Superannuated Man

By Mark Buchignani

Theodore Allenby Marsters is a sociology professor facing imposed retirement.  His dismissal will move him aside in favor of younger academics.  Recently, he has spent his research time delving into bias, a broad topic which touches everyone, and one which he, himself, now greatly feels.  Somewhat in protest, for his final course he gives a short lecture series on a wide array of biases, including those targeting elders.

 

The novel presents Marsters's life to date in broad strokes, then proceeds to the current day, which is inhabited by scholars, friends, and classic existential works.  As the tale develops, the sister of one of his students pursues him.  They fall hard for each other and are together for a month, before she abandons him for her fiancé, leaving him no longer employed and alone – the setting for a surprising finish, offering the reader a perspective on aging, accomplishment, legacy, and fantasy: was his paramour real or a figment of a lonely old man's imagination? 

 

One hundred and two thousand words.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark Buchignani
• Release date: Dec 29, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215128428

Mark Buchignani

An avid reader of literary fiction, fantasy, and science fiction, Mark Buchignani has more ‘favorite’ authors than he can count, among them George R. Stewart, John Wain, Martin Amis, John Steinbeck, Margaret Atwood, Nicholson Baker, Richard Flanagan… The tip of the iceberg.  Novels of my own began spilling out in 2005, resulting in, among others, MTee’s Lament, a twist on a post-apocalyptic tale.  Many more narratives followed.  Some are published here; others languish behind “fair use” entanglements. My stuff tends toward societal commentary, presented via normal people who find themselves in unexpected, offbeat, or abnormal circumstances – circumstances replete with threatened or actual upheaval.  The choices these folks make move the action forward and expose brokenness in the culture and in the actors themselves. I’m also a huge Tolkien fan and have written volume one of a loosely-planned five-book set: The Recitation of Ooon.  Though in the same genre as Lord the Rings, Ooon is definitely not Middle Earth, and there are no Hobbits.  Just people trying to find their way while engulfed in a magical upheaval driven by a clash between followers of the ancient ways and those seeking a new, less-fettered life.  The narrator is a thousand-year-old man, trying to see forward, while looking back, as his existence comes to a pre-destined end. And I have devoured everything Theodore Sturgeon and quite a bit of old school SF.  Though I have yet to draft anything within this genre, ideas continually percolate.

Book preview

Week One

Thirty minutes prior to the commencement of the first lecture, I stroll newly-constructed University Hall, the room absorbing echoes of my footfalls and faintly smelling of paint and sawdust and cleaning liquids.  As yet unused, unsullied.  Newness abounds, my head remarks.  Apropos to the resurgence of the topic.

Designed to accommodate one hundred, the space is suited to the task, as are the acoustics.  At Administration’s directive, the architect had insisted upon identical audibility from every location.  The builder executed exactly to specification. An apt setting, fairness of educational opportunity for all, independent of seat. I intended to underscore this aural egalitarianism via perambulation of the stage so as to offer commensurate visual access.  Where their eyes (or ears or minds) wander is their responsibility.  Mine is caliber of thought – and interaction.

Climbing three steps, I advance to the board.  I write:

Cultural atrocity is not limited to the obvious — race, gender, faith

I stand at the lectern, reviewing my notes and my intent, for this, the introductory oration.  While I’ve yet to convey this particular subject matter, real-world exposure has rendered me eminently qualified to do so.  And how will my scholarship expand during this course?  A glorious dichotomy: in fashioning elucidations, the academic learns.

To augment my professorial clothing, I wear my gold cufflinks.  An emblem of longevity and depth and experience – features and facts symbolic of my primary objective in the upcoming instruction.  But we’re some weeks from explicit communication of such.

Students saunter in, noting my presence and my traditional manner of dress, before locating a vantage neither near to nor far from the stage.  As they settle their T-shirted and Spandexed bodies, I block a subtle wash of demoralization at their blasé informality.  I smile (at myself).  Do not judge, lest ye be judged.  Young people are as they’ve always been.  As I once was. Their mode of costuming simply differs.

I nod at several of Sociology’s omnipresent attendees.  The unexpectedly high enrollment has inundated that familiar pool with explorers from disparate majors.  Will this engender competition or am I exhibiting my own partisanship?

