Pack Creek Ranch, San Juan County, Utah
Rain, and more rain – Morning fog. And first snows on the mountains.
FLYING SENIOR CLASS
At some point in my life, as the number of years increased, I realized I was being considered a senior citizen. Not a title I had applied for, but one bestowed on me by my culture. The first sign was being offered a senior discount. And then an invitation to the senior center to play bingo, mahjong, or dominoes. At an airline check-in counter, I was asked if I would need wheelchair assistance at my arrival gate.
Sure. Why not?
And then there were subtle expectations. The prejudicial view. Senior citizens are getting on the edge of dementia – because they often dress and behave a little on the wiggy spectrum. I don’t resent that – I take it as an opportunity.
For example:
It’s barely first light at 7:00 am.
A persistent knocking on my front door. Bang, bang, bang.
“OK, OK,” I shout.
And here I come – barefoot, dressed in my long red underwear and polka-dot robe, I pass my hat rack and put my bunny bonnet on.
(One surprise deserves another.)
Throwing open the door, I shout “WHAT!”
A large young man, dressed in motorcycle leathers, growls at me.
He is looking for my neighbor.
Not here – lives next door – but he is in Europe.
“Who are you?” he barks.
“Who wants to know?”
“Are you in some kind of Witness Protection Program?”
“I might be.”
I don’t like his attitude, so I go senior citizen wiggy on him.
“Do you know anything about hand grenades?”
“Do you have a hand grenade?”
“I might.”
Silence.
See this from his point of view.
An old guy dressed like a clown, wearing a bunny bonnet, maybe a criminal in witness protection, asking about hand grenades.
I might be dangerous.
But he doesn’t know that.
He beats a hasty retreat, jumps on his motorcycle and speeds away toward town.
I hope he reports me to the local sheriff.
And the sheriff will say,
“Oh, there’s a lot of old geezers like that around.
Senior Citizens.”