“Please, won’t you be my valentine?” That’s the slogan on my sign As up and down the street I trudge, But can’t get any hearts to budge. It could be I’m too blatantly Begging someone to love me. Perhaps if I were less profuse The guys would then be less obtuse. But when you’re pressing 101 And haven’t much time left for fun, It seems a shame to take it slow — Playing hard-to-get, you know. But I just thought of something more: It could be at the problem’s core Is simply there’s no hearts to win ‘Cause there’s no hundred-year-old men.
Please don’t ask me where this came from because I don’t have a clue. I’m still a long way from a hundred and one. And I know I broke some grammar rules, but that’s one of the really great things about poetry: You can get away with stuff you could never get away with in prose. 🙂
HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY!
Editor’s Note: Coffee & chocolate help keep you young.
I turned 69 on the very first day of this month. There, I’ve said it again without any pain. It’s been amazing to me how truly painless the experience has been.
Now, I’ve never been a person who was particularly concerned about my age. I’ve never tried to hide it or felt the need to lie. I did lose the opportunity to further a relationship with a man who, before finding out my age, was seriously interested in our friendship growing. However, when he discovered — to his shock I might add (what can I say: I look good for my age) — that I was 9 years older than he, his interest just switched off completely.
Personally, I think he is rather shallow — but I won’t say that out loud because it would sound like I was guilty of “sour grapes.” But I really do have a reason to consider him less than mature in that area because I know several very happily married couples with the hubby being the younger of the two. In fact, it’s quite a common thing in my experience, so, naturally, I figure anyone who doesn’t at least want to give the relationship a chance has to be a little shallow.
But I digress. Back to the subject at hand: When I was in my 20’s, I looked forward to being 30. In fact, I was eager to get there because I was just sure that I would be mature and stable and have my life well under control, with a positive future ahead. But, doggone it, when I got to 30, I discovered I was still the same not-very-organized, procrastination-oriented, speak-before-thinking, but fairly happy girl that I’d always been. Not to say that I didn’t have a sensible job or didn’t take responsibilities seriously. I did, but I wasn’t established in the career I had degrees for, nor did I have a husband and family. So much for being “settled.”
As the years rolled by, I realized that “being settled” wasn’t all it was made to look like, and I relaxed and decided to just be who I was and give it my best. That was a great decision, and since then, the Lord has led me into several avenues that have made my life very rich and fulfilling.
When I got to 40, I didn’t sweat it. I was married by then and was pursuing one career that gave me a lot of enjoyment. I was involved in a lot of Christian ministry, and that had always been one of my more important goals. So 50 came along with no sweat as well and rolled right on by. I lost my husband when I was 54, and I will admit that the prospect of facing going into my 60’s alone did seem a little daunting, but I knew the same Lord who had carried me through all the other years of my life was still there.
So, even though I can’t say that I was excited about turning 60, I am happy to say that it didn’t depress me, and I sailed right on through just fine, still basically enjoying life.
But for some reason — and I honestly don’t know why — the idea of turning 69 hit me very hard. When I thought about it, my stomach sort of knotted up, and I felt vaguely depressed. I prayed about it, and the sensible part of me lectured me about being silly. Nevertheless, I continued to feel “down” and found myself hesitant to accept the age transfer. If anyone asked me how old I would be on February 1st, I found myself feeling a little choked at saying the number out loud.
But then the big day came — and went — and I enjoyed every minute of it. And yes — if you think I sound surprised — you’re right. I was surprised. But it was like something broke loose inside of me — or got unlocked somehow. I was able to say the number without the slightest hesitation. I was able to, with a genuine smile, actually take ownership of 69 years of age.
From the moment I took that ownership, I realized that something very positive was going on. Now I suddenly feel as if I have a new beginning — sort of right out of nowhere. It’s as if I’ve got my ‘second wind,’ as athlete’s term the experience. Some kind of shadow has been lifted, the way ahead is clear, hurdles don’t even look as big as they used to, and I’ve decided I’m definitely going for the gold. So — 101, here I come!
Two old cronies sat on a bench at the edge of a small city park, their 78-year-old bones soaking up the sunshine.
“Ahhh, just smell that!” Harry said, taking in a deep breath, rapture shining from his face.
“What?” asked George.
“Love is in the air,” Harry replied, breathing deeply once more and smiling. “Mm-mm; Yes sir – love is in the air.”
“You’re daff, Harry. That’s just the cabbage cookin’ in the diner across the street. Wind’s from the south today.”
“Oh, come on, George, don’t be so mundane. Give yourself over to your senses, man.”
“Senses? Why, Harry, you ain’t got the good sense God gave a duck.”
Looking offended, “Why would you say that?”
“Well, look at you. 78 and a half, if you’re a day, and you’re sittin’ here on this comfortable bench with not a care in the world, but you’re talkin’ about love like it was somethin’ glorious and somethin’ you want.”
“Well, it is somethin’ I want.”
“No it ain’t. You done had it – four wives — and all it did was cost you lots of money – first for getting’ married, then for buyin’ houses, then for buyin’ your wives everything they wanted, then for the divorces, and now – every month – for the alimony – four alimonies.”
“But it’s Spring, Harry! Don’t that make you feel alive and ready to take a chance on love again?”
“No, it don’t! I’ve had it with love. It’s three square meals a day, a nice warm bench to rest on, and a trustworthy buddy or two that makes life worth livin’. Those things are better than what you call love any day.”
“Well, I do remember hearin’ a quote by somebody once that said havin’ all your own teeth and a good solid bank account beat marriage for makin’ a body happy.”
Nodding his head, George answered. “There you go. Now you’re talkin’ sense. And since we both have our own teeth still yet, and money in our pockets, what say we go across the street for a big helping of Archie’s corned beef and cabbage? It’s smellin’ so good right now my stomach’s growling.”
Sighing, Harry got up from the bench. “Okay, George. I guess it is time for lunch, but I can smell love in the air.”
“It’s the corned beef and cabbage, you dope. Cain’t you tell the difference?”
“George, my friend,” Harry said, placing his hand on his friend’s shoulder as they jiggled their legs to work out the stiffness, “It may smell like corned beef and cabbage to you, but it’s got magic in it. In fact, I have this feelin’ that love is just around the corner for me.”
They both started across the street, but just as they reached the center of the road, a car came swerving around the corner and squealed to halt, just missing George and knocking Harry flat. A beautiful woman jumped from the car and ran to kneel down beside Harry.
“Oh, sir, are you alive? Are you alive?”
Harry opened his eyes, looked up into her delightful face with its halo of golden curls, and grinned broadly. “By golly, I told George love was just around the corner.” He got up and dusted himself off. Taking the young woman’s arm, he escorted her to the curb. “How about I buy you lunch, pretty lady,” he said, beaming at her. “Let’s step into the diner, here, and talk about our future.”
George followed them into the diner but went to sit at the lunch counter all by himself, shaking his head in frustration.
“What’ll you have,” Archie asked him.
“Confound it! Just give me a order of that love potion you got brewin’ in there.”
Hmmm. “The Daily Post” suggests that we free-write for 10 minutes again this week – about anything. Okey-dokey (Is that the correct spelling?). I think maybe I’ll take advantage of this time to introduce you to the delightful heroine of my newest book – now in progress. Her name is Priscilla Covington, and she is a 71-year-old amateur detective. She stars in my story, Prissy On The Prowl.
Her best friend, Magdalene Mitchell, and she are widows who have recently started dating again, but Prissy (whether fortunately or unfortunately, we do not yet know) is going steady with the chief of police. Now, you can probably guess that he does not approve of her getting involved in crime, but, committed to being true to herself before she can be true to anyone else, Prissy just cannot comply with Chief Andrew’s wishes all the time.
Prissy’s best companion in her forays into crime-solving is her beloved Basset Hound, Jemimah. Now, Jemimah is a sweetheart, and absolutely loves Washington Cherry ice cream – by far her favorite treat. She would never stand in Prissy’s way when there’s any sleuthing to be done. In fact, as the story progresses, she seems to be headed for the job of leading her mistress right into the midst of the felon’s lair.
Now, even though I am nowhere near finished with this book, we do know that Prissy and Jemimah will most assuredly come out of the story alive. After all, how can there be a series if we lose the heroine in the first book, right? So I’ll just leave you with this little teaser about the new novel, and I’ll try to give you little updates as we go along.
In the meantime, why not treat yourself to some Washington Cherry ice cream and start getting into the mood for a good cozy mystery. Time has run out, so I must be done.
21. Twiddle Your Thumbs: “Twiddle-dee, twiddle-dum, twiddle-dee …”
22. Contemplate Your Navel: “Hmmmmmmmm …”
I guess you’ve figured out that there is some kind of deep-seated, hidden message in this article. And you’re right. Here it is: I believe men and women should not retire. The very word retire – although we frequently use it to refer to leaving our paying employment – has inherent within it the meaning of pulling back, retreating, and becoming more secluded. And the root of the word – “tire” – means “to grow weary, diminish in strength, lose interest or become bored.” I just don’t like that word “retire.”