At exactly two o’clock, injecting energy and stridency into my voice, I enunciate: Bias enrages me, I project to the as-yet unsettled and inattentive audience. This is a ground rule: class begins precisely at two, as do I.  I pause for emphasis.  I pace the stage.  I resume:

"Foremost, selective anti-bias, as if a ‘downtrodden of the month club’ has spontaneously erupted, littering the landscape with chapters, each dedicated to a culturally-repressed group, each funded and broadcast in turn relative to the size of its social media footprint.  And as we know, moral outrage is a fickle mentor.  Yesterday’s cause is today’s old news.  Which isn’t to say one ideal is less meritorious than another, but to decry the shifting winds of loudness.

In this series of lessons, we will confront intolerance in many of its manifestations, treating them equally: unacceptable in any form.  Again I pause.  I look at upturned faces.  Do I have their attention?  I do.  Will we all grow in the coming weeks?

Settling my voice and my spirit, I continue: "But first, I’d be remiss if I omitted description of course mechanics.  Hence:

"Good afternoon.  I’m Theodore — not Theo, nor Ted, and most definitely not Teddy — Marsters, PhD, in this setting to be addressed as Professor or Dr. Marsters, if you presume attention or response.  My expertise is both broad and deep for my degree of commitment, my entire career to date.

"Welcome to sociology 8365, which was originally conceived as a graduate seminar but due to relevance and overwhelming interest, administrators have requested I provide a half-semester on the content in the more traditional format.  Only you will gauge how adeptly I’ve done so.

"The aforementioned seminar was to be entitled, Bias.  We shall retain that label going forward.  And I do recognize that the appropriate professor for this should be a youthful, mixed race, non-binary, transgender individual, but none exists in Sociology, nor, in fact, this university, so you’re saddled with me, an old white guy.  My age and appearance is where my similarities with the majority of the people claiming to be running this country end.  But that is rightfully for an unrelated course and, undeniably, the Political Science department." Here I’d hoped for a glimmer of conspiratorial grin, which wasn’t forthcoming. Is everyone drowsy, from a recent startling buzz, beep, or belch of a phone alarm?  Unimportant.  Perhaps they’ll be less so as they, the material, and I make headway.

"Mechanics.  You’ll be assigned one essay pertinent to each lecture.  Your emphasis is best placed on craftsmanship, analysis, and insight, as opposed to number of pages.  A bloated paper or a ramble or a mess, festooned with grammatical incorrectness, will receive what is due, an ‘F.’  That said, a well-written, well-reasoned paragraph will often be rewarded with a high mark.  My strong preference is for quality.  This saves time and ultimately increases your grade point average.

PLEASE ASK QUESTIONS.  I may or may not say words which lodge in your mind as truthful or provocative or even comprehensible.  Inquire!  Interrupt, if need be.

A hand shoots up.

Yes, sir, I say.  Stand and ask.

He rises.  Professor, are you a stuffed shirt? Multiple students turn toward him.  Various snickers accompany a gasp or two.

I smile.  A matchless query!  Sir, what is your name.

Aristotle Monroe.

Indeed, I chuckle.  Our fifth president would be amused.

Staring blankly, he adds, Most people call me Rist, except Anacostia, my sister, who calls me Tot.

You must be the younger of the two.

That’s right!

"Very well – Rist.  Am I a stuffed shirt?  Anyone, how does your online dictionary define the term?"

Rist says, I looked it up earlier.

Bravo!

It means ‘a conservative, inflexible, pompous person.’

And if I am such an individual, would you hold me in lesser esteem?

I already do.

"Excellent!  Thank you.  Everyone: Your initial assignment is to analyze Rist’s inquiry and our subsequent dialogue in light of the general theme of discrimination.  Weigh heavily the guidelines I’ve set forth.  Please send your email before midnight this Thursday.  Those late will receive an automatic ‘F,’ no exceptions, no excuses.  This will be the due date and time for your weekly efforts.

Rist, yours is among the better questions I’ve received.  I’ll add it to my running list of queries of the highest level.  Congratulations!

You’re messing with me, aren’t you?  You really think it’s rude or insulting.  The boy is both downcast and smirking.

Untrue!  I’m sincere.  Your interrogative is an exquisite illustrative example.  Tell me why in your composition.

And thus ends the first of the series of topics under the heading of Bias.  A superb inauguration, and an assessment vulnerable to a dearth of meritorious essays.  We shall see.

