Matt Liere: The report card
I’d never given my inevitable demise much thought before, choosing to ponder such an absurd possibility only on fleeting occasions. I understood the biology behind the reality, but blissful ignorance allowed me to navigate life happily unburdened, effectively tipping the hourglass on its side, freezing the passing sands of time.
Procrastination was easy; there would always be time to do what I wanted to do. I would have continued to cling to this improbable certainty for some time had I not seen my father return from an early morning turkey hunt, just behind the house.
From my living room, I stood behind the picture windows, drinking black coffee, and watched him stumble up the hill, tripping over uneven ground, swerving across the well-worn game trail with a laborious gait. He stopped for a minute to catch his breath, swapping the weight of the 20-gauge Ithaca to his free hand, before continuing his climb. “Poor guy,” I thought, watching him close the last 50 yards before disappearing behind the tree line separating his house from mine. “Sucks to get old, I guess,” I snickered aloud, turning to refill my cup.
Laughing at my own unintentional outburst, I tripped over my slippers, passed gas involuntarily, and fell to the floor, breaking my cup and bruising an elbow. “Oh, no!” I thought, awakened suddenly. “I better do something with my life.”
To be fair, Dad’s present condition is a compilation of maladies, with neuropathy in his lower legs being the most obtrusive. He tells me his feet and legs are numb below the knee, feeling as if encased in blocks of ice. Walking is extremely difficult with such limited sensation, lending the appearance of a drunken stroll down Bourbon Street. Extended walking, or merely sitting, could also cause a burning sensation, similar to thawing extremities from a wet, winter duck hunt or after-ice fishing trip. It could be dangerous, too. If he were to step on a piece of broken glass or a rusty nail, he would barely sense it until the infection set in and pain touched the deeper, working nerve endings.
Like I said before – poor guy.
Sitting there on the hardwood floor, pondering my own 55 years of life, I found myself in awe of that poor guy. Dad’s 80-year accumulation of conditions, I realized, was a treasure – a living report card of life lived and adventures had. He attributes his partial deafness to delinquent antics with his best friend Eddie, at age 11. Having acquired a brick of firecrackers from disreputable sources, they elected to set off all 500 at once, hidden from authoritative eyes, in a tin shack with no ear protection. He hunted ducks and geese with Eddie for many years after that, too, with nothing but toilet paper stuffed into both ears to block the noise. Eddie died decades ago, but Dad cherished the memories, relaying the details to younger generations as some of the dumbest and best times of his life.
Both Achilles tendons were severed in consecutive years during his mid-30s playing pickup basketball with friends during his formal teaching career. The surgeries that followed left stiff, pink scars the length of both calves. A caged spine, hip surgery and a knee replacement could be attributed to advanced aging, but perhaps years chasing Palouse pheasants, Hells Canyon chukars, Wyoming antelope and African ducks played some part. An Arctic float plane crash, an overturned whitewater canoeing misadventure, an infected razor clam cut – the list is painful; calamitous; enviable.
Only 25 years separate me from my father. But he’s still going, albeit much slower. With only half as many scars, my report card is a C-, at best. I have a lot of catching up to do.