Grownin’ seniler

Jack Deatherage

(7/2024) There have been moments, rare and brief, when I see things clearly. The clarity comes after months, sometimes years of observation. Observations I'm not aware of for the most part. However, when I can count the aunts, uncles and cousins older than me - without using all my fingers - I begin paying attention. Toss in the occasional attempt to put the milk jug in the microwave instead of the fridge, forgetting where I'm going not a minute after leaving the house, typing the word "flatteringly" when I know damned well I typed "lanternfly", having to constantly remind myself to stop at stop signs and for red lights as if I'd just smoked a joint (which I haven't done in forty years), and I realize it's time for a drastic lifestyle change.

While observations tend to pile up without my understanding their significance it's usually some mundane incident that causes them to coalesce of a sudden. The latest catalyst was having to renew my driver's license online.

Now the last time I renewed my license I was just shy of 62 years old and I drove to the Frederick MVA thinking as long as I could make that trip without incident I was still fit to drive. I remember the woman who renewed the license remarking, "You are good until you are seventy." I allowed I'd not be fit to drive by then. She smiled and said, "Oh, you will be fine."

I wasn't fine then, I'd only just begun swallowing ginkgo biloba capsules in an attempt to get my brain functioning close to normal again, whatever normal is. I'm not fine now. I recently drove First Sister to the MVA to swap her South Carolina license for a Maryland one. While I made the trek without incident I also had the DW along. The women kept me focused on the task. I'm not sure things would have gone as smoothly had they not been with me.

Back to the online renewal. It took me three tries just to setup an account. The site timed out on me twice. I don't think I've ever used a government website that didn't inspire creative cursing and swearing as well as elaborate fantasies of overthrowing local, county, state, federal and world governments.

Having finally met the site's log in requirements I happily (twas a deranged sort of happy accompanied by an insane giggle) moved on to license renewal and eventually reached the part where I had to tell the site where I lived. And that was the end of that. Evidently I don't live where my license says I live.

Several permutations of my address kept getting the same response - I had to provide a verified address. Of course I didn't know what that meant and foolishly tried the site's AI chatbot.

Now I'm pondering which is more useless, my deteriorating organic brain or the AI's microchips. The chatbot did suggest I call some MVA number where I'd likely end up pushing phone buttons in a vain attempt to reach a human who might or might not be of anymore use than the chatbot. While pondering that suggestion I considered making an appointment with Doc for suggestions on how to slow the brain drain.

Eventually I said, "To Hell with it. First Sister can drive."

Eh - hem. First Sister is not pleased. The DW is even less so. Both admit they've been noticing my increasing lack of focus while I'm behind the wheel.

Loss of focus is most obvious to me when I approach the traffic light at the Square and notice the neon blue tattoo sign is lit. I wonder if Tattoo Don, pillar of the community, is at his light box sketching a new design, or if Tattoo Rae has a buzzing machine in hand as she deftly colors between the lines on virgin skin. Perhaps the new apprentice is painstakingly recreating the shop's collection of tattoo flash via spit shading?

If I've managed not to run a red light, I'm sometimes surprised by a horn letting me know the light has changed.

I've lost count of the times the DW has asked me where I'm going when we leave home headed to Thurmont and I turn at the light toward Fairfield. She's been telling herself for years that I seldom take the shortest route to anywhere, but even she can't ignore that I'm obviously forgetting where I'm going more frequently now.

It's time to pass the keys before my wandering mind misses something that gets someone killed. I much prefer being a passenger able to ponder views that pass by the windows while the driver is focused on arriving intact.

I am hoping I've enough cognitive ability left to build the Cedar Avenue Community Garden into the show piece I promised the town's elect. Along that same line I've a few other projects I hope to outline and present to the people who can make them a reality before they, my thoughts, go flittering off - lost amongst the laughing gods' thundering guffaws.

This place has more potential than it does people who are willing to take advantage of the possibilities. Though that may be changing now that I'm seeing the Roman Catholics (RCs) out and about reintroducing themselves to our community as they recently processioned, signing hymns and praying, from Saint Joseph's church to the Mount and Saint Anthony's Shrine. Pagan though I be, it warmed my heart to see a group of priests, nuns, seminarians and lay people pass our house as they prayed their rosary. If the RCs are the spark that renews this place I'll cheer them on!

Wait! Is that laughter rumbling out of the past?

Of course it is. My pagan mentors told me more than a decade ago that it would be the RCs I should turn to if I wanted to accomplish any of the goals I then had rattlin' 'round in my skull. I guess I'm not surprised that an RC stepped up and stuck a fork in the farmers market lot when the Town Council gave me permission to build a community garden on the lot's end. He and I have since spent hours arguing the various merits of gardening methods, life experiences and philosophies.

Nor should I have been surprised when another RC donated a rototiller to the project, or a former RC donated straw bales and yet another former RC showed up to offer valuable advice on how to improve the garden soils. (The former RCs are still believers, just no longer RCs.)

Beyond the community garden, way beyond my ability to create it, is a Wounded Warrior event that would require the cooperation of the Daughters of Charity, the National Museum of Civil War Medicine, whatever group or groups are currently holding the Gettysburg reenactments each summer and the various state and county tourism offices. Getting sculptor Gary Casteel involved in that project seems a no - brainer as he's got a plan for a National Civil War monument ready to draw tourists to this place.

In the midst of all my pondering, lost in the ideas, niggles a thought - Am I already too senile to do more than water the garden?