(No, the above exposition and exchange didn’t fill the entire period.  In the interest of concision, this volume omits lackluster or immaterial interactions.  For instance, What if I get sick and can’t do the homework?; Are these lectures being recorded, so I can listen to them in case I miss class?; Is attendance compulsory?; Is there a midterm or a final?; What is my grade based on? – and so on.  For the record, I allow for one incomplete, meaning not counted; attendance isn’t compulsory; nothing is recorded; the ideas and perspectives to be covered don’t lend themselves to examination, so none will occur; and I set aside a small portion of each appraisal to recognize intangibles, such as participation, sagacity, and discernment.  Lastly, plagiarism merits an ‘F,’ as does copying, for both copier and copy-ee.  I do read every paper, hence the succinctness requirement.)

I observe everyone filing out, not a soul plucky enough to initiate discussion, to confer personal homologous circumstances.  This is new – they’re new to it.  Patience I have aplenty.  I catch the eyes of the handful who do shoot me inquisitive glances.  I nod, my manner neutral.  They figuratively or actually shrug or smile or laugh.

No one stops or turns.  They exit singly or in pairs, thoughtfully, I hope.  Who claims insight into youth?  Not I, nor do I imply a portal into their minds, or at best for an inconsequential duration.

When University Hall has emptied, I, too, depart, relishing the gentle tingling of nascency: we – this course, these students, and I – may be onto something.  What analysis of events will they offer?  My anticipation germinates.

You will notice that externally, this narrative is ordered.  Monday.  My lecture commences at two o’clock sharp, concludes at two fifty.  Suggesting availability for queries, augmentations, or supplements, I remain in the venue as people leave.  All true for future Mondays.

I walk home, a twenty-three-minute march.  A light breeze begins to scatter the mid-afternoon warmth.  A quantity of colorful leaves dances to earth.  I inhale deeply, contemplating Rist’s reproof.  His contentious probe fuels my aggressive footfalls.  What was his objective in promptly rebuking me, my manner?  His facial expression and body language intimated he was conflicted. I leave open my following week’s response.

I’ve stood before young adults in rooms and halls for four decades.  Early on (and rarely now), after class, they’d request I join them at a bar or restaurant.  I declined such invitations, preferring to maintain a professional distance.  As years passed, this proved a wise and correct approach, as accusations of improper conduct or of evaluation bias soared in number and severity.  A few colleagues were pressured to resign or were terminated.

Undergraduates are increasingly youthful as I age.  No longer are they eager to include me socially.  On the contrary, they’re crescively likely to treat me in an adversarial fashion, as Rist has.  No doubt this has spurred the slant to the course I intend to lay out.

Upon arrival, I set about straightening up.  The hour is yet early for my evening meal.  I peruse email, another marvelous invention afflicted by the scourge of advertising, as texting has rapidly so become.  Money.  If not life and death, it’s money: the focus of so much ultimately for so little.  A John Lennon lyric manifests: "You don’t take nothing with you but your soul."  One forgives grammatical peccadillos in the name of art.

The house was provided furnished (couch, bed, linen cabinet, etc.), but I’ve added my own touches.  I read widely, seated in a wonderful, broken in, oversized armchair. This, along with a three-intensity floor lamp and a small, round, walnut table (with coaster) are samples.  The chair faces a large, flat-screen television, but I rarely switch it on.  My tolerance of the ever-growing intrusion of commercials has lessened as programs have contracted to accommodate them.

Recently, I’ve been drawn to existentialism, re-visiting classics, Kierkegaard, Heidegger, Sartre, Camus, and so on, dislodged as needed from my campus office.  Is this a stage?  People speak in this fashion about children: He’s just going through a phase.  Which one?  That of mistrusting past choices and decisions, those which have more greatly impacted personal outcomes than I might’ve foreseen, had I foreseen.

I assemble my evening meal, creating a new recipe: an interlocking of pasta elbows, with a spritz of olio and a dusting of a Parmigiano and Romano blend, accompanied by a leaf of romaine, four grape tomatoes, shredded radicchio, a fistful of halved Colavecchio olives, a sprinkling of golden raisins, and a dash of red wine vinaigrette.  A glass of vermentino to complement.  I sit at the square, old-wood dining table to eat and read.

