Advice to the Elderly

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.

Dopeslap

“Dopeslap” (also "dope slap"). My new and favorite word. It hasn’t made it into the dictionary yet but it has made it’s way into common usage among this new and younger, happening, generation, with which I identify.

It refers to a firm, yet affectionate, slap applied to the back of the head of someone who has acted stupidly in your presence. It is not painful, simply attention getting so that it sends the message, “For the love of God, quit being stupid!” It demonstrates an expectation that more and better is expected of the slapee (another word that may not have made the dictionary but will now have to). It is usually applied by a superior to an inferior. I may dopeslap my 14 year old son but he probably should not dopeslap me. “She Whom I Fear” may dopeslap me but I probably should not dopeslap her. I can’t go without sleep forever and pay backs are hell.

Make “dopeslap” a part of your lexicon and use it proudly.

Observations on an Election

[This is taken from Thoughts I Thunk, a compilation of some of my own personal reflections. The date of the writing is included as it is sometimes relevant to understand what was said and why.]

The following was written and posted on Facebook the day after the national election in 2010 which resulted in a Republican landslide:

I have to speak to this Republican wave that swept over us yesterday. In 1964, following Goldwater, pundits said the Republican Party was doomed to die. It didn't. In 1980, following Reagan, it was announced the Democratic Party would die. It didn't. Following W's ascendancy, the Democratic Party's obituary was again being written. In 2006 and 2008 the Republican Party’s epitaph was being written. Again, none of this happened. Each was little more than a bump in the road.

It is what it is. Living in a state that has turned from Democratic to Republican in the last few years, I can tell you it is not the end of the world. It’s still a good place to live. Of course, we are 49th in per capita income, 49th in education, 49th in health and health care, 49th in teacher pay. (Thank God for Mississippi.) And we rank right up there toward the top in teenage pregnancies, methamphetamine production and use, imprisonment, health problems, divorce, child abuse, spouse abuse and a host of other dubious standings.

It is still basically a good place to live. It’s even a good place to visit. So come on by.

I predict there will be gridlock as bad or worse than anything we have ever seen in Washington. There won’t be any progressive action and the sole goal will be to stamp out Obama and the rest of the Democrats as soon as possible. There are surely consequences to elections. We’ll live with this landslide until another one comes along.

It is what it is.

Spiritual Superiority

[This is taken from Thoughts I Thunk, a compilation of some of my own personal reflections. The date of the writing is included as it is sometimes relevant to understand what was said and why.]

Persons who feel superior to others are a bit trying. People who feel and act that they are religiously and spiritually superior to others are subjects of my own personal disdain.

“Facebook” has opened a new social and interactive possibility which has its lighter moments. Too many people disclose too much personal information on their profile. One Facebook friend has on her profile, “Jesus loves everyone but I’m his favorite.” I have always found this funny and have used it often in birthday greetings, telling the birthday celebrant that “Jesus loves everyone but today you’re his favorite.”

Another friend posted, “I have a friend who sticks closer than a brother.” It is a loose quote from the Jewish King David who undoubtedly was thinking of his dear friend Jonathan who had long since died in battle against the Philistines.

A friend of mine had recently passed away unexpectedly. His friendship had so impressed me that I thought of and associated that friendship with David and Jonathan. I posted that sentiment, extolling my friend and friendship which to me was closer than a brother. “I, too, had a friend,” I said, “that was closer than a brother.”

Four people noted they “liked” what I had to say. (Hitting the “like” button on Facebook is the equivalent to saying “amen” in a fundamentalist church.) Then a woman commented, “Hahaha. . .I believe I know Him. . .!!! LOL [this means “laugh out loud”]. . .” Another woman commented, “I have a friend that sticks closer than a Sister!” I should have recognized from the capital letters in these two comments that they were referencing deity in some manner. But I wasn’t thinking in those terms. King David wasn’t writing about God nor was he thinking of anything other than his friend Jonathan when he penned the original words.

I commented, “You’re fortunate if you have one of those during your life. Mine died recently.” He had been a dear friend of mine on whom I could depend in all things and he had recently died. I don’t have many close friends. We all have acquaintances but a really close friend is a rarity. After a few months I was still feeling the loss. His was a companionship now gone. His was a listening ear now missing. His was a wise counsel now stilled and silent.

Another of the Facebook “friends” joined in. She commented, “I know him 2 He is my Savior!!!! Jesus!!!!” (Facebook language is full of shortcuts.) I wanted to come back with something like, “Give me a freakin’ break, Lady.” Or, “How does he take his coffee?” Or, “Is he a good enough friend that he’ll help you move? If so, does he own a pickup or would he just zap it to the new address?”

