A Senior Moment: A Blog

By D.G. Marshall

A 70 year old man decided to fend off his retirement boredom by starting a weekly blog about issues of concern to seniors. He blogs about senior sports (golf and pickleball), shares his perspectives on geriatric topics as diverse as alcohol, social media, divorce, movies, marijuana, humor and, of course, medical and memory concerns. And yes, old people do have an interest in sex—the topic anyhow. However, his weekly perspective purging gradually turns into a diatribe on his family, and after an accident on the pickleball court, it turns into more rant than blog as everyone around him focusses upon his apparent declining cognitive ability. An unexpected ‘Granny scam’ phone call causes him to leave his home and, accompanied with a surprise partner, go in search of his missing granddaughter. The adventure takes him—them— from Calgary to Toronto, the Caribbean Island of St. Lucia, and then... a new life at 71.

• Language: English
• Publisher: D.G. Marshall
• Release date: Nov 19, 2020
• ISBN: 9780988159839

D.G. Marshall

D.G. Marshall recently retired after a long career in education. He divides his time between Calgary, Alberta; Rutherglen, Ontario and various warm places in the winter. He has lived in four provinces, the NWT and St. Lucia in the Caribbean. He has been married to Sheila for 48 years and they have two sons and four grandchildren. He is an avid golfer, blues musician, motorcyclist and hiker.You can contact him through Talon Lake [e-mail]

Book preview

A Senior Moment: The Blog

A Novel by D.G. Marshall

VERSION 11

Published by Talon Lake Press at Smashwords

Copyright 2020

Cover design by x-height Graphics Inc.

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To the Reader

Many thanks to the readers and friends who have provided editing suggestions for this novel.

The typo gremlins are insidious.

Please note that I use Canadian spelling throughout. You will see doubled letters (e.g. focussed, gratefull), ou’s (e.g. colour) and ‘re’ (centre) as well as a few other differences from American spelling.

Disclaimer: This is a novel people. That means it is a work of fiction for those of you who did Grade 12 English by correspondence school. This is not a dramatization of real events. It is a novel. Fiction. Not real. Made up. Consequently, no matter how hard you try— or wish it to be so—there is not a single character in this book that reflects, resembles or is modelled upon any individual alive, presumed dead or wished dead. I did have Grandparents that were extremely influential in my life, but would roar in their graves with laughter with any suggestion that Chuck or Brenda mirror their earthly existence. As for the other people in the book, they are simply too caricatured for any sane reader to think that such people actually exist.

So go crazy. Read the book without any guilt —or nervousness that you are exposed.

Please direct all angry comments about this novel to:

[e-mail] They know where to find me.

KF

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

ISBN: 978-0-9881598-3-9

Thank you for downloading this E book. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form.

Dedicated to my grandparents who always listened.

A Senior Moment: The Blog

Blogging is graffiti with punctuation.

Dr. Sussman (Elliot Gould) in Contagion, 2011

Old people love to give good advice; it compensates them for their inability to set a bad example. Francois de la Rochefoucauld

Table of Contents

Cover Page

A Senior Moment: Part One

Blog 1: An Indulgence

Blog 2: A Missed Opportunity

Blog 3: Ooh! My aching Pickleball knee?

Blog 4: Am I slurring my words?

Blog 5: Love me or Leave me

Blog 6: All my 400 bff

Blog 7: Golf: The Obsession Theme Again

Blog 8 Golf Obsession part 2

Blog 9 How ya feelin’?

Blog 10: Progeny Problems

Blog 11: Show me the Money Honey.

Blog 12 A Senior Moment: Ha! Ha!

Blog 13: Mobile Culinary Art

Blog 14 Fore!

Blog 15: Golf Gizmos and such

Blog 16: Alice B. Toklas golf

Blog 17: The Revolution starts

Blog 18: Avoiding the Revolution

Blog 19: Thump, Thump. Where am I?

Blog 20: A Case of Selective Memory

Blog 21 Things ain’t what they used to be…

Blog 22: A senior Moment?

Blog 23 Go take a pill.

Blog 24 Tuesday night at the movies

Blog 25 A Senior Moment: Woof! Woof!

A Senior Moment: Part 2

Blog 26: The First Day of the rest of your life:

Blog 27: Life is about passwords

Blog 28: Back on schedule

Blog 29: The family pays their respects

Blog 30: The Brain drain contingency.

Blog 31: Merry Christmas…A Cuckoo’s Nest

Blog 32: The only innovations in golf today

Blog 33: Happy New Year—Settling into dementia

Blog 34: The caregiver

Blog 35: Simulator Golf

Blog 36: Grandpa

Blog 37: The Simulator Surprise

Blog 38: A Misspent Youth

Blog 39: The Granny scam.

Blog 40: Another Call

Blog 41: An Action Plan

A SENIOR MOMENT: PART THREE

Blog 42 Katherine: A prologue

Blog 43: Freedom Ain’t Worth Nothin’…

Blog 44: Best laid plans…

Blog 45: Revenge is sweet…

Blog 46: A sucker is born every moment...

Blog47: Where's Grandpa?

Blog 48: Finding Kat…

Blog 49: Find your friends...

Blog 50: A digital mystery...

Blog 51: Dead Ends...

Blog 52: Found you...

Blog 53: Setting the Hook…

Blog 54: The Grandpa scam…

Blog 55: Information is King…

Blog 56: Family is everything…

Blog 57: Poor Demented Gramps…

Blog 58: Gotcha…

Blog 59: Follow the Money….

Blog 60: The Truth shall set you free...

Blog 61: Found him…

Blog 62: Convergence….

Blog 63: Fine Dining…

Blog 64: A Strategy…

Blog 65: Moonlight sonata…sort of…

Blog 66: A steady diet of creampuffs…

Blog 67: Best laid plans…

Blog 68: Love it when a plan…

Blog 69: Confusion…

Blog 70: Finger magic…

Blog 71: Time to Leave...

Blog 72: The unravelling…

Blog 73: Now a plan comes together…

A Senior Moment—OK Boomer…PART FOUR

Blog 74: Loose ends…goodbye friends

Prologue

Even before the phone call, Christine McTague, the first woman to lead the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, was not having a good day. Of course, the 'Mounted' part of the label was a throwback to the early days of Canadian confederation when 'Mounties' patrolled a lawless west on horseback. The modern agency still takes pride in their mounted origins and has a special unit that stages a musical ride throughout the country. But on September 8th, 2019 the only mounting the force was supposed to do was in their fortified, souped up, Ford Explorers. Supposed to do, she smirked to herself as she faced the 20 cm tall stack of folders on her desk documenting sexual harassment complaints where the 'mounted' had a different connotation. She didn't think it was fair that simply because she was a woman it was expected that she would unwrap, undo and resolve decades of harassment in the historically male and military cultured organization. It would take her three evenings —days were too full of meetings—to read and study these files. And they were only the most egregious cases.

Good morning Senator, she forced a cheerful and warm voice as she glanced at the caller's identity and tapped the Apple earbud. Welcome back to the city. She knew that Harold Swithwold had spent labour day weekend at his summer home on an Island in the Temagami area northern Ontario.

Good morning Commissioner, Smithwold offered. "Yes. It was a beautiful weekend on the lake, but I am glad to be back at work. I'll see you see you at the Foreign Affairs and International Trade meeting later today?

McTague smothered a sigh. For sure. I'm looking forward to it. Along with the Executive Director of CSIS she had been invited to answer questions about foreign interference in national elections. She and her staff were trying to figure out how to answer the questions without answering them. Too much information... the officer in charge of those investigations had mocked when he had learned she would be questioned at the meeting.

Great, Smithwold replied. But that isn't why I called you today. I have another—partly personal—matter that I want to discuss with you.

How can I help, McTaque hid her concern. It was always a problem when someone like a senator calls the commissioner on a personal matter. She didn't fix tickets.

It's a family matter, he offered. You might remember that my son was taking a gap year and travelling in Asia?

McTaque took his pause as an expectation that she would remember —and acknowledge— something he had shared two months ago at a Senate summer barbecue. She did remember. Not because Smithwold was especially memorable. He was a mousy and loud Conservative who told everyone who would listen that he was a direct descendent of a 17th century voyageur and consequently it was in his genes to spend his weekends carrying a Kevlar canoe over 50 metre portages. She remembered his son's story because her daughter was doing much the same, although it was art classes on the Sorbonne and not drunken orgies on a beach in Thailand. She imagined that Smithwold was just the kind of father that gap year children strove to escape. She had wondered at the time if she was that kind of mother. Yes, she exclaimed. Of course I remember. Thailand wasn't it? Is he still there?

Oh yes, he sighed. As best as we can gather he and three other guys he met there have set up house on a beach in Phuket. But we only hear from him when he wants some money. Apparently offering windsurfing lesson doesn't pay very well. But I haven't heard from him since early July, so maybe he has found some way to be self-sufficient. Legal of course, he added.

Of course, she assured him. But how can I help your son in Thailand? If there is a concern you would be better calling External Affairs?

It's not my son, Commissioner, he offered. It's my mother.

Mother?