I wash dishes, set them out to dry, serve myself a scoop of chocolate chip, and retire to the bedroom, Being and Time in hand.  Appreciably later, I put down Heidegger.  I drift to sleep.

Before I continue, some background:

The purpose of this volume isn’t to recapitulate my lectures, but to summarize their assertions and to narrate the story that sprang from them.

For completeness, a description:

My imagination proposes I sport a chestnut mane, stylishly trimmed, beneath which spark active brown eyes.  Abundant vigor heralds an appropriate weight and a robust physique.  Stride, tempo, and fitness corroborate physical confidence.  The formality of my attire exceeds that of my colleagues, properly so and indicative.  Subdued colors.  Flashiness is best when cerebral, not visual.  Intellect is notable when I speak (a vibrant baritone), evincing mastery and depth of thought.

The mirror reports that I’m… mature, on the far side of the bell curve of lifespan.  Gray hair, cut short, yet thick and full.  My glasses refract the glint of my eyes, conveying an insightful scintillance, when ideas rally.  My body abides.  Credit to habitual exercise, principally brisk walking, the goal being regularity, less so conspicuous exertion.  Though thin (superior to thick in every interpretation), I maintain a standard of heartiness.  My voice endures but develops a ragged aspect when long in use.  I’m an unremarkable six feet in height.

All of which deviates minimally from others’ perception; however, when lecturing, judging by audience response, I’m as my fancy represents.

Thus you have your author and protagonist.  For the record, I inevitably wear a dark suit, no necktie, polished shoes, cream shirt (not stark white), and cufflinks — I’ve received many pairs, often in celebration of a birthday.  I do not protest.  Intimates know I favor them over buttons.  Smarter, more impressive, and a counterpoint to the lost custom of the tie.  Professors once projected an image.  Cufflinks honor that formality.  Observer’s glances and nods confirm this understanding.  They also suggest old fashioned or outmoded.  I don’t care: mine is the style of the confident, the commanding, university stalwart.

As such, I keep a nominal second-floor office in the Administration building, largely as an auxiliary library of sorts, cluttered with treatises, papers, and moldering notes, indiscriminately ordered.  I’m seldom there, but do stop in now and again and will consent to meet with students, if they so request.

And for depth, my family life:

I’m as always unmarried, an enduring bachelor.  I’ve fathered no children – personal choice as opposed to random chance, much as the physical side of humanness is both familiar and welcome.  My dalliances have been somewhat numerous and varied in duration, intensity, and depth of attachment.  I communicate with ex-partners upon occasion, typically regarding professional topics, but as retirement overtakes, the frequency of these contacts dwindles.  I’m alone, not lonely, but will admit to a daub of ever-present yearning.  As people are wont to say, It’s been a while.

I’m merely a monogamous heterosexual.

My parents steeped my childhood in academics.  Father was a physicist who studied the Big Bang.  He was marginally famous, primarily for his ability to articulate in a lively and enlightening fashion, almost as performance.  His vocalizations and style mesmerized, which wasn’t indicative of comprehension or later recollection.  His research might’ve been characterized as continually delving, yet never entirely discovering.

My mother labeled herself a psychological biologist.  She too delved, but into the endless evolutionary progression of parents and offspring.  She sought to expose multiple-generation heredity.  She was celebrated for her resoluteness of stance (I’m certain we comprise our ancestors, notwithstanding their distantness) and her clarity of reasoning.  She, too, enthralled her students, and they, too, tended toward resting on the coverlet of erudition, rarely immersed, appreciatively, beneath it.

She wrote about the psychological effects of being the descendants of infinity.  He of knowing life will inevitably end.  They died hours apart, both at their typewriters, hammering out their perspectives, and of clear mind.  As if they’d been tracking the approach of their moment of demise, they departed with aplomb.  My father carried on that extra bit so he might mourn.  This fit his psychological construction, not his wife’s, hence he was allowed the additional time.  Does this sound anti-existentialist to you?  It does to me, but no matter.  I furnish this as a backdrop.

Religion didn’t come into play as God wasn’t my mother’s brand of immortality nor representative of my father’s inescapable winking out.

I was raised on and grounded in fiercely, instantaneously, exploding into Being, ultimately reversing to Nothingness, and in infinitely-running, ongoing processes.  Life was either harshly bounded by arbitrary termination or an endless progression.  Whichever: one controlled none of it.  The two of them happily delved until we, their progeny, put them, side-by-side, in a grave.  Their preference was togetherness ending at the Big Crunch or for eternity, whichever of their theories proved valid.