That sense of spiritual superiority is offensive on so many levels. It probably doesn’t speak very well of me that I can be offended by ignorance but I took this as a personal affront to my own friend “who sticks closer than a brother.” And now he was gone to stand with the angels.

“That’s sweet in a superincumbent way,” I posted in reply. She’ll probably never know she was dopeslapped.

6/30/2010

The Humor Test

My first child was born when I was 21. Five years later the second was born. That was a long time ago and I was busy with my life and didn’t take the time to observe things. Then, when I was 51 we adopted a baby and two years later another. With these I am older, more settled and take the time to watch them grow. I paid attention when they took their first steps, spoke their first words. I was there when they went to school and watched every little thing they did. One of the first things I noticed was that they did not have a sense of humor like mine.

Young kids basically like what we would call “slapstick.” This is the level of their humor for several years. Don’t waste a joke on them, they won’t get it. They don’t understand sarcasm, one-liners or funny stories. In fact, if a story is too long they won’t even sit still for it. They don’t get the punch line because they have quit listening long before it is delivered.

I have developed a test I call a Humor Test. I tell them an old Mark Twain story and if they don’t fall into riotous laughter I don’t waste humor time on them. The story goes something like this:

When I was a young man [it helps to use a voice much like you imagine he sounded as an old man] I was walking down the streets of San Francisco. I rounded a corner and came upon a burning building. There was a woman in a fourth floor window. “Help,” she said, “help me. The building’s on fire and I can’t get down.”

“I’ll help you,” I said.

I threw a rope up to her. “Tie that around your waist,” I yelled.

She did and I pulled her down.

Spell Check

Computers and I entered the legal world close to the same time. Actually, I was a little ahead of personal computers, Microsoft and word processing programs. We were still using typewriters and even copiers had not evolved to the point we could totally do away with carbon paper.

Ten years later, technology was advanced as was I. I moved into a nest of lawyers in a glass high-rise in a large city law firm. I was on the eighth floor with a large office that had an exterior wall of glass overlooking a green area. We had all the equipment necessary for a well-run office and all the support staff needed to provide services to feed the monster of the modern legal system.

There was a mother-in-law/daughter-in-law team among the support staff. Mildred [not her real name] was the self-appointed head of this well oiled legal machine and she ran everything and everyone, staff and lawyer alike, asserting herself at every opportunity. We all lived in fear of Mildred.

Mildred had a daughter-in-law, Cassie [again, a pseudonym], who also worked as a secretary in the office. Later such staff would be called “Legal Assistants” but for the time they were still called “Secretaries.” Cassie was a high school dropout who had been impregnated by Mildred’s son while still young. She had given up her education to marry and raise the baby. From all indications she was a good person whose heart was well placed. The lack of even the most basic education was clearly evident in her conversation and her work. The weakness in common sense was apparent and education, even higher education, likely would never have helped with that shortfall. But the one area in which she was a leader, a woman among girls, was in self-confidence.

She was one of the most confident people I had ever known. In her mind there was nothing she couldn’t do and nothing she didn’t know. She was poor at taking directions or even suggestions because she was convinced she knew more than anyone else. That was a hard thing for a lawyer, who as a group think too highly of themselves, to take.

With nothing but self-confidence to commend her, I wondered at times how she had landed a coveted position in a large law office. I knew many attorneys who hired support staff based only on her looks but even there Cassie was only minimally attractive. I concluded Mildred had hired her. Mildred’s son wasn’t much and this work arrangement assured a continuing income, something important for Cassie, her husband and their child, Mildred’s grandchild. Since she didn’t have hiring authority, I imagined she simply brought Cassie to work and no one had sufficient courage to run her off. Mildred was always there. They came together, worked together, ate lunch together and left together. Mildred had her working, didn’t have to support them, protected her son’s wife from lustful and lecherous lawyers and provided for her grandchild, whom she dearly loved.

I never knew why but for some reason Cassie was assigned to me. No one asked me, it just happened. I wasn’t the youngest or least experienced of the lawyers in the office. In fact, i was probably the second best lawyer in the entire office. But she was assigned to me as my assistant.

In those days the most effective way of working was to dictate and have your assistant transcribe the dictation. It was the early days of computers and word processing programs. We had them for the support staff but only one of the lawyers had his own personal computed in his office. I preferred dictation then and probably still would if I was still practicing law. I used a small cassette recorded, a pocket recorder, in which I dictated the contents of whatever document I wanted to generate, together with any instructions. I would place these and any notes I had in a pocket folder and put it all in a basket. From time to time Cassie would pick up the work from my basket and deliver what she had completed. It was a smooth and efficient method of operation.

