At age 65 I had noticed I was not the man I once was and was concerned I was not the man I would yet become. At age 55 I observed the growing number of acquaintances who were developing serious health problems around their 60th birthday. These were life changing problems, sometimes resulting in death but more often causing a disability that severely limited a man’s productivity if not ending it altogether.
My friend Everett and I had a man of 60 years of age come into our office with some legal problems. Now here’s some sound advice: Try not to have legal problems at age 60, it takes too much effort, too much energy and too much money to resolve. And given the capricious nature of the law and its arbitrary application in American Jurisprudence, you have no assurances you will win your case, regardless of it’s merit. You may very well lose and if you lose a legal fight you lose face, pride, dignity and, above all else at age 60, you lose money. It matters not that you are in the right or that you walk in the company of angels, you can still lose and it will leave you a beaten man. Really all you need is someone willing to lie to you and about you. That's all it takes to lose. In the best of circumstances one doesn’t have that many productive years left at age 60 and the time one does have should be guarded jealously and enjoyed to the extreme. That precious time should not be spent in a fight, legal or otherwise.
Our client had some serious health problems. He was only 5 years older than us and he moved, thought, talked and bore the marks of a much older man simply awaiting death. I told Everett then that based on this experience and based on my observations of too many other 60 year old men it appeared to me that the next 5 years would be important to us. We needed to work hard, accomplish all we could on our “to do list” (later to become a “Bucket List”), make all the money we could and at the same time nurture our familial relationships.
Now at age 65 I had managed to survive my 60th birthday (a day I never really expected to see) and the following years. I had some problems with my heart which had been partially corrected with the placement of stents and was having some continuing difficulties that resulted in neuropathy in the hands, feet and legs. At times walking was difficult and I had to use a cane for strength and balance. But, I usually felt pretty good.
What was concerning me right then was deterioration of short-term memory and a sense of confusion I felt at times. (Something which corrected itself when I got still other health issues under control.) In-depth studies were becoming more challenging and I wasn’t sure I had another one left in me. Since age 60 I had spent quite a bit of time reading and writing about religious issues and was finding this activity a little more challenging with the passing of years. And then I pulled a bone-headed, silly, old-man stunt.
Following worship services on Sunday in the Spring of 2010, we went to lunch with a group of youngsters who had returned the day before from a mission trip in Mexico. Many of the kids in our church travel to Mexico where they spend their Spring Break building “casitas,” small concrete block houses, with cement floors, for housing for less advantaged people. This was the first Sunday back and I wanted our 14 year old son, who had been on the work trip, to enjoy this celebration lunch in which they would reminisce about the experiences of the past week. (I have never heard these kids boast of their sacrifice, doing hard work to help the poor each Spring Break rather than going off on a ski trip or a beach party. So, allow me this moment of boasting for them.)
While awaiting our order I excused myself to go to the restroom. I was acquainted with this restaurant, the Hideaway Pizza, in Norman, Oklahoma, and they were especially busy with the influx of all our kids with their regular patrons. I went to the restroom and as I stepped inside I was taken aback by how nice it looked.
“My,” I thought, “they must have remodeled the restrooms.” It was cleaner looking than I remembered and far better decorated than it had been before. A very attractive paper was on the walls rather than the earth tone paint I remembered. The room was so pleasant I decided to stay awhile.
I selected the handicap stall. They're usually large and as I am a large man with some limitation to my standing and walking abilities I like the larger stall with the higher toilet and the handrails to assist in lifting. As I sat down I was impressed with the level of comfort of the seat and was well-pleased with the renovation. At such a high level of comfort I was wishing for some reading material but there was nothing available.
As I was fishing out my iPhone to check my Facebook account, I noticed a small trash can near the toilet. A label had been on the top of the can but it had been torn off, leaving only a fragment of the original lettering. I looked closely at it and could see the letters, “_m_p_o_n.” “_m_p_o_ n?” I thought. Using a highly developed sense of deductive reasoning I struggled with the letters “_m_p_o_ n” until I added a vowel and arrived at “_a_m_p_o_n.” And from there to “t_a_m_p_o_n!”
Either I was in the wrong restroom or younger American males had developed a sanitary hygiene practice unknown to me and my generation. I was hoping it was the latter but I didn’t want to know the details.
Retracing my steps, I remembered walking into this lovely little room and while I was admiring the decor I had ignored the functional setting itself. Now I could remember a lavatory to my right as I entered. Next to it was a smaller stall with a toilet and next to that was my larger, more luxurious stall. Next to that was a wall. In front of that was a wall. Behind me was a wall. To my left, beyond the smaller stall and lavatory, was the fourth wall with nothing but a door. Conspicuous in its absence was that most extraordinary tribute to male superiority, the standing urinal.