Yes. My 89 year old mother lives alone in a senior residence in Guelph. Dad died ten years ago, but she is still quite independent. Has her own two bedroom apartment. Manages her own money. She only gave up her driver's licence last year. He chuckled. Apparently has quite an active social life as well.

Sounds good, McTaque offered as she checked the time on her iPhone. She had a meeting with her Deputy in 5 minutes. We can only hope that all of us have that life at her age.

For sure, he offered. My family has the genes. But here's the issue. Two days she got a call from Scott. That's my son. He told her that he was in jail in Thailand and needed money for a lawyer to help him out. He said he was innocently caught up in a drug bust and if she just sent him five thousand then a lawyer could get him released. Then the lawyer called her to tell her where to send the money. They asked for bitcoin, but she didn't really know what that was so they told her how to do a Western Union transfer.

Oh, McTague quietly responded, knowing now where this story was going. Did she send it?

Yes, he solemnly answered. She told me about is this morning after she realized that something was wrong. I sent an urgent message to Scott and of course when he replied he assured me that he had not called and he was not in jail.

Donald, she tried to be soothing. I'm so sorry that this happened to your mother What would you like me to do?

Well, he announced. Apart from the fact that I am shocked that we let this sort of thing go on in Canada, I want you to find these crooks and arrest them.

McTague wasn't sure how to respond. She was well aware of the extent of the scam operations that went on in Canada. The federal government had built a webpage dedicated to informing Canadians about active scams, and the RCMP partnered with the Ontario Provincial Police to establish the Canadian Anti-Fraud Centre in North Bay. It did its best to document telemarketing fraud, but she was also aware that there was not much her agency could do. Most of the scam operations were located off-shore and popped up and down like a whack a mole game. In addition, most of the scams stayed to small scale hustles, and a few thousand dollar scam wasn't significant enough to allocate scarce RCMP resources. They were more interested in the multi- million white collar crimes that they could actually uncover and prosecute. Add to this the fact that most victims of these scams were often reticent —too embarrassed—to make a formal complaint, then there was not much anything official could be done.

I am making a formal complaint, Commissioner he added. I want these guys caught and prosecuted.

McTaque thought for a moment. We would need an official, written complaint from your mother.

Should be in your in box now.

McTague glanced at her desktop screen and saw the message in the top corner of the screen. She wondered how he had her private email address. Got it Don. She opened the message and saw the attachment was ten pages long."

She includes all details. Phone numbers of the callers. Western Union details etc.

Ok Don, she replied in her most official voice. We will take care of it. Someone will get back to your mother. That ok?

Appreciate it Christine. Thanks for your attention to this. I look forward to hearing from you.

McTague glanced at her phone again. She only had a few moments to think about this issue. She knew that the Fraud Squad —as they were called within the business—had file cabinets full of such complaints. And she knew that very few were resolved. The infamous —at least in police circles— Costa Rica bust last year was an anomaly. And while the prosecutions were few, the scam activity wasn't. The Canadian Anti-Fraud Centre told them that over $95 million was lost to scams last year, not counting the unreported ones where people were too embarrassed to admit they had been a victim of a fraud. Smithwold's mother was a victim of the well documented 'Granny' scam and while McTague, as a woman and soon to grandmother, took exception to the label, it does appear that the type of scam Smithwold reported usually focussed on widowed, older woman. The Fraud Squad doesn't usually take action on any single one of these, but with Smithwold on her case she will have to ask the Squad to do something about this particular scam from this particular scam operation. It was doubtful they would be able to do anything but she will be able to at least report back that they had done their best. She sent a quick email forwarding Smithwold's message to the head of the Squad with her own brief request to take cation on this case.

Come in, she responded to the knock on her office door. She hit send and turned her attention back to the pile of folders on her desk and the Deputy Commissioner who entered, armed with his own pile of folders under his arm.

A SENIOR MOMENT… PART ONE

"I was so much older then, I’m younger than that now." Chuck (quoting the Byrds).

Blog 1: An Indulgence

Sunday, June 2, 2019

I'm going to be 70 next week.

Not a big deal, you are thinking. Most men hit 70 at some point in their life —if they are lucky, I suppose. Most do it with little fanfare and with some satisfaction of a unique life, well lived —and hopefully more to come. Maybe that's the problem I'm having. After more than 60 years of thinking that I was something special, I now realize that I am just in the queue. The fact is that no matter what our histories, no matter what our foibles and weaknesses, and no matter our successes and failures, our race, stature, or our gender proclivity…we are all in the equalizing line of aging.