Now, If you have an 8:00 to 5:00 drudgery kind of job that you have had to work at for decades just to pay your bills, and you have an opportunity to trade it in for activity that you can enjoy more, certainly, say good bye to drudgery and try something new. But DO NOT retire. Stay involved in life to the fullest. Keep renewing your energy and your interests all your life. Be daring; try new things; experiment with activities that will challenge you and perhaps bring to light gifts and talents that you never realized you had.
And, above all, do things that positively affect other people. Be a giver. Expend your time, your energy, your abilities – yourself – in making life better for someone else. When you do that, your own life will continue to grow and thrive. Instead of retreating, you will be going forward – and really living – all of your life.
(I originally posted this short article a little over a year ago, but since we keep getting older, I thought it wouldn’t hurt to have a little reminder along about now.)
When Moses was 120, he had just led close to 3 million people out of Egyptian bondage to a land of freedom, but his eyes were not weak, nor was his strength abated; when Caleb was 85, he waged successful warfare against the Anakim to take possession of Mt. Hebron as his own property in the land of Canaan; when Grandma Moses was 100, she was still painting (and getting paid for) the pictures that made her famous; when Eamon de Valera was 91, he had led Ireland in its fight for independence and was still serving as her president; and when Winston Churchill was 82, he wrote the 4-volume “History of the English-Speaking People.” So what’s a few wrinkles got to do with anything?
As Mitzi sat on the bus, she enjoyed the rhythmic movement – and she enjoyed the respite from the heat she’d been walking in for the past hour. She leaned just slightly against Pete’s leg, both for the comfort of knowing he was there and the reassurance that he was all right. He was her responsibility, after all, and she never forgot that for one moment.
Her nostrils flared slightly as she gradually identified and responded to all the various scents that wafted through the air of the full vehicle. There was the expected scent of human sweat, and that was a natural part of Mitzi’s life, so even though one or two of the passengers had probably failed to bathe that day, Mitzi’s sense of smell was not insulted by it.
Of course, there was the unmistakable scent of cigarettes that clung to the clothing and hair of half the people on the bus – a scent that just couldn’t seem to be erased or camouflaged effectively by any order eliminators. Of course, some people tried to cover that smell with perfume, and naturally, there were several different flavors of perfume and cologne surrounding Mitzi. She couldn’t have told anyone which flowers, which wood essences, or which spices had been used, but she most certainly recognized the scents as natural and non-threatening.
And then there were all the delicious scents that emanated from the grocery bags and baskets carried by some of the passengers. Many days Mitzi found this trip on the bus thoroughly enjoyable because she could sit and sniff the tantalizing aromas of pork, or fish, or – her favorite – salami from the Italian market at the end of Jasper Street. Her nose was hard at work now, sorting through all the variety of groceries, trying to determine exactly who it was who had that salami. There! The lady in the green coat sitting just three rows up from Mitzi and Pete. Delicious! Mitzi was hungry.
But right after identifying the owner of the salami, Mitzi turned her head to the side just slightly and sniffed harder. There was something else in the air. Something new. Something unusual for the interior of this bus. Something … not right. She wriggled in place a time or two, turned her head the other direction, but then brought it right back to where she’d been focusing. Some sixth sense stirred a warning so deep inside that it put every sense on high alert. Even the hair in her coat bristled. She whimpered and moved again, restlessly. Pete reached a hand over and patted her head, then scratched her ear slightly. “You getting’ restless, old girl?” he asked tenderly.
The young man sitting in the seat that faced Pete spoke now. “That’s a beautiful dog you have there, Sir. A guide dog, if I’m not mistaken?”
Pete turned unseeing eyes toward the young man, his hand still resting on Mitzi’s head. “Yes. Yes, she is … and the best in the world. Been with me for 10 years now.” He chuckled and ruffed Mitzi’s fur affectionately. “We’re both getting pretty old, but we keep sojourning on together.”
“She seems very affectionate,” the young man replied. “I noticed how she leans against your leg constantly.”
