#81: You're Only As Gold As You Think You Ore (Aging)

So, Add Up Your Experience,
Keep A Log Of Where And Whence,
Count Your Wrinkles And Your Dents,
And Tabulate Your Age . . .
But That Won't Save You From Advents
Of Testing All The Consequence
That Keeps You Riding On The Fence,
And Turning A New Page . . .
As If Your Memories And Their Hints
Of How To Tackle Life's Events
Will Always Offer Winner's Glints
At Any Future Stage.

No sooner had we left the pad
than tons of life debris
began to slap the windshield, and . . .
so thick we couldn't see.

Crutches, walkers, adjustable beds . . .
bottles of colored pills,
came rolling toward us, all stacked up
on chairs with spokes and wheels.

And then, we thought that we could sense
the Buggy out of juice.
The hum began to quiet, and
the door was shaking loose.

And as we gasped for dearest life,
the Buggy finally stalled.
We looked around and saw a scene
that left us both appalled.

I turned to Jo and said, "You know . . .
this place could make us ill.
It makes me feel like we might need
a shot or painful pill."

The Buggy door then wobbled some,
and fell right off its hinge.
We stood and looked around at sights
that made us wince and cringe.

Gnarly trees, with limbs hung low,
and lots of wrinkled beasts,
talked among themselves as though
we mattered not the least.

In seconds, it was clear to us,
that everything was old.
So what medicinal message might
a State like this one hold?

And about that time, we noticed more
the spirit of these troops,
as wrinkled as they might have been,
they seemed to jump through hoops.

They danced and joked, and laughed and sang,
and seemingly without
all the fear and angst we hear
old age is all about.

We overheard three wolves that joked . . .
two were 90 years . . .
the third just laughed, as 93,
at his much younger peers.

And a lion, looking friendly through
his very well-groomed mane,
grinned at us and roared, "Hello,"
and balanced on his cane.

"Well, you must be ol' Hiram's pals,"
he caught us both off guard,
by talking with the diction of
a student from Harv-Yard.

He strolled right up in front of us,
on weakened, clawless feet.
"Who's Hiram?" Jo asked, trembling at
the fact he still had teeth.

"Hiram!" the lion laughed out loud . . .
a roar that shook the ground,
"He's the Voice that's helping you . . .
and guiding you around.

He's best of all the Guides who teach
the tour through Level 2.
I had a job like his until
my retirement came through.

I guess it was a month ago
that he dropped by to say
some of us might see you boys
while on your trip foray.

You know, it's not my business, but
ol' Hiram knows I'm apt
to give you voyagers helping hands
before your brains get zapped.

Besides, it keeps me thinking, and . . ."
he paused and did a hop,
"I miss the game and challenge, and
don't think I've lost my chop . . .

It keeps me thinking," he went on,
"and even more than that,
it's lots more fun to hold one's towels
while tossing in one's hat.

You know, the weirdest thing I've seen
about one's getting on . . .
in life, that is, and this applies
to all men that I've known . . .

is that you never actually feel
as if your near an end,
until you can't perform those things
on which some ends depend.

That is, until you cannot walk,
you often try to run.
Until it's clear you've finally lost,
you're still convinced you've won.

It takes some major stumbles at
the business game you play,
before you recognize that you
already had your day.

Young girls may call you dirty and old,
because you act and think
you'll get the chance to dance with them,
and so you give a wink.

You'd have to stare at mirrors 'til
you'd finally recognize
you're looking somewhat older than
all their other guys.

Young bucks will say you've moved beyond
the hill and battlefield
but only 'cause they notice that
you ain't about to yield.

You're like a stove that's staying hot
because you still got heat,
and not because you still know how
to fix what's good to eat.

You're like a car that's waiting on
some oily tune-up floor,
and revving out of habit, though
you can't drive out the door.

You're like an older suitcase that
still has its locks and grips,
and doesn't know that it takes more
to make those modern trips.

And all this self-hypnosis helps
to keep you at a pace
that makes you think you're still dressed out,
and seeded in the race.

Aging has a way, you know,
of making futures look
like every step you've planned to take
is still there to be took.

And that's about the story of
this wrinkled up ol' State . . .
that aging ain't a moment's more
than living slightly late.

The balance usually tends to be
something like a dream . . .
partly who you think you were,
and partly what you seem.

That is, you measure out your life,
but you don't get to feel
like any moment isn't more
than any other, real."

"Hold it," Jo-Mima just yelled out,
no effort spent to try
to interject with some respect
of wave, or wink of eye.

"All I've heard is riddles, now . . .
and damn, they don't make sense!
If aging isn't negative, well,
then why all this pretense?

It seems to me that when we grow
too old to do our part,
the world just kicks us to the side
just like it has no heart.

And I can tell when I meet up
with oldsters that are grown . . .
hell, they've got some talents that
this world ain't ever known!"

The rumbling sound that gripped us then,
familiar as can be,
put smiling looks on all the mugs
of all our company.

The lion started laughing at
the volume of the sound.
Other creatures turned and smiled,
and never looked around.

"Well, my friends, have you had fun
leading them astray?"
"Now, why would we do that to you?"
The lion seemed to play.

Well, it turns out, that Jo and I
were treated to more tales.
I guess not every voyager meets
retired Guides themselves.

The Voice, and all the creature there,
took a turn to dredge
up stories of how aging won't
rob you of your edge.

By the time we heard the Buggy's hum,
I think its revving had
awaken more than resting old . . .
like maybe all the dead.

We left there with a lesson that
is pretty hard to teach . . .
that age is not the thing that puts
objectives out of reach . . .

that age is like the color of
your hair, or size of nose,
it's simply something you must count
into the course you chose.

And that means that there's irony,
and even riddled days,
when you can try to do some things
without the means and ways.

Mostly, goals changed not at all,
though many seemed more tame . . .
less physical than days when youth
was added to the game.

So Jo and I just took our seats . . .
the Buggy seemed renewed.
We lifted off, while waving back
at all those busy dudes.