasing was when my wife and I returned from Mexico and visited friends in Fort Worth. Some had children that were teensy-weensy when we left and all of them had somehow converted themselves into young adults in a matter of just a few years. (The children, that is.)
The one defining moment though, if I had to put my finger on it, as far as aging goes, was when an employee of mine asked to borrow some money for some dope. No, that’s not the usual request one would expect, but he was also a drummer in a band I played with.
Not having smoked a joint in many, many years I asked what the going price was these days for a lid.
After he stopped laughing, he gave me a deadpan stare and said, "Uh, I don’t think they call it that anymore.”
“What do they call it?”
I don’t even remember what he said. To me, an ounce will always be a ‘lid’ no matter what. Shoot! Maybe I have gotten myself into an aging, verbal pickle. Does anyone say “shoot” anymore in simply the rhetorical sense? What about “pickle?” What about “neat-oh!?”
People have been saying that 60 years of age is the new 40. I’m 45. Where does that put me and what kind of surrealistic logic is that? Same goes for daylight saving time. Call me naïve, but I imagine that the sun will rise when it damn well pleases, whatever we choose to call the hour.
I’m gonna miss these jeans.
####
One knee place is now just a hole with tattered white threads hanging from it. One of the front pockets looks just the same. Come to think of it, I've worn said pants for what must be closing in on a decade. (Yes, they have been washed a few times.)
These things probably will not even achieve cutoff status after I finally, and with reluctance, retire them. I’m not a material guy, but have to admit to an attachment here.
The thing is, there are signs of growing older with all of us and all things. Growling clutches, thinning fabric, calendars that have become obsolete, etc.
One period recognizing my age increasing was when my wife and I returned from Mexico and visited friends in Fort Worth. Some had children that were teensy-weensy when we left and all of them had somehow converted themselves into young adults in a matter of just a few years. (The children, that is.)
The one defining moment though, if I had to put my finger on it, as far as aging goes, was when an employee of mine asked to borrow some money for some dope. No, that’s not the usual request one would expect, but he was also a drummer in a band I played with.
Not having smoked a joint in many, many years I asked what the going price was these days for a lid.
After he stopped laughing, he gave me a deadpan stare and said, "Uh, I don’t think they call it that anymore.”
“What do they call it?”
I don’t even remember what he said. To me, an ounce will always be a ‘lid’ no matter what. Shoot! Maybe I have gotten myself into an aging, verbal pickle. Does anyone say “shoot” anymore in simply the rhetorical sense? What about “pickle?” What about “neat-oh!?”
People have been saying that 60 years of age is the new 40. I’m 45. Where does that put me and what kind of surrealistic logic is that? Same goes for daylight saving time. Call me naïve, but I imagine that the sun will rise when it damn well pleases, whatever we choose to call the hour.
I’m gonna miss these jeans.
####
posted by bodega train at 7:42 AM
3 Comments:
a good pair o' dungarees (now THERE'S a blast from the past) are priceless and should be treasured.
i don't think that's materialism though. material "want" is a quest for more and more stuff. it's accumulation without taking the time to appreciate what you have before you turn around and try to grab some more.
with yr jeans, i see a fondness for a realiable companion that's hung close to you like a shadow, in good times and bad i'm sure. a travelling partner if you will... just think of all the adventures you've had, or even all the fragile peaceful moments of just staring at the wall, while wearing 'em.
sounds to me like you're thankful for how well they've served you, and gratitude and materialism just don't jibe.
pert funny, david
jam-meister lee allen (who's not quite 40 yet) still sez "neato"
i hadn't heard that in yrs
we watched "the five people you meet in heaven" last night
recommend it -- got me thinking in a similar way
i have three garments w/sentimental attachments
one is the corderoy shirt i was wearing the night i met my sweetie
another is a flannel shirt i was given by a singer i usedta play with the last time i saw her
third is a very ostentatious cowboy shirt, designed by a muso i admire much who took himself out last december and gifted to me by his sis
what might seem like materialism when you're young becomes something other when you're not
in the end, memory becomes yr companion (at least that's what they said in the movie)
$50.00? For an eighth? Oh, man. When I was in high school a "lid" would set one back about $10.00!
That was before the Paraquat scare.
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