I sat there contemplating my blessings. For example, I had learned how beautiful a restroom could be. I had no idea all these years girls and women had enjoyed so much finer facilities than boys and men. I was also blessed that there had been no women in the room when I first opened the door. And none had come in. But now I was in a quandary. How could I extricate myself from this web without bringing embarrassment on myself, or more importantly, on She Who Must be Obeyed and my children who sat in the dining room oblivious to my predicament. I was completely innocent of any wrong doing and even any evil intent but I could just imagine if a screaming woman ran out of a room yelling that there was a man in her precious room I would probably be denied the presumption of innocence even though that is the bedrock of the American legal system.
If I could just get up and out, all would be forgiven. Even if someone encountered me, someone like the manager or, God forbid, a woman, and challenged my being in the wrong room, I fully planned to take out my reading glasses, get up very close to the sign and then say something witty like, “Huh? And your point is?” I would then totter back to my table. Who in his or her right mind would want to engage a doting old fool in a mental skirmish, especially when there had been no harm? No harm, no foul!
Then I contemplated the problem I would have if a woman came in before I could get up and out. (It never occurred to me at the time that a small child might enter by herself. I still lose sleep over that possibility.) Instead, I was imagining a woman, young to close to middle age. An old woman would simply get a good laugh out of it and express her gratitude that it happened to me rather than to her own simple-minded husband. No, with my luck it would be a young woman without either reason or sense of humor. And probably with no respect for old men. She probably even had “daddy issues!” I was liking her less all the time.
I managed to get my pants up and moved toward the door. Luckily I had worn a dark suit that day, a “power suit” that might command a little respect from some and intimidate others. Sure, that was it, I had been a lawyer for over 30 years for God’s sake. Surely I remembered enough law that I could bluff my way through this. I could use a little Latin. If accosted I could say something like “caveat emptor” or perhaps “res ipsa loquitur.” And if worse came to worse, I could even say, “illegitimi non carborundum!”
I made it to the door, opened it and no one was there. Quickly I returned to the table. Sensing something was wrong, my family kept quizzing me and I kept avoiding them. Finally I tired of their questions and said, “illegitimi non carborundum!” They quit asking and ducked their heads while the other patrons looked on.
____________________
On an unrelated note, my friend, Everett Sweeney, died on March 8, 2010. He was 64.
My friend Everett and I had a man of 60 years of age come into our office with some legal problems. Now here’s some sound advice: Try not to have legal problems at age 60, it takes too much effort, too much energy and too much money to resolve. And given the capricious nature of the law and its arbitrary application in American Jurisprudence, you have no assurances you will win your case, regardless of it’s merit. You may very well lose and if you lose a legal fight you lose face, pride, dignity and, above all else at age 60, you lose money. It matters not that you are in the right or that you walk in the company of angels, you can still lose and it will leave you a beaten man. Really all you need is someone willing to lie to you and about you. That's all it takes to lose. In the best of circumstances one doesn’t have that many productive years left at age 60 and the time one does have should be guarded jealously and enjoyed to the extreme. That precious time should not be spent in a fight, legal or otherwise.
Our client had some serious health problems. He was only 5 years older than us and he moved, thought, talked and bore the marks of a much older man simply awaiting death. I told Everett then that based on this experience and based on my observations of too many other 60 year old men it appeared to me that the next 5 years would be important to us. We needed to work hard, accomplish all we could on our “to do list” (later to become a “Bucket List”), make all the money we could and at the same time nurture our familial relationships.
Now at age 65 I had managed to survive my 60th birthday (a day I never really expected to see) and the following years. I had some problems with my heart which had been partially corrected with the placement of stents and was having some continuing difficulties that resulted in neuropathy in the hands, feet and legs. At times walking was difficult and I had to use a cane for strength and balance. But, I usually felt pretty good.
What was concerning me right then was deterioration of short-term memory and a sense of confusion I felt at times. (Something which corrected itself when I got still other health issues under control.) In-depth studies were becoming more challenging and I wasn’t sure I had another one left in me. Since age 60 I had spent quite a bit of time reading and writing about religious issues and was finding this activity a little more challenging with the passing of years. And then I pulled a bone-headed, silly, old-man stunt.