I've always been intrigued by the fictional accounts of rich folks who try and buy eternal life, or at least buy perfect health and a long life. At 70 you start to realize that rich or poor, man or woman, white or any other shade, age just trundles on, ignoring all of the efforts to ignore or deflect. Sure, I know all of the stuff about eating right; exercising, managing blood pressure and cholesterol, and having some doctor finger your colon every few years. And there are pills for all of it, although the most entertaining are the efforts of the homeopathic industry to convince an aging population that there is a natural bullet for everything that ages us. (If you don't think that seniors are targeted by the pill industry, watch the CBC news, CNN or the Golf Channels…for your mental health, never watch FOX). But I'll leave the anti-aging industry for a future blog. I don't want to tick off too many readers this early in my blogging experiment.

So why this blog and why would you ever be interested in reading it?

You probably won't be interested for several reasons.

Firstly, I am only doing this because I'm a little bored. I retired at the requisite age of 65 and for the last five years I have been doing the retired things: travel, grandchildren, long neglected hobbies, charity work, reading, health maintenance and so on. I was a computer —Instructional Technology to be precise—geek, and someone from my previous work life even calls once in a while to ask my opinion. My specialty was technology security, and it appears that the hackers and scammers are multiplying like the hares in our neighborhood these days. But to be honest, I spend a lot of my time waiting for something to happen. I don't mean waiting for the weather to get better so I can go for a walk. Or waiting for the kids to call for some babysitting. Or waiting for the next trip to start. I mean waiting for that life altering event that would induce—well— induce something life altering. And I don’t mean the type that comes from a conversation with your doctor.

This is all too much to expect of course. Retirement life is set up to induce the opposite—routine, predictability, safety, health, stability, and security are all the promotional buzzwords in the senior marketing world. The theme of this blog is none of these. It is simply about me excoriating my boredom through writing, and thus mitigating the deadly effects of routine. It is purely an indulgence, and my thoughts, opinions and experiences are likely totally irrelevant to you. So be it. If this is the case, then my first piece of advice is to go write your own. Even if useless, it is actually quite cathartic.

The second reason that you might never read my blog is my demographic. I am a boomer who smoked pot (never inhaled of course) and protest marched in the 60's (to get access to Faculty washrooms at my university). I am reasonably fit and healthy. I have been married to the same woman for 40 years. (My second try was more successful than my first—at least so far.) We are both university level educated. As of this writing both my children are employed (sort of), and the grandchildren —three of them—all healthy (I think). After 45 years in the same industry (oil, of course. It is Calgary after all.), I retired as a manager with an acceptably stable pension. I (we) own a condo in a gated community on a suburban lake. When I can find it, unlike most of my old colleagues, I (not we) vote slightly to the left of centre on the political spectrum. My passions (other than my family) are vintage cars (lusting, not owning), watching sports (go Senators go!) and playing golf. A fairly traditional old white guy. I could go on. You will learn more about me as the blog —and my life—progresses. But as you can deduce, my life is not a sad story. I have little, if anything, to complain about. I do not reflect that caricature of the destitute senior, burdened by worries of financial security or family tragedies. Consequently, I do not start this blog as either a whiner, or as an angry representative of the 'boomer' demographic. I start this blog from a happy place, as a weekly cathartic exercise to reflect on a life after 70.

But before the next Blog, it is probably a good idea to tell what my blog is —and isn't.

The latter is easier than the former.

Firstly, while you will certainly learn more about me and those around me, my Blog is not intended as a diary. Even I am not egotistical enough to think that anyone will be interested in my day-to-day activities or thoughts. I'm neither famous nor insightfully brilliant. You'll have to read the biographies of someone far more productive than me in life to be inspired or motivated. And if you end up reading the blog you won't be my secret ear, where I dump my disappointments and fears in the hope that they will dissolve into the Internet ether. I am more than ordinary. I am boring.

My blogs will not engage in contemporary politics. Why? I understand that it is a natural human tendency to engage in diatribe over life's circumstances. Political discourse is even one of those rare events that isn't just a first world agenda. Even the poorest of countries and most historical civilizations have practiced forms of political discourse. However, for me it is simply the concern that contemporary politics everywhere in the world —but especially in the U.S. (and creeping into Canada) —have become mired in such motivations of greed and fear that society is being driven into two intractable, polarized camps of angry minions. This does not mean that I won't feed the fury on occasion. It is impossible to share a point of view on contemporary issues of aging without pissing someone off. All I can guarantee is that the topics I discuss will not be aimed at any place on the current political spectrum (although I wouldn't mind some help finding out where the middle of this spectrum has gone). I will be an equal opportunity misanthrope, but not an angry old man.