“Yes, that’s her habit. Feels responsible for me, I think.” He turned his head as if to look down at Mitzi, who had glanced up at him. “Good girl, Mitzi,” he said. His voice had grown gravely with age, but there was still a tone of kindness that over-road everything else when he spoke. His eyes didn’t see the look in Mitzi’s. It was a look of concentration — wariness. She was puzzled by what she smelled – by some strange entity that every nerve in her body was responding to – and she wanted her master to know. Aware, by training, that he would not see her face, she understood that she would need to convey her concern by movements and sounds. So she wriggled agitatedly and leaned harder on his leg, still sniffing the air, her head turning several directions, trying to get a reading on exactly what and where the problem came from.
All of her senses eventually focused on a passenger across the aisle and two rows up from Pete. He was reading a newspaper, his black briefcase on the floor, held snugly between his feet. Her eyes focused and a low growl sounded in her throat.
Pete was concerned. Mitzi never behaved in such a manner on this bus. She was used to riding it, and she never had negative responses to people. But she whimpered now, pressing Pete’s leg even harder. He leaned down, wrapping one arm around the dog’s neck. “What is it, Mitzi? What’s wrong, girl?”
Mitzi whimpered again, then whined openly. “Shhhh,” Pete whispered. “Quiet, girl. We’ll be home soon.”
There were two more stops before the corner where Pete and Mitzi got off the bus. That meant at least 20 more minutes, and Pete was a little worried that some of the other passengers might become frightened if Mitzi continued growling – even though it was low.
But Mitzi growled again, and then immediately emitted a sharp bark.
“Mister, you’d better keep a tight hold on that dog of yours! She sounds mean to me!” said an overweight guy sitting behind Pete.
Pete turned in his seat to address the man face-to-face, even though he couldn’t see him. “Oh, Mitzi would never hurt you, sir. She’s as gentle as a lamb.” Just then, though, Mitzi’s growl and tug at her leash indicated things could be otherwise.
“Hey, shut that mutt up!” another man yelled from several rows up.
“Hey, Pete,” the driver called back. “What’s going on back there? Your dog never gave us any trouble before.”
“I know, Randal. I don’t understand it myself.” At that moment, Mitzi barked sharply again and pulled on her leash so hard that Pete only barely held her in check. By this time, she was up on her feet and pulling on the leash, whining, and giving Pete every signal she could give to say he needed to follow her lead. She looked toward the man holding the briefcase between his feet. Her eyes were focused on the briefcase, though none of the passengers realized that fact. They believed she was looking at the man.
“Sir, you need to get that dog off this bus,” came from a middle-aged woman. She didn’t want to insult a blind man, but she was starting to become frightened herself. Pete stood to his feet to try to handle Mitzi better.
At that moment, the bus slowed to make it’s next stop – still two stops away from Pete’s corner. But by this time, Mitzi was almost beside herself and pulling on her leash with all her strength, whimpering now, more than growling. It was as if she’d traded her natural instinct to attack the “enemy” for her well-trained instinct to protect her master.
Once the bus was stopped, the driver stood and called back to Pete. “I’m sorry, Pete, but I think you’re going to have to get Mitzi off of here now.”
Pete nodded. “Yes … yes, you’re right Randal. He turned his head in an effort to address the other passengers, just hoping they could see his face enough to recognize his sincerity. “I’m sorry, folks. Mitzi’s such a good dog —” Before he could finish his sentence, Mitzi had emitted another sharp bark and jerked the leash so hard that Pete nearly lost his hold completely. “All right, girl. I’m coming!” he said and began to move up the aisle behind his dog.
The driver took the time to help Pete down the steps. He knew the old man could get down just fine under normal circumstances, but for some reason, today was anything but normal. “I’m sorry, Pete,” he said again. “You take it easy walking from here.”
Pete reached out toward the voice to touch Randal’s arm. He made contact and patted the arm. “It’s all right, Randal. I’ll figure out what’s wrong, and we’ll be back to ride tomorrow with no problems I’m sure.”
The door slid closed; Randal changed gear, and the bus moved on down the road. Pete knelt down to talk to Mitzi. How strange, he thought. The dog was completely calm now. No more growls, no more whimpers. She wagged her tail and licked his cheek. Sorely puzzled, he rubbed her back and spoke reassuringly. “Good girl, Mitzi. You’re a good, good girl.”
As he knelt there beside her on the sidewalk, the bus moved on to the end of the block, and then on to the end of the next block, where it exploded and burst into flames.
~~~
If you’d like to take part in this writing challenge, visit Bumba’s blog here and get the details.
“Please, won’t you be my valentine?”
The Happy Wordcrafter 