Following worship services on Sunday in the Spring of 2010, we went to lunch with a group of youngsters who had returned the day before from a mission trip in Mexico. Many of the kids in our church travel to Mexico where they spend their Spring Break building “casitas,” small concrete block houses, with cement floors, for housing for less advantaged people. This was the first Sunday back and I wanted our 14 year old son, who had been on the work trip, to enjoy this celebration lunch in which they would reminisce about the experiences of the past week. (I have never heard these kids boast of their sacrifice, doing hard work to help the poor each Spring Break rather than going off on a ski trip or a beach party. So, allow me this moment of boasting for them.)
While awaiting our order I excused myself to go to the restroom. I was acquainted with this restaurant, the Hideaway Pizza, in Norman, Oklahoma, and they were especially busy with the influx of all our kids with their regular patrons. I went to the restroom and as I stepped inside I was taken aback by how nice it looked.
“My,” I thought, “they must have remodeled the restrooms.” It was cleaner looking than I remembered and far better decorated than it had been before. A very attractive paper was on the walls rather than the earth tone paint I remembered. The room was so pleasant I decided to stay awhile.
I selected the handicap stall. They're usually large and as I am a large man with some limitation to my standing and walking abilities I like the larger stall with the higher toilet and the handrails to assist in lifting. As I sat down I was impressed with the level of comfort of the seat and was well-pleased with the renovation. At such a high level of comfort I was wishing for some reading material but there was nothing available.
As I was fishing out my iPhone to check my Facebook account, I noticed a small trash can near the toilet. A label had been on the top of the can but it had been torn off, leaving only a fragment of the original lettering. I looked closely at it and could see the letters, “_m_p_o_n.” “_m_p_o_ n?” I thought. Using a highly developed sense of deductive reasoning I struggled with the letters “_m_p_o_ n” until I added a vowel and arrived at “_a_m_p_o_n.” And from there to “t_a_m_p_o_n!”
Either I was in the wrong restroom or younger American males had developed a sanitary hygiene practice unknown to me and my generation. I was hoping it was the latter but I didn’t want to know the details.
Retracing my steps, I remembered walking into this lovely little room and while I was admiring the decor I had ignored the functional setting itself. Now I could remember a lavatory to my right as I entered. Next to it was a smaller stall with a toilet and next to that was my larger, more luxurious stall. Next to that was a wall. In front of that was a wall. Behind me was a wall. To my left, beyond the smaller stall and lavatory, was the fourth wall with nothing but a door. Conspicuous in its absence was that most extraordinary tribute to male superiority, the standing urinal.
I sat there contemplating my blessings. For example, I had learned how beautiful a restroom could be. I had no idea all these years girls and women had enjoyed so much finer facilities than boys and men. I was also blessed that there had been no women in the room when I first opened the door. And none had come in. But now I was in a quandary. How could I extricate myself from this web without bringing embarrassment on myself, or more importantly, on She Who Must be Obeyed and my children who sat in the dining room oblivious to my predicament. I was completely innocent of any wrong doing and even any evil intent but I could just imagine if a screaming woman ran out of a room yelling that there was a man in her precious room I would probably be denied the presumption of innocence even though that is the bedrock of the American legal system.
If I could just get up and out, all would be forgiven. Even if someone encountered me, someone like the manager or, God forbid, a woman, and challenged my being in the wrong room, I fully planned to take out my reading glasses, get up very close to the sign and then say something witty like, “Huh? And your point is?” I would then totter back to my table. Who in his or her right mind would want to engage a doting old fool in a mental skirmish, especially when there had been no harm? No harm, no foul!
Then I contemplated the problem I would have if a woman came in before I could get up and out. (It never occurred to me at the time that a small child might enter by herself. I still lose sleep over that possibility.) Instead, I was imagining a woman, young to close to middle age. An old woman would simply get a good laugh out of it and express her gratitude that it happened to me rather than to her own simple-minded husband. No, with my luck it would be a young woman without either reason or sense of humor. And probably with no respect for old men. She probably even had “daddy issues!” I was liking her less all the time.
I managed to get my pants up and moved toward the door. Luckily I had worn a dark suit that day, a “power suit” that might command a little respect from some and intimidate others. Sure, that was it, I had been a lawyer for over 30 years for God’s sake. Surely I remembered enough law that I could bluff my way through this. I could use a little Latin. If accosted I could say something like “caveat emptor” or perhaps “res ipsa loquitur.” And if worse came to worse, I could even say, “illegitimi non carborundum!”
I made it to the door, opened it and no one was there. Quickly I returned to the table. Sensing something was wrong, my family kept quizzing me and I kept avoiding them. Finally I tired of their questions and said, “illegitimi non carborundum!” They quit asking and ducked their heads while the other patrons looked on.
____________________
On an unrelated note, my friend, Everett Sweeney, died on March 8, 2010. He was 64.
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