What We Are Not Now

Six decades is a long time.  I know this, having lived a little bit longer than that now.  Well, it is and it isn't.  60 years is certainly long enough to have been through a lot of things that are well back in my yesterdays, and to have been a lot of things that I am not anymore.  I was young once.  Energetic.  Bright.  Thin.  Poor but not impoverished.  Practically everything was a first.  Life was exciting and interesting and new, and I had time enough and hope enough to think I could conquer the world, or at least a little part of it.

Whatever hasn't been conquered, well, to hell with it.  Just give me a cold beer and a place to sit down.  I'm not dead yet, but I'm not what I used to be.  Crosby Stills & Nash used to sing: "Don't let the past remind us of what we are not now."  But really, until we are also plagued with dementia, how can we not?  

Don't misunderstand me, I am not complaining.  I have nothing to complain about.  Life is good.  My life is good.  I have been very blessed.  Still, one thinks about the ironies.  Like, once I spent a lot of time chasing after money on the theory that having money would make me happier.  And I am happy to have some money, but looking back on it, the happiest times of my life were those days before I had any money.  And now?  Like so many others, I'd gladly trade some of my money to get back some of the time I spent chasing the money.  The good years.  The healthy years.  The by-gone years.  Huh?  Talk about post-purchase dissonance.

Fishing has been an important part of my life, and an important occupier of my time.  So I like the fishing metaphors.  Like, if you spent the whole day fishing but didn't catch any fish, was it time well spent?  Did you enjoy it?  You know, a bad day of fishing is better than a good day of work.  But you know, the best days of fishing were the ones when you caught a lot of fish, and the super special ones when you caught  a monster!  

It makes me tired to think about how hard I used to work to get to some of the best fishing spots.  Hiking in the mountains for days with a 50 pound backpack.  Crawling through brush on my hands and knees.  Hauling boats and gear to hard-to-reach water.  Shoot, I can't even lift the 50 pound pack anymore without getting a hernia.  I ain't crawling through brush to get fish! And I ain't sitting squished all day in a tiny boat smaller than my bathtub. We can just buy some fish at Alioto's or Stagnaro Brothers or Save Mart or Long John Silver's, or wherever we can get fish without hauling or crawling or squishing.

I am reminded of a time, about 15 years ago, when I was fishing at Huntington Lake with my late father-in-law.  He was about 75 years old, then, but not in good health.  When the pole I set up for him started bouncing with a Rainbow he got up from his lawn chair to go reel it in, and I stood with him because he wasn't too stable on his feet then, and the ground sloped pretty steeply toward the lake.  When he reeled the fish up to the edge of the shore he started to take a step forward to go get the fish, and would have fallen if I hadn't grabbed his belt loop and pulled him back.  

So this is what I see: I am headed inexorably down this slippery slope, from 50 pound packs to 50 extra pounds; from crawling through brush in the wilderness to limping around the house wishin' I was fishin'; from sitting in small boats hard-hauled in to exotic waters to sitting in lawn chairs by the road around the lake with the rest of the ho-hum crowd too lazy or unable to work for it; from let's go catch a big one to lets go get some Long John Silver's fish and chips from their drive-through.

Sixty some years gone by and, for sure I am not now what I used to be.  Of course, I never was, and probably never will be.  I finally see clearly that I am headed down the slippery slope of decline into the abyss, and today I have decided to  answer one of the age-old questions that occupy the minds of philosophers:  Why Are We Here?  Or, more personally, why am I here?

Aw hell!  Just rushed into the kitchen to get something, then stood there for a minute trying to remember what, couldn't remember, and came back.  This figuring and philosophizing is too much for me now.  I think I'll just go throw my lawn chair in the back of the truck and head out to the fishing hole.   You know, the one by the road.