I do have many nieces and nephews.  My parents freely-enjoyed procreation: I’m the middlemost of seven. 3.5 boys, 3.5 girls.  Their fifth child decided in midlife he was truly she and had that decision expressed surgically.  This fit my parents as their relationship was of exact equals in achievement, age, and reproduction.  Physically, my mother could no longer conceive after the seventh.  That Daniel became Daniella for his/her fortieth birthday was truly fitting.

But my siblings rightfully inhabit a different narrative.  This is my immortality, not theirs.

Proceeding:

The town, prosaically named Academy for the university’s initial incarnation as a philosophically-oriented college, has developed around the institution.  Passing decades have brought prosperity.  Both school and community doubled in size during the nineteen sixties, growth which has slowed in the twenty-first century to piecemeal expansion.  Swelling enrollment has spurred revitalization of Academy’s Midtown district, incorporating a mixture of older and newer cultural, entertainment, and dining establishments.

I live alone in a two-bedroom cottage.  The exterior is early twentieth century bungalow, painted wood, with a small porch and a roof peaked against snow accumulation.  Every aspect is well maintained by groundskeepers.  The interior has undergone remodeling on several occasions, most recently six years ago – kitchen appliances, plumbing, and countertops, and bathroom appointments.  The flooring comprises fine, quartersawn, unblemished American chestnut, cut before the blight had taken hold, and last resurfaced in 2010.

The house is provided to me for a nominal monthly fee.  Eyes-larger-than-stomach budget overruns have required tenured professors pay rent to live on wholly-owned university property.  One can only lament the business dimension of higher education.  My address is 18 Don Village.  My unit (as are they all) is set a distance from the roadway, with a pleasant arboreal front yard.  This affords privacy and serenity – and trees, including two apple, accompanied by a picnic table.  I’m appreciative.

Finally, you’ll note (and I’ve been told) I tend to express myself with a measure of ostentation.  The back of my mind analyzes this, informing the front of any rational deductions.  A possibility is I’ve inherited my manner of speech from my parents.  This I disregard.  Neither exhibited such airs.  A second suggests I seek to distinguish myself from my many siblings.  An assumption with a degree of merit.  A third is that the behavior serves as a shield meant to increase distance between myself and others – appreciably correct as people who look past my pretentiousness make an effort and are therefore of value, while those who don’t, aren’t.  As you’ll come to understand, this story might be characterized as the tale of a person who successfully penetrates my defenses.

I conclude this section with an explanatory consideration: as some among you may have perceived, the title of this exploration is open to interpretation.  An example is that man is being used to identify modern man, ergo the reference is to all of humankind, not solely the male of the species.  Therefore, though in the upcoming series of talks, I’ll in fact refer to the male (as I am one), the points made will be equally appropriate for the female.

My limited autobiography complete, let us move to the present.  The weeks tote with them a routine.  I lay this out to demonstrate the structure of my life and to identify individuals in it, allowing them to freely appear in ensuing stages.

Tuesday

Good morning, Mrs. Peterson!  Such a fine autumn afternoon is preparing.  How’re you?

Between eleven and one o’clock each Tuesday, I arrive to see Mrs. Franklin Peterson.  I’ve donned a plaid shirt, denim trousers, and well-made walking shoes.  She lives between two and three miles away, in a residential facility, The Oak Tree, for the enormous and ancient specimen out front, underneath which in a lawn chair she frequently sits, having done so since her husband, Frank, succumbed during a series of strokes.  In extrospective moments, she admits death coming when it did was for him a blessing: he’d been left physically disabled and mentally scrambled.  Nevertheless, she clings to her identity as his wife.

She has been slender for her entirety (so she has related), and her brown eyes are bright.  Since she has ceased applying color to her hair, it has rejoined in the fullest of gray.  To keep it short, twice monthly she has it trimmed.  She tends toward warm, decorous clothing and stout, comfortable footwear.  When she smiles, wrinkles bunch in her cheeks.

Though deliberate, she’s physically sound, striding unassisted by apparatuses or others.  Her reasoning is clear but often requires several beats for percolation.  Therefore, the pace of our conversation matches that of her life: unrushed yet advancing.