What is this blog then? I believe that a good blog needs to be instructive. It needs to add something to the reader's repertoire of thoughts, abilities or actions. That is why people blog about what they know and are doing. A mommy blog, a wine taster's blog, a cook's blog, a serial killer's blog (just kidding), a mechanic's blog, a traveler’s blog, and so on. But remember, I'm boring. I'm normal. I don't plan on solo rowing across the Atlantic, climbing all seven mountains or chaining myself to an oil well. I'm past giving day-to-day advice on how to be a father, a husband or even a manager. The only thing I am working on doing better is growing old. So, "A Senior Moment" (my 18 year old Granddaughter Katherine thought that OK Boomer was a better title. I demurred.) will be about the instructive moments in a man growing older. Old man sports. Engaging in the arts, like learning a musical instrument. Managing retirement. Money and preparing an estate. Religion (oops! Look out!). Science. Adventure travel. Volunteering. Health. Adult children. Grandchildren. Funerals. Maybe even sex (if you don't tell my wife). And many other topics I haven't thought of yet that just pop up as life happens (or that you might suggest?).

Finally, I'll try and keep my blogs to less than 2000 words. My anecdotal research suggests that is the limit of how much a senior can read before they fall asleep.

Now that I have convinced you to not follow my blog, have a great day. If you are bored next Sunday (or have trouble sleeping?), check back with me. Or write to me and tell me how boring I am. Email me at:

[e-mail]

See you next Sunday.

Chuck

Index

Blog 2: A Missed Opportunity

Sunday, June 9, 2019

First of all, my thanks to all of the readers who sent me nasty comments after my first blog. No, I am not a misogynist simply due to age, gender and race — although probably a libtard, (that’s a new one to me, although I figured out that it wasn’t complimentary). After only one blog I am surprised by how well you think you know me? I'm not a Facebook person, so I am not familiar with the litany of abuse that follows from on-line stories about most anything. However, I now understand why media outlets have disbanded the comments sections from their news postings. So, I'd better get some rules straight for all of the insecure, serial nasties who get their jollies from delivering the online abuse they would never deliver in person. (I have a special place in my own nasty heart for the clicktavist. But that might be a topic for a future blog.) Go ahead. After three decades as a manager I've got a thick Teflon coating on my ego.

At least I know that I have a readership already. At a future blog I might share some of your feedback.

This week I just have a story of my sense of growing panic about time running out.

A chain grocery store is a 10-minute walk from the condo (and gated community) we moved into after I retired. (It was a life altering experience to reduce by two thirds every possession we had carefully accumulated during 40 years of marriage. Maybe more on that in a future blog as well.) I know the route well since one of my new and invaluable roles in life has become the primary cook in the family. Brenda could never cook, and in her own retirement has far more important things to worry about than my nutritional needs. Thus, I am a regular at the local Safeway.

Make a list. You can't remember more than three things, Brenda admonished as I laced up my Keens, and grabbed my spring puffer jacket.

Partially true. I often told her that I use the association memory trick I was taught years ago in a Business class. So, I tell her that it isn't milk, ginger and soda; it is milkweed, Ginger Rogers and scotch. I explain that I used the trick with names since good bosses are supposed to remember every one of the 2000 people in the organization—and the names of their children and spouses. Rhonda the receptionist became the song "Help, help me Rhonda by the Beachboys. The new IT guy Burt was overweight so I just associated butt" and remembered his name. (A professor when I was at Business school tried to teach the class this trick. Professor something or other, I can't remember his name.} I joked with Brenda that I gave up at work, and just called everyone either David or Peter, or Susan or Mary and got it right at least half the time. I'd probably have to change the names to something like Olivia or Liam if I worked today.

In actual fact, (although I have never told anyone except you now), I am eidetic, (Ms. Google it if you want) so I don't have to make a list, or use memory tricks, although the syndrome refers more to old memories rather than new ones. And I have never had a problem remembering the names of everyone at work. Or a grocery list. But, actually, I don't mind pretending that I forgot something because then I have to go back again. The ten-minute walk can stretch into a 45-minute return trip and fill a spot in a relaxing day. And Tuesday was particularly relaxing so the outing to the grocery store was not unwelcome.

There was a four-shopper line up at Lucy's checkout counter. I was second behind a maybe mid-thirties young woman pushing a two toddler Chariot. (The grandparents out there will know what a Chariot is. They have probably been hit up to buy one for the kids). The woman was slim, as tall as me (170?) and dressed in black, matching sweatsuit and pants on top of new Lime green trainers. Her amber streaked hair juts covered her ears. Lucy is in her mid-fifties and has let her shoulder length hair go naturally grey. I think that she only works part time since I only see her at the store on Tuesdays and Saturdays. She is shorter than me, slender and smiles a lot. She looks intelligent (Can someone look intelligent?) and I wonder if she has another career to fill her other working days. I put my milk and ginger on the conveyer belt behind the mother's selections of organic everything—apples, yoghurt, kale, wild salmon, bananas, and quinoa.

Cute kids, Lucy offers as she rings in the sales. What? Two and three?

Yes, a very tired two and three. Past their afternoon naptime. A meltdown may be imminent!

Lucy gave an understanding laugh.

I forgot my wallet, the young woman suddenly announced as she rummaged through her fake Gucci handbag. But I know my credit card number. Will that work?

(Maybe in one blog I’ll tell you how I spot Chinese fakes like her bag. She remembers her card number? Wow. I can’t deduce if she is eidetic like me, or the card is simply scorched from use.)

I don't know? I'll have to ask, Lucy smiles as she yells to the cashier at the next till. Can I process a sale with just a card number? There is apparently a check-out person hierarchy at play.

Lorraine is a full timer and carries some kind of swipe card around her neck. No. If she can't pay, then put the groceries aside and suspend the payment. She passed her swipe card to Lucy. Will you get your wallet and come back?

The woman looked nervously at the line-up behind her. Yes. I only live a few blocks away.

Okay, Lucy smiled as she suspended the sale and placed the bagged items under the counter. See you when you come back.

That is what actually occurred and I suppose we should all be buoyed by the kindness and understanding that Lucy and Safeway showed the young mother. I'm personally depressed by it all. Fate, some divine being, or whatever you believe in, only gives us so many opportunities in life to demonstrate—put into practice —our character. I missed this one. This is what should have happened.

I forgot my wallet, the young woman announced. Can I give you my credit card number?

No, Lucy kindly informs her. We need the actual card. Fraud you know.

Oh.

The two year old starts to cry and the three year old reached over from his perch on the handlebar seat of the chariot and grabbed a Snickers bar from the display shelf.

Put it on my card, the man behind in line offers, as he hands Lucy his Mastercard. A baseball hat, with what looks like a small bite out of the rim, covers the man's hair and forehead, but the grey stubble and crow’s feet accented eyes speak grandfather. The light nubblied, fleece vest said fixed income.

Lucy took the card and looked from the man to the young woman.

How do you know I'll pay you back? the woman asked as she grabbed the Snicker's bar and put it back on the shelf.

If you don't, I'll just assume you are broke and it is a donation to the needy. But I figure any lady that has her credit card memorized is a good bet.

I won't give you my address or anything you know?

Here. He handed her a business card. Pay me back by email transfer or put the money in my mailbox sometime. I don't need to know anything about you.

She glanced at the card. One side had a black meme of an old man with a cane walking.

The flip side had the following:

Chuck Profiterole

Professional Grandfathering Service

[e-mail]

20 Dreamscape Cr.,

Calgary, Alberta Z6J8B1

Christmas present from my solicitous 18 year old granddaughter. She figured I could use it if I ever get lost, or forget who I am.

Thank you, she nodded consent to Lucy. Mr. —Profiterole?

Long story, he offered as he glanced at the impatient, but entertained, line up behind him.

You have an airmiles card? Lucy asked.

See? I'm already rewarded for my kindness. Enough Air Miles points to buy one bite of that snicker's bar the kid tried to swipe.

Everyone laughed. The young woman loaded the groceries into the Chariot. With another mumbled thanks she scuttled towards the exit.

That was nice, Lucy offered as she processes my own three items. Think she'll pay you back?

Doesn't matter. Not much. I'll just skip a couple of meals this week.

Lucy paused her scanning.

Joke Lucy. A joke. He patted the growing volleyball around his waist. Do I look like I am starving?

In the days since, I have wondered why the first event happened rather than the second? Why did I let the rare opportunity to do something good and chivalrous pass me by? Why was I walking home with my three items (what were they again?) before it struck me I was a jerk? I know that part of me was afraid of what Brenda would say when she saw the forty bucks or so charge on our credit card. I would most certainly face derision for being such a trusting fool and so generous with our money. But I was also concerned about being seen as a dirty old man. I'm sure that if the woman was a frail senior pushing a walker, instead of an attractive young woman pushing a Chariot with toddlers, I would have jumped in right away. Either way, whether I succumbed to the tensions of a marriage or the fears of contemporary society—or was just slow witted in action—the event and my behavior depresses me.

Thus, my thought for this week is that I feel I am running out of time to get more opportunities to act on my character—assuming that my character has some goodness in it. Unfortunately, as I launch into my seventies I fight an urge to go in a different direction. Anger, disappointment and pessimism are increasingly driving my thoughts. I get angry with politicians—especially the liars or those that try and take advantage of the naivety of the ordinary population. I fight disappointment of my two boys. Graham and Donald have forged very different paths in life and I fight the urge to tell them they are doing it wrong. And I’m trying not to be pessimistic about the future of mankind in general.

All of those creeping urges would have me assume that the young woman with the chariot was simply a spoiled millennium, sucked into the organic, gluten free, meat poison, internet mantra. Why should I support her ignorant whimsies? Fighting those urges would have me recognize the need to help another human being, unfiltered by my growing meanness.

I’ve got to work at this.

Thanks for reading. Have a great week.

See you next Sunday.

Chuck

Index

Blog 3: Ooh! My aching Pickleball knees.

Sunday, June 16, 2019

I said in my first blog that I would do some blogs on old man sports. But first I had many (3 of 10 readers?) ask me to tell the story behind Profiterole as my last name. So, before I get to a sports blog, here is the story.

I am actually 100% Gaelic. At least the DNA tests show that the first pollution of our families pure Gaelic line happened somewhere around the time that Adam ate the evil apple. (Ok. It was actually during Roman times. I suspect a deserter made his way to Irish shores and planted different seeds than potato.) The story I’ve been told (by a Grandfather all too fond of Bushmills) is that my Great Grandfather proposed to my future Great Grandmother in an Italian restaurant on Bloor street in Toronto. Both of them were fresh off the boat (literally) from Ireland and had met at an Irish wake at the worker’s hall 6 months earlier. The conversation —embellished over the years I’m sure— went something like this.

So will you be marrying me Lucinda? Great Grandpa Seamus Carrigan blurted between sips of Irish Breakfast tea.

Well that’s a wee bit romantic isn’t it? Great Grandma Lucinda laughed. Aren’t you supposed to get down on your knees or something like that?

Well I have a ring for you my dear. Great Grandpa wipes his hands on his overalls and pulls a crumpled, cigarette pack from his pocket, shakes it upside down on the linoleum-covered table. Was Grandmother’s you know? Will you take it now?

Lucinda hesitated. I can’t.

Why ever the Christ not? (Great Grandpa apparently was quite liberal with the expletives).

Your name, Seamus. She paused again. I can’t have our children grow up in Toronto as a Carrigan. They will be mistaken for the violent Republican you are, and their lives would always be in danger. There are too many people here with too long memories.

I’ve given up that life Lucinda. Nothing but a law abiding, Church going, citizen for me for now on.

I’d seriously be doubting the church part. But if you are serious about leaving the other behind, change your name and I’ll marry you.

Great Grandpa thought for a moment (hiding some anger and indignation I’m guessing) and then leaned over to the couple having tea and pastries at the table beside them. Excuse me Ma’am. But what is delicate little thing you two are nibbling on with your tea? He pointed to the golf ball sized pastry on the plate in front of the woman.

Well, it is a profiterole. The woman proudly held the plate up so both Great Grandma and Great Grandpa could see. Hard and crunchy on the outside and soft and sweet in the middle.

Thank you so much, Seamus offered as he turned back to Lucinda. Hard on the outside and soft and sweet in the middle. Perfect for me. I will change my name to Seamus Profiterole.

And our family have been Profiteroles ever since. There you go. I’ll bet many of you (especially more recent immigrants) have your own stories of name changes.

But now back to the main theme of today’s blog.

If you are over 65 and don't want to hear again that exercise is good for everything that ails you and will increasingly ail you, then you should join the legions of my blog fans that have already shut me down (6 of 20 readers to date). If you believe the research, then you should accept that exercise would alleviate everything from diabetes to Alzheimer’s. But if you are like me and repulsed by the TV ads for old folks homes showing decrepit figures (mostly old women) meditatively attempting Tai Chi, raising their worn out hearts in a swimming pool workout, or worst of all, doing yoga — a 70 year old man in yoga pants and a dirty dog pose is a nauseating sight — then read on my lazy, overweight, reminiscing, couch athlete, friends.

Like most of us, your memories of glory on the volleyball or squash court are quickly fading, yet the apparently innate need to compete and crush an opponent in some physical event still persists. Brenda would say that sports have replaced men's ancestral role as the family warrior. Men even treat sports paraphernalia like their ancestors would have treated their hunting war weapons. If you have any doubt of the inherent instinct for weapon care and choice, watch an old man fawn over his golf clubs. Supposedly, at advanced ages like you and me, the intent of exercise as a purpose has taken over the warrior intent. Don’t believe it. Over the next year I will explore some more adventurous ways to raise your deteriorating heart rate and stimulate your aging blood pressure.

Here is the first.

Find the pickleball club in your neighborhood and join.

What is pickleball you say? It is a game played with a whiffle ball (yes, the same one you bought for your 4 year old grandson last Christmas), a stubby, hard faced racquet, on a badminton size court, with a tennis size net. Confused? Google it. There are an increasing number of sites with descriptions of the game, instructions, and even videos. Almost all done by previously bored seniors like you and me, by the way.

Two months ago spouse Brenda—who hates sweating and has never played a sport in her 62 years—dragged me to the local club. I proceeded to watch two (game is almost always doubles) seventy something grandmothers destroy two strutting, fifty something, balding, overweight, glory reminiscing, male athletes. Game on. I'm balding, overweight and an ex jock. (OK. Maybe not exactly a jock, but I did play hockey at university). Vengeance will be mine.

We have taken lessons. Played against the grandmothers. Sprained a knee. Lost 10 pounds. Found body aches that I haven't experienced since I was cut from my university hockey team. And made some great new friends. No matter what your age, your level of fitness or your previous athletic experience you will be welcomed into the local pickleball scene. And you will be healthier for it.

OK. That's the lecture. For those of you who want to try the game here are the deep insights I have gained through the extensive experience of two months of playing.

1. You can ask Mrs. Google the rules, but here are the basics.

You have to serve underhand, and, like tennis, the ball has to land in a designated part of the court.

You mustlet the return of your service bounce once before you hit it.

There is a protected area calledthe kitchen (no woman came up with that label) extending 7 feet from the net. You can't hit a ball while standing in the kitchen unless it has bounced there first.

2. It is inexpensive. A useable paddle runs less than 75 bucks. If your senior citizen jail doesn't give you access to your cash, hit up one of your kids. They owe you.

3. It is a friendly, non-competitive sport…not! The ritual is that players tap paddles over the net after every game and say something like good game. Those grandmothers tap with glee and old jocks with visible frustration. The most satisfying moment in the game is when you make an overhead smash into your opponents, largely unused groin. But don't worry. You will soon take your place in the non-competitive, smiling, paddle-taping crowd.

4. If you want to eventually win a few games you have to be good at Pickleball—not another sport. But you will be humiliated for some time. I'll explain.

There are essentially four types of players you will encounter.

(a) The tennis smasher: This is the most common player. After a lifetime of tennis their goal is to hit the ball as hard as they can over the net, most preferably with topspin and most preferably down the line. From what I have seen many—especially men—do not progress past this type of play. And in the newbie groups the hardest smasher most often wins.

(b) The Badminton lobber: Not as common, but a clear genotype. Flicks of the wrist send the whiffle ball high over the net, landing in corners. These folks are good at overhead smashes and lobs and are to be watched out for. They have skills more easily translated into pickleball than the smashers.

(c) The table tennis spinner: These folks usually have a higher level of spatial awareness. This awareness comes from picking a wee ball out of empty space coming at you over 100 mph. Their forte is the spin, always trying to cut or spin the ball to make it fly into a nether land out of reach of their opponent. They usually have nice touch and are good at the kitchen (remember that place?).

(d) The racquetball killer: These folks are just plain viscous. It appears that there is no such thing as a delicate shot in that sport and the goal of the racquetball player is to whip the ball into you solar plexus (that leaves you writhing on the floor breathless, but at least doesn't ruin what is left of your sex life). But with well-developed hand eye coordination they are just mean and nasty opponents.

5. If you just want to win games during your first year, just be a smasher or a spinner. You will beat most beginning or novice players. Good players will be able to easily handle spins, cuts and hard serves. True enough. But you will not be playing against great players. Go for the killer serve. It is much for fun.

6. Finally, if you want to eventually be a great pickleball player, ignore all the advice above. The three simple rules I gave above create a whole new racquet/paddle game that mitigates much of the practiced skill of other types of players. Quite simply, from what I saw, advanced players win with finesse and placement not muscle or speed. The two balding ex-jocks I saw that first day were very accomplished smashers. The two grandmas were very accomplished Pickleball players.

What does that mean to you? You wimpy, overweight, lazy, couch surfing athlete can finally get your vengeance on that super jock that humiliated you in high school.

And I have just fed the monster.

Why is it that most of us can't just go out with our friends and whack the silly little plastic, holey ball around with our friends? Like a barbecue and beer fired game of lawn darts or croquet on a warm summer's day? Why am I so obsessed with learning everything publicly available about this new adventure? What part of this is good for me as I crawl over the edge of 70? The most obvious is the exercise. No quibble here. At every age we need to get off the couch and move. But research has shown that