I had learned to proof-read her work the hard way. I had dictated a letter to a client, an arrogant instructor at the University of Oklahoma, and had merely signed it when Cassie presented it to me. We mailed it off only to get it back a few days later corrected with red ink. It was embarrassing to look at my own work bleeding from every pore. I lost face as the client knew I would and the humiliation continued because he didn’t fire me. He came in and smirked as we discussed his case. From then on I read everything Cassie prepared. Had I been in control of the office I would have fired her but that decision was not mine.

I prepared a legal document for another client using my tried and tested dictation/transcription technique. It was a lengthy document I had worked on for several days. And it had taken Cassie a couple of days to type the rough draft. I was not reading her work and since it was a rough draft I planned on making some changes if needed.

In the body of the document I had used the word “collateral” several times. And to my surprise, in every place I had used the word “collateral” there appeared the word “clitoris.”

I circled each appearance of the word and wrote “sp” above it, whereupon it was returned to the “out” basket. Cassie returned it later and said in all innocence, “Hershel, that’s spelled right.”

“No,” I replied, “it’s not correct.” I knew it was not the spelling that was the problem, it was a total ignorance of both words, the intended one and the one she typed.

“Yes it is,” she argued emphatically. “I typed it and clicked ‘spell check’ and this was the first choice.”

I looked at her and saw a lot of emptiness in those eyes. I had raised teenagers who at their worst were smarter than this and I knew this was a debate I couldn’t win.

“Cassie,” I said, “‘clitoris’ is spelled correctly, ‘collateral’ is misspelled.”

She objected again and told me how “spell check” works. I interrupted her and said, “I might be wrong. Check with Mildred. She should know.”

Rethinking George W. Bush

I did not vote for George W. Bush. I campaigned against him and was highly critical of his policies throughout his eight years as President of the United States of America. I felt his decision to invade Iraq was worse than ill advised, I felt it was an act of aggression against a nation which obviously hated us but did not have the ability to do us any lasting damage. I felt we were led into that war under false pretenses and that we were told that that nation was responsible for the attack against America on September 11, 2001. It was not. There was no credible information ever tying Iraq to the terrorist attacks against us on 9/11. Our invasion of that country placed us in league with other invader nations such as Germany and Japan, a status we should have avoided at all cost.

The policies of President Bush, from his tax cuts to his Patriot Act to his imprisonment of persons deemed to be terrorists without any kind of due process, were all matters with which we could disagree vociferously. I have no problems whatsoever of expressing disagreement for those positions. However, I am having to rethink some of my criticisms regarding President Bush.

Mr. Bush ran for president on the theory that he was a compassionate Christian. This was a good slogan and I rather doubted it was any more than simply a slogan. In observing his conduct as governor of the state of Texas, I saw very little evidence of any kind that he was a compassionate person. The Christianity that had been forced on us during the Reagan/Bush years and even by political opposition during the Clinton years was a harsh, judgmental and destructive Christianity. Mr. Bush wanted to embrace those people who had converted Jesus into a Republican and he wanted to save their votes. But he also wanted to temper those views by calling himself compassionate in order to make himself a little more tolerable to a more liberal audience.

Early in his administration, Mr. Bush, working with Democrats in the Congress, signed into law the No Child Left Behind. Whether one agrees or disagrees with the passage of this law and whether one does or does not find fault with its implementation, one can conclude that it was entered into with good intent and purposes.

Also early in his administration, Mr. Bush, again working with Democrats in the Congress, passed the Prescription Drug Act which was intended to help senior citizens pay for their prescription drugs. Whether one agrees or disagrees with the passage of this Act and whether one does or does not find fault with its implementation, one can conclude that it was entered into with good intent and purposes.

With the attack by the terrorists on the World Trade Center in New York and on the Pentagon in Washington DC, and the failed attack on the White House or the Capitol, on September 11, all of his efforts to do things with good intent and purposes were set aside and he had to focus on the one thing that we feared the most-another terrorist attack. His advisers took advantage of this opportunity to lead him down a path of aggression and military expansionism which could bring pleasure to their lives for reasons that only they would ever be able to understand.

It seemed that in the last two years of his administration he tried to bring himself back to that compassionate Christianity that he had run on in 2000. But he was never in control of events after that. Bad people influenced him and events controlled him. And now, after being removed from his presidency by nearly 2 years, I find that I am having to reevaluate my thinking of him. Perhaps in his heart he really did want to be a compassionate person after all.