A POT-bellied folk singer under a lone spotlight in the middle of a darkened, smoke-filled room full of shadows is singing “A rolling stone gathers no moss”. A scene I still remember vividly from Morayta’s TGIF in the late 70s. Such a glorious past, I thought, but surely a lot of water under the bridge since then.
It’s even accurate to say, that old world has long since died, sadly buried in history’s rubble. Even though that crooner singing in my memory now sits in an old wheelchair musing about our past, his song is never the same. His blank stare in the digital photo his grandson sent me betrays the lonely soul trapped within his frail frame. “I still feel like I could stomp on that stage, Ric.” He had written. I’m just silently praying, well keep on rolling, bro and gather no moss.
Meanwhile back at the ranch, after what seemed like a decade, I have finally decided to venture out to the courts once again and play a little tennis. With this being my 68th year, it was quite a rebellious feeling to do so. Imagine boldly facing the fear that screamed inside your head, you might break a bone or two or twist your leg in the process, old fart. Yet somehow, I am weirdly exhilarated. “I still feel I could stomp on that court, Fred.”
At least, the missus is happy. After worrying for a few hours why I haven’t returned her calls in the middle of a rain-threatening afternoon (and thereupon learning I was out “exercising”), she greeted me gladly when I finally got home early evening.
At least, you have finally decided to think healthy for a change, she remarked. Instead of constantly griping about aching backs and getting old, she added. I thought to myself, wait until tomorrow morning when all you will hear is ‘it’s aching backs and getting old once again’.
Long ago, I wrote in an old column, “This is followed with a solemn promise, conviction, prayer, or plea to ourselves (and others) that, “things will be better” next year.”
In this present, it’s back to thinking healthy once again. I guess it was primed from a moment last month when I met again for the first time since the 70s old sports buddies who’ve confided I again get healthy for my age. In the last few weeks, I’ve again lifted a few weights, adding to our weekend walks and a little run. What about that?
In a sense, it’s almost like those tiny promises one makes at the start of any year. New Year’s resolutions, they say. With my age, it’s just back to some fine-tuning, a tweak here and there, and then lots of mefenamic acids after. Stomp Stomp, gather no moss.
