Alan Liere: Becoming a codger is more about the trails and creeks chosen to get there
My friend, Samuel Boot, is a codger – a very fine codger indeed.
At 72 years of age, he has earned the status and is proud of the designation because not everyone can be a codger. My brother-in-law, Thayer the Abnormal, for example, is also 72. But Thayer’s wife says he is a fuddy-duddy, his employees call him a geezer, and his clients say he is a crank. Thayer keeps a dog – a motor home poodle named Peaches. That is part of his problem. There’s nothing wrong with companion dogs, but codgers keep only bird dogs or hounds – dogs that earn their keep in the field.
“Codger” is an acquired designation, a term of affection reserved for a different type of man. Codgerdom calls forth visions of deep laugh lines, a friendly squint, well-tanned cheeks, and a strong chin, probably with white stubble. It smells of cottonwood trees, old wooden duck prams, fish attractant and Hoppes #9. It suggests independence, certainty, faith, and just a hint of crustiness.
A codger is allowed to express opinions with no regard for political correctness. He can dress comfortably in faded denim and flannel shirts, spend an hour with the newspaper in a favorite leather chair, roll on the floor with a new litter of pups and flirt with pretty girls with no motivation other than the vague memory that it used to be important to him. A codger can eat meatloaf for breakfast if he wants, or even that last piece of rhubarb pie and a big scoop of ice cream.
Becoming a codger is not the same as simply getting old.
To get there, a man has spent many mornings on his favorite lake listening to the world wake up, watching a red and white bobber as intently as he has watched the bobbing red, white and blue head of a spring gobbler sneaking toward his turkey decoy. He has constructed rustic goose blinds on scabrock sloughs and followed narrow deer trails through thickets of wild sumac searching for quail and chukars. All of these have had an impact on his perception of the world.
Codgerdom is attained during the journey rather than purchased at the end of the trip. It is an accumulation of wild things seen, smelled and heard, and even the nagging physical reminders that life won’t last forever.
Husband. Dad. Grandpa. Codger. I recently slipped quite comfortably into codgerdom. I like it; I’ve been laying the foundation for many years. My 71st birthday will be here soon, and though I can’t say I’ve always wanted to be a 71-year-old, there is a lot of satisfaction in the way I arrived.