Two months ago, she attained the age of eighty-seven.  I’d coincidentally begun sitting with her on her eighty-second birthday.  I’d come to see Marsha Jefferson, as I’d done for the prior thirty months, but her vigor had entered a precipitous decline.  I feared she’d not survive until next time, a fear confirmed by the on-site doctor, and by a telephone call I received forty-eight hours later.  I attended the funeral eleven days hence.  Marsha’s extended family welcomed me warmly and thanked me for providing their elder companionship in her declining years.  In counterpoint, I offered she’d taught me to quilt.  As evidence, using my phone, I displayed a photograph I’d taken and shown Marsha upon completion of my bedcover, one I continue to use.  They made encouraging, complimentary noises while taking in the artful juxtaposition of square swatches I’d stitched together.  I said, She was an engaging master of the art.  I’ll miss her, as, I’d expect, you will.  My intention had been to present her vitality, but they wept.

Coincidentally, when I’d come to see Marsha, the staff had been singing Happy Birthday to Mrs. Peterson.  Noting the absence of family members, I added my baritone to their chorus.  At the song’s ending, I introduced myself.  Mrs. Peterson thanked me for my contribution to the song.  I said, May I visit you?  I’ve come to see Marsha Jefferson.  I’d be pleased to stop by afterward.

Poor Marsha, she replied, her eyes tearing.  I don’t think she’ll live to see her ninetieth.

I nodded.

Do – stop by.  My family is… Too busy.  The break in her sentence communicated a depth of sadness about which she preferred not to converse.

Following an hour of narrating what I hoped were amusing stories of student antics to Marsha, I withdrew.  Though her smile at my entrance had indicated gladness, she soon drifted off.  I spoke onward for a period.  Attendants came in, ushered me out.  They had duties to perform.

Accompanying Mrs. Peterson on a stroll, I said, Tell me of your family.

Pacing measuredly, she said: I gave my husband three healthy children, William, Josephine, and James, who passed on the same day his father did, of the same cause.

My condolences.

Thank you.  James was the odd duck of the family, as if he and his choices didn’t fit into the plan.  He never married and a career was unimportant.  Once hired, like a Lothario in it for the seduction, he immediately lost interest and changed jobs.  Since he wasn’t earning much money, he returned to live with us.  We had plenty of space.  When all three had moved away, Franklin and I’d talked about it, but hadn’t sold the house.  We were delighted to take James in, our youngest son.

Of course.

When Franklin collapsed – her voice trembled – I dialed 9-1-1.  While they were on their way, James also blacked out.  The paramedics took them both away.  They died in the ambulance.  I suppose James was done with his life here and ready for what was to come next.

I’m sorry you’ve had to endure so much sadness.

No more than anyone else.  William and Josephine each married well.  I have four grandchildren, three in college, and a junior in high school.  They don’t call on me – none of them – but they do send cards.  I display a wallful in my room.  Do you want to see them?

I’d love to, but I must apologize.  I haven’t allowed enough time for us.  May we resume this conversation in the coming week?

No need to beg pardon.  Yes.  But before you go, may I ask how you know Marsha?

I’m unmarried.  Instead of rearing youngsters, I cultivate new friends.  She’s an example.  After a brief acquaintanceship, she spoke of her interest in textiles, shared with me the skills she’d developed.  She has a wonderful eye and keen senses of design and pattern.  My quilts are inferior to hers, but the work is satisfying.  I’ve grown for it and for my fellowship with her.

You’re a good man, Mr. Marsters.

Thank you.  I’ll see you next Tuesday.

I’ve been here five years.  I’m not going anywhere.

Throughout the subsequent sixty months, our rapport, Mrs. Peterson’s and mine, developed slowly.  She frequently lost herself in the past, in her happiness with Franklin and their heirs.  We spent countless afternoons, she speaking, I listening to her stories of married life and of exploits of her offspring.

As her progeny fledged, departed for college, sought employment, and married, free hours accumulated at her feet, like a trove of oddments, each offering reminiscence or investigation.  For a stretch, she gathered and organized photographs and keepsakes.  This was pure busyness, and satisfaction lagged.  She’d albummed, framed, and display-cased to her heart’s content.  She pursued unfamiliar hobbies.  For example, she had a short liaison with contract bridge, one she abandoned for the complexity of the mechanics and the overboard competitiveness of the players.  In addition, she felt a sense of time wasted.  What of lasting value would come from such a diversion?  For her, none. As a result, she turned to food, and specifically to preservation.  Just as Marsha had developed expertise in quilting, Mrs. Peterson, extending childhood experience, practiced and mastered the art of canning.  This caried with it a sense of preparedness, which sat well with her and pleased Franklin in a can’t ever be too sort of way.  For many winters and springs, her family benefitted from a supply of fruit and vegetables.  As have I, though not from the food itself, but from her instruction in the method.  She was and continues to be an excellent teacher.  It’s a convenience that in back of the facility is a collection of peach and apricot trees.  We repeatedly find ourselves lost in discussion of the application of creative approaches in augmenting the flavor or altering the texture of the food.  Today she produces small batches – primarily for Christmas gifts – and she and I are often in the kitchen honing our technique. Now and then, she conducts a class for residents.

During this visit, I strive to nudge our conversation from the past to the future or at minimum to the present.  I say, Mrs. Peterson, what’s to come for you?  Certainly, your canning skills are unparalleled, but should you and I commence a new activity?  Bridge, for instance.  Yes, it’s no more than a game but as such is quite engaging, judging from admittedly limited conversation I’ve undertaken with participants.  The university has a student-based club.  We might attend.

What’s to come? she reiterates slowly, her tone dry.  Nothing! I’m far nearer the end than you are.  My age lies heavily on me.  I’m eighty-seven, twenty-five years your senior, I’d guess.

That you are.  I suppose I’m obliged to accept the moniker ‘young old.’

That makes me ‘old-old.’  She laughs.  And, no, thank you.  My attempt at learning to play bridge is behind me.  There’s a club here too, but I don’t want to spend what’s left of my life in recreation.

Understood.  Have they a book club?

You mean novels?

May I suggest John Steinbeck, the 1962 Nobel Prize winner in literature?

Yes, a splendid writer, if memory serves, but my eyes aren’t as unclouded as they used to be.  Those extra twenty-five years have caught up with them.

Then may I read to you?

A small chamber inside serves as a library of well-used volumes. Novella in hand, I sit in a lawn chair adjacent to Mrs. Peterson’s. I begin the tale of George and Lennie, Of Mice and Men.  For a time, she intently listens, but before long, her lids droop and her head lolls.  She sleeps.  I also doze.

We awaken together, perhaps at a loud noise become a mind’s ear echo.  We share a chuckle.  I say, "Despite my youth, I too am vulnerable to peace and quiet inducing siesta.

Yes, your youth, she replies, grinning.

In any event, I must be about my evening meal.  Good evening, Mrs. Peterson.

Bye now.

I walk up South Road, east of which the hubbub of Midtown clusters.  A brisk twenty-minute march deposits me on Second Street at the door of Università Italiana, my preferred restaurant, for it’s conjunctive past (local historians claim Raviotta Agrarian Hall on campus was capitalized by the founders of the restaurant), its convivial warmth, and, needless to say, for the delectable fare.

A tall, slender, dark-haired woman of deep complexion and indeterminate age, greets me warmly.  I’m a regular.  Your usual table, Professor?

Sì, Viviana, grazie.

She leads the way, her right leg emerging from a slit in her evening gown as she moves.  Seating me in a quiet corner, she says, Do you still see Tommaso?

Yes, Thursday afternoons.

Every week.  You do him honor.

The honor is mine.  His insights into food selection and preparation have been unparalleled.  My cooking has improved immensely for his tutelage.

She smiles.  Buona cena.

Thank you, I always do.  She nods, goes into the kitchen.  For my recurrent and long-standing patronage and for my friendship with Tommaso, his son, Gennaro, the Head Chef, makes pasta del giorno for me – whatever he deems best for the ingredients on hand.

In fifteen minutes, before me is a dish of Orecchiette ai Cime di Rapa (pasta with rapini, garlic, anchovies, and pecorino), two slices of bruschetta, a small arugula salad (with figs and walnuts), and a glass of vermentino.  Gennaro treats me well.

Wednesday

My longest hebdomadal tramp occurs Wednesdays.  Don Village is north of campus.  Academy Hospital is south.  After a simple lunch of vegetable soup and crusty bread, I set out.  The journey requires approximately an hour.  I wear casual clothing, warm against a slight, drifting chill.

During