The Old Man

I caught the old man looking at me this morning. Caught him out of the corner of my eye. Just in my peripheral. Who was he, you ask.  What does it matter? He was an old man. An old man. He looked like he had just gotten up, clumps of grey hair rebelling against a balding scalp, eyes still swollen from sleep. Tall, but without the stoop I usually notice in some men his age. (Give it a few more years, old guy.) And in those eyes a look of surprise that slowly gave way to one of recognition. Yeah, he knew who I was and I knew him. Hey there, old man, I thought. I know you. We smiled simultaneously - big grins actually - just before I stepped from his view.

I have taken on the duty of telling anyone who will listen (and that group is dwindling) my theory, which I'm certain is shared by some, that our soul finds an age it's comfortable with and commences to squat right there. While the face, the body, all those outwardly exposed things, age at what seems to be exponentially, the soul refuses to budge.

The country megastar Toby Keith talks about when he was sharing a cart with Clint Eastwood at a charity tournament in Pebble Beach when the actor related that filming would begin on The Mule in a couple of days. When Toby asked the actor well into his eighties how he keeps going, Eastwood gave him that trademark glare and told him that he just gets up every morning and goes out. And  "I don't let the old man in."

Perfect advice.

I believe that women do a much better job than men in barring the door against their aging selves. Of course, they do enlist a little help.  She wouldn't like me telling it, but when we travel, my wife needs a separate piece of luggage for her "cosmetics."  For the longest I tried to encourage her to just pack a few essentials in her regular luggage, but she always managed to resist that well-intentioned suggestion.  Now, I just go with the flow and recognize the fact that this extra piece of luggage being included is more essential than...well...than me being included.

But before I ignite a war of sexes, let me get back to my point.  And that it is essential we all keep the old men and women from elbowing their way in.  Oh, we can't do much about them lurking around all the blasted mirrors, or photo-bombing us by replacing their bodies and faces with ours in group photos and selfies.  We can't keep them from breathing heavily every time we overextend ourselves physically or wrenching our knees and shoulders after a long day battling the house or the lawn.

But we can respect all the trouble our souls go through to stay rooted at a much younger age.  My soul chose thirty-five and I'm perfectly happy with that.  An age when I was old enough to know better but young enough to still do stupid things from time to time.  An age when I wasn't tied to blood pressure medication and knee braces.  An age when sunrises glow like heaven afire and sunsets spread across the sky like melting strawberry sundaes.

Listen.  I love you, old man, and I'm more than happy to let you eat over the sink in my kitchen and take naps on my couch.  You can creak around the house and make annoying comments to my wife. We can even watch some college football together on autumn Saturday afternoons.  But I'm not ready for you to come in.  Sorry, you sweet old fellow you, but in that regard, you're just not welcome.  And one more thing, while you're at it, stay away from my mirror!

Eagle Morning

Just after crossing Dickey Bridge at the Elk River this morning, an eagle, close enough to reach out and touch, swooped toward our truck.  Well, maybe not quite that close, but I could see the division of the feathers along his wings and the light glinting off the shiny brownish yellow of his beak.  He was flying west along the riverbank across a field of freshly planted corn.  It was still early enough in the morning that the sun was a melting glob of butter against the blue, cloud-streaked sky and dew lit up the green pastures like diamonds.  

He, and I say “he” but it could have just as easily been a “she,” rowed his way toward a place where the Elk takes a sharp meander, his wide wings slicing huge swaths of air, as methodical as a scythe in orchard grass, commanding land and sky.  As he shrank in the distance, a second eagle burst from a treetop to join my eagle in a short ritual of flight, for moments gliding concentrically above a common area of trees, before disappearing into the thick canopy of leaves. 

It was a dance of sorts, those two eagles, a celebration of return, equal parts joy and relief, the closest thing to a welcoming hug they could manage.  I have no doubt they shared a nest and in that nest were a couple of hungry fledglings, screaming in anticipation of a breakfast of trout or squirrel. It hasn’t been an easy spring for the pair, there on the banks of the Elk.  The heavy rains and strong winds of an unusually grumpy spring presented its challenges and there were many cold and rainy days and nights when their warm bodies were the only buffer between their eaglets’ life and death.  And where they could usually depend on dry ground to land and hunt, the angry brown water of a river out of banks swirled below them.

I’m happy for them that this is a good day.  The chilly May morning has settled into a comfortable warmth and a short reprieve has shouldered its way in between the spring storms that the west side of the country insists on sending our way every week.  Maybe the young eagles will take their first short flight today. Or maybe their stomachs will be so full that they will wait another day or two.  Hey, that’s just part of the freedom of being an eagle. 

 And they can’t know how thankful I am for the sixty seconds those majestic creatures shared with me this morning.  They have no earthly idea how high that little happenstance I witnessed this morning will allow me to soar.  Each and every time I think about it.