When you get old(er)

Jack Deatherage

(10/2020) "Congratulations," One of my mentors said to me about one thousand days ago. "You've finally joined the twenty-first century."

The DW and I had gone back into the debt hole when we were forced to buy another used car. I was not happy about all the computers and other electronic features the car was equipped with, but it was the best of the rolling cages we looked at that we could afford, barely. I heard the laughing gods warming up with chuckles as I scribbled something that in no way looked like my name on document after document in the dealership office. I walked out of the office, sick to my stomach as I usually am when I've gone over my head in debt- the less than happy co-owner of a 2006 Buick.

About one hundred days after taking possession of the Buick- the warranty had expired- the headlight switch assembly crapped out. After having the battery drained several times and needing jump starts from friends and neighbors I finally took the hulk to a garage and away went just shy of a thousand dollars. I figured the gods would move on to laugh at someone else, but their laughter grew louder.

When the driver's side window cracked into three pieces for no reason anyone could fathom, I sighed and settled in for the "fix, repair, repeat" sequence I knew was my fate. (That broken window required the purchase of an entire door as the windows are no longer in stock.)

The first car I was forced to drive and maintain was a Buick the DW's da gifted us because we had a baby due and everyone was telling me I had to give up motorcycles and acquire a car. (Thirty-two years later I still say we could have brought the baby home on a bike and avoided all the troubles four wheeled cages have caused me since.) I'll admit the 1978 Buick was as comfortable as the first car I remember being in as a child. Dad's 1954 Buick served the family well. It hauled five of us around Florida for a few years before taking us to Maryland and Dad on to Texas for training before all of us, plus a new baby, headed to Ohio in it. When we left Ohio four years later there was a seventh family member onboard when we reached Maryland again, and eventually moved into Pennsylvania. By the time Last Brother was born the Buick had been replaced. (If I could find a restored 1954 Buick I'd not worry so much about going into debt for it. Damned fine cars they were. Almost as trustworthy and user friendly as the motorcycles I used to own.)

Our current Buick replaced an Olds, which replaced a Chevrolet, which replaced a Ford, which replaced a Chevrolet, which replaced the first Buick. Of those rolling cages the Ford survived for nineteen years with me at the wheel and it was three years old when we bought it.

On top of needing unexpected repairs (long before we've paid off the loan) the current Buick is the most uncomfortable of the vehicles I've owned. (Yes, my age has something to do with that, but the car is simply cramped and has too many hard surfaces in places I don't need them. Gods! For the freedom of movement motorcycles permitted!)

The second piece of automotive electronics to act up was one of the computers installed under the hood- where water flung up from the tires could get at it. We were told replacing that would be close to another grand we didn't have. Fortunately the thing didn't involve any safety features and only got wonky when it was wet. It was wet a lot that year, but we still haven't replaced the computer.

By the time the second computer started crapping out (our mechanic updated its software rather than replace it for... (oh, never mind) we had acquired a flip phone from the DW's ma so we could attend to her should we be out and about when she needs us. Neither the DW or I knows how to work the fracking phone, though I did manage to call the Mad One when the gear shifter cable in the Buick broke and left us sitting in Thurmont recently.

I expected to find the phone's battery dead when I retrieved it from it's hidey-hole in the car. How the gods passed up that opportunity for a major guffaw has me worried- more so than usual. I'll have to start carrying the phone with me from now on so I can check it's power level regularly. Gods! I do not want to become part of the Borg's Collective! At least I can't give the phone's number to anyone else, because I don't know what it is. Though that doesn't seem to stop people I don't know from calling the phone. Not that I ever answer the thing unless it's a number I recognize, and I only know two or three numbers- the home number and the DW's ma's number. The Mad One put her number in our phone while she tried to explain to me how to use the thing.

"You are smart enough to learn how this works." She glares at me. "But you are a stubborn ass, so you won't learn."

When her number turns up as an incoming call I answer the phone immediately, or return the call quickly if I wasn't around when she made it. It's all "Yes dear. Of course dear." Until she's back on a different continent where I can ignore her if I'm feeling brave at the time.

"You need to embrace the technology, or you will become a dinosaur." Or some such she chided me recently.

I grumbled something about being content with becoming a grumpy old man who would happily go to the manure pit without ever learning how to use the blasted flip phone, or Windows 97, or the antique iPad the editor gave me. (I did figure out how to recharge the iPad when the battery gets low- how else could I play solitaire on it?)

"For God's sake! You have three laptops with Windows 10 loaded in them!"

"Is that why I can't figure out how to use them?" I scratch my head in confusion and wonder if I should increase my memory pill dosage. (Probably not. I don't want to give up the "failing memory" excuse that gets me out of most arguments when I'm losing them. Which seems to be more often than not with her these days.)

This growing older physically hurts as it is. Having to deal with technology is just another added pain I don't want. Ah well. Given the lifespans of most of Mom and Dad's families I've only got twenty more years to go, thirty if I can avoid doctors. Maybe I'll learn to text (whatever that is) before I shuffle off this mortal coil. Or is it "shuffle off the buffalo"?

Meh. I doubt the Collective would understand either reference anyhow.