This Ole House
Most of you are too young to remember, but This Ole House was a pop song written and published in 1954 by Stuart Hamblen and sung by Rosemary Clooney. The lyric picks up a standard Gospel theme of the “old house”---the mortal body---being left behind when the soul leaves for greener pastures.
This ole house once knew my children, this ole house once knew my wife,
This ole house was home and comfort as we fought the storms of life,
This ole house once rang with laughter, this ole house heard many shouts,
Now he trembles in the darkness when the lightnin’ walks about.
Ain’t gonna need this house no longer, ain’t gonna need this house no more,
Ain’t got time to fix the shingles, ain’t got time to fix the floor,
Ain’t got time to oil the hinges nor to mend the window-pane;
Ain’t gonna need this house no longer, I'm gettin’ ready to meet the saints.
This ole house is a-gettin' shaky, this ole house is a-gettin' old,
This ole house lets in the rain, this ole house lets in the cold,
On my knees I’m gettin’ chilly but I feel no fear or pain
‘Cause I see an angel peekin’ through a broken window-pane.
The Ghosts of Summer
There must be some mistake. It seems like just yesterday….maybe a few years….a couple of decades, tops….that I was circling my Garfield Street neighborhood banging the sunrise gong, getting the other kids up and out on the ballfield. I can see them now….livewire Jackie Mercier pounding a fist in his glove exactly fifty times before use; Joey Posluszny explaining to his little brother Fuzzy why he couldn’t come along (mainly because he was a colossal pain in the ass); Jackie Fournier ranting about yesterday’s fitful Red Sox game and excoriating the management, a tradition he continues to this day; and little Joe Pappalardo, a born shortstop, reminding everyone for the 468th time that Heisman Trophy winner Joe Bellino was his cousin.
When we got to the Boston & Maine Railroad field, the others were waiting; Mickey Murphy, the only black kid in South Lawrence, an adoptee of an Irish family. Mickey couldn’t hit a beach ball with a boat paddle but was faster than Jesus on the basepaths; Paul Carroll, munching on his second candy bar of the day at 8 a.m. with a few more in his pockets should hunger pangs arise; comic relief in the form of smiling Paul Brooks, a permanent right fielder who fell down a lot, to the delight of an appreciative audience. There were others, of course, but this was the hard core which showed up in rain or snow or dark of night to perform the swift completion of their appointed rounds.
At the end of the baseball proceedings, we would adjourn to Leo Gervais’ variety store on Boxford street to attack the tonic box. For non-New Englanders, that’s the place the cold sodas were kept---a large red metal box with Coca-Cola scripted in white on the sides. It opened from the top via handles, revealing a glorious, icy, unrivaled sight. The Knights of the Round Table had their Holy Grail, Indiana Jones had his Lost Ark and we had our tonic box. This shrine was filled with every color and flavor of carbonated sugarbomb a young ballplayer could hope for. This was an era where Nehi was in ascendance in 47 states with its roster of sordid delights, including sodas orange, raspberry, peach, watermelon and blue cream, just for starters. If you were still standing after this assault on your senses, Leo also had a counterful of candies, including the now politically incorrect nigger babies. Ironically, they were Mickey Murphy’s favorites.
It was understood, of course, that all of us would be back the next morning, same time, same station, short of an earthquake or worse---someone’s mother hauling him down to Essex Street to buy him new clothes. This almost never happened, of course, since the hefty price to a parent was at least a week of morose sulking on the part of her aggrieved offspring. Some things are simply too important to leave to the uninformed predilections of mothers, and the overarching sacrament of baseball was at the top of that list.
An old man returns now to the Eden of his youth. The B&M ballfield is in disarray, an impudent warehouse boldly intruding into Paul Brooks' sanctuary in right field, but the fading, grey outfield wall is still there. Ancient eyes can barely make out the peeling black numbers at the top of the wall, painted there one Spring day by inspired children to indicate the distances from home plate. A hint of a smile creases his face as he remembers bouncing a long home run off the top of the roof in a scoreless game against the despicable rivals from the other side of Winthrop Avenue. He had rounded the bases, wondering if this was how Ted Williams felt when he smoked one out of Fenway. On the last leg of his jaunt, he passed the erudite John Kelly, third baseman nonpareil. "Hey, Killeen!" he taunted, "no big deal! Even a blind pig finds a truffle every once in a while." Lost in the past, the old man chuckled. "God, how I loved the great John Kelly."
Twilight
Waking up these days is an accomplishment in itself. After a quick assessment to insure that all body parts are in more or less working condition, we traipse outside to feed the critters, open the gate and douse our stomachs with hot tea to encourage them to behave for the next 24 hours. We are not moving at warp speed these days, but we manage.
There is no need to bang the sunrise gong, all the ex-kids from the neighborhood are scattered to the four corners of the Earth…at least those who have so far avoided taking a trip on that ol’ Gospel Ship. Instead, we take to Facebook to rouse our current playmates, the morning coffee klatch, as it were, widely dispersed about the country but all still living in our virtual nabe. Carolyn Holmes is always up early, sailing the waters of the Gulf Coast looking for miscreants to accost; Lynn Maxwell is whipping up trouble in North Carolina; Barbara Barrick is driving through the streets of Indianapolis, armed to the teeth; Sherry Snyder is heaving missiles at her Donald Trump dart board; and neighbor Gary Borse, as he does every day, is keeping the lawn trimmed at his UFO heliport.
The gym is closed, so it’s every man for himself on the fitness front. After a light breakfast, Siobhan and I march out to NW 112th Avenue and walk a brisk mile at speeds nearing 4 mph, no jogging allowed. The neighborhood dogs are glad to see us, and we're glad to see their fences are intact. The semi-professional mowers are at it on their Snappers again, some of them zipping over the same patch of grass for the third time in seven days. Yesterday, one overcut section of young blades posted a sign screaming “Enough!”
Our schedules are littered with doctor’s visits, of course, same as all of our pals. Sometimes we have urgent issues to attend to, other times it’s just to make sure the head bone is still connected to the neck bone, etc. Since the rise of Covid, we’ve tried to make all our appointments---doctors, dentists, massage therapists, barbers---for the first slot of the day, before heinous virus carriers come stumbling in coughing their evil droplets all over the dental tools. The Coronavirus stats for geezers are downright terrifying, especially for those who have compromising health conditions, and who doesn’t? We open waiting-room doors and immediately head for the furthest chair from civilization. Remember when life was “just a dream, sweetheart—Sh-boom, and hopin’ we'll meet again?” Now, it’s a daily battle to maintain a decent tooth population, avoid another shoulder replacement, keep the bