I Think Maybe I am Getting Old

I think maybe I am getting old. In recent weeks I have had a hankering to make contact with some old friends. I followed through on those yearnings. I called an old friend I had not spoken with in a few years. He told me the sad news of his oldest son being killed in an automobile accident. In the course of that week I spoke with another old friend and learned some of the stresses of his life. It is late in the year and I had some vacation time I needed to take. So this last week I drove to Missouri to see an old friend. We had an enjoyable visit.  But he has a few health problems that concern me and I know they trouble him. I move on and go see my mother and father in-law. I enjoyed the evening listening to their stories. They don't have any sons but since I married one of their daughters they claim me and I am proud of their claim. On the way home I meditate on my visits and I have a fresh reality that getting old has some challenges. And I think maybe I am getting old.

 

I get home and sleep in my bed one night and then take off in the in the other direction to Kentucky. My purpose is to attend a funeral visitation for the father of a pastor friend of mine. My friend is not as old as I am but I know from experience that losing your father will make you feel old. I continue on my journey and go spend the night with my aunt. We set up and talk past midnight and I am pretty sure that is past her bedtime. But I don't want to miss the opportunity share some old memories. Because, I think maybe I am getting old. Next morning I drive over to the town where I grew up. I go to the cemetery to visit the graves of my father and mother. I inspect the flowers resting on top of their stone and I surmise that they are in good enough shape that they don't need to be replaced just yet. I had made arrangements to see another old friend. His son is about the same age as me and I had spent a lot of time at his house when I was growing up, particularly on Sunday afternoons after church. We have a lot of church stories to tell and a lot of people to memorialize. I discover that this old friend and I have more friends in common that are dead than are alive. I think maybe I am getting old. 

 

I get home and I read an obituary in the Illinois Baptist. A pastor friend with whom I have enjoyed many moments of sweet fellowship has lost his wife of 52 years. I call my friend and he reminisces about her life and her home going. She had been suffering from cancer and her death is bittersweet. I think my friend feels old and I think maybe I am getting old. 

 

So I am absorbing my recent experiences with old friends. It causes me to understand that I don't want to spend much time in puny arguments. Life is short and there is simply too many difficulties and too much sorrow to waste energy squabbling. I would rather give my life to loving one another and rejoicing in the love of others.  That is my opinion. But maybe I am just getting old. 

Ole Jacks

On Tuesday I had seven hours from the time I arrived in Anchorage from Pilot Station, AK where daughter lives until my flight back home to Illinois. So I left the airport, took a cab to downtown and explored a bit of the city. I visited a museum and then walked down the street to the mall. I visited every floor but I am not a mall kind of guy. I left the mall from the 5^th Avenue exit. I immediately saw a sign that read “Fur Alaska”. I found my way across the street and entered the shop. There I met “Ole Jacks”. That is how introduced himself when I asked his name. He said I used to be “young Jacks” but now I am 80 so I am “Ole Jacks”. The store appears a bit cluttered. One whole wall is covered with newspaper clippings and pictures from times past. Jack himself is sitting in a tiny passage way between two counters partially hidden by a stack of magazines. We begin to visit and he tells me his story. He is native Alaskan. He has lived here all his live except for the time he worked for President Truman during the Korean War. When he came home he went in the fur business trapping and buying furs, selling some and making others into clothing. He got his pilots license so he could travel into far away and remote places in the Alaska interior to buy furs. Alaska is God’s country he tells me at least a dozen times. “Ole Jacks” is good at what he does. I am guessing that fur coats are his specialty. He has made fur coats for Presidents Ford and Reagan and for a Japanese president and for former Soviet President Leonid Brezhnev. He proudly shows me a picture of Brezhnev wearing his coat in the presence of President Ford. “If I can measure a man I can make it fit” he says. He asks about where I am from and what I am doing in Alaska. I tell him I have come to visit my daughter who is a teacher in Alaska and he is interested in how she is doing. We visit for probably 20 minutes. I am pretty sure I cannot afford one of his fur coats. He must know that as well because he does not try to sell me one. Before I leave he says “I think you are a salt of the earth man from Illinois”. I am thinking this man is a salt of Alaska’s earth. I have traveled a lot of places and what I enjoy most about travel are the people I meet, often by chance encounter, along the way. Cab fare from the airport to downtown cost me $40 but meeting Ole Jacks is far more valuable than that. If you go to Anchorage you ought to stop in at Fur Alaska 329 W. 5^th Avenue. Maybe Ole Jacks will be there.

A Big Daddy

When I was growing up going on a vacation meant we went to visit family. We did not call it vacation we just went visiting. Vacations are something you pay for and visiting meant you got free lodging and free food. Not that we were free loaders because the same family would come and visit us and be treated to the same amenities. A few times we traveled to Indianapolis, Indiana to visit my uncle John and aunt Zuma and my cousins Rhonda, Richard, and Rozi. We were so excited when they moved to Shreveport, Louisiana because that meant we could travel to a part of the nation we had never seen before. So one summer we made our reservation. We loaded up the car and began the drive from Kentucky down to Memphis Tennessee crossing over the mighty Mississippi. We drove across Arkansas and marveled at the flooded rice fields. We drove south to Texarkana and crossed over into Texas just so we could say we had done it. From there we crossed into Louisiana and took note that for some odd reason what we called counties they called parishes. Finally we arrived at our destination where we enjoyed ourselves immensely sleeping on the floor, eating free food, touring Shreveport and just “visiting.” On Sunday we attended a Baptist church which gave uncle John and aunt Zuma opportunity to show off their visitors. It was Father’s day and as custom would have it the pastor recognized the youngest father present, the oldest father present and the father with the most descendants present. Then he announced that he was going to recognize the biggest father and asked all the dads over 200 pounds to stand up. Upon standing he asked them to come to the front where he proceeded to have each take a turn on the scales. My father was always a big man and he weighed in that morning at 237 pounds which made him the biggest daddy present that morning. My brothers and sisters and I thought that was the coolest thing ever and we dubbed our father “big daddy.” We could hardly wait to get home and tell this story. We told it to everyone in the family and to everyone in town and to everyone in church who would listen to us. At least I did. For years to come many of the people at our church affectionately called my father “big daddy.”

On September 5, just two months ago, my “big daddy” died. He was indeed a big man. He was big in stature growing larger than the 237 he registered on the scales in Shreveport many years ago. He required an oversized casket. But he was a “big daddy” in many other ways as well. He was big in integrity. You could trust him. He was big in generosity. Upon examining his checkbook register it was discovered that the last check he wrote was for a church building in Haiti. He was big in love. He was big in faith. He was big in hope. He was big in encouragement. He was big in helping others. It has been a long time since that trip to Shreveport. I think on vacations you are supposed to come home with a souvenir. But I came home with a “big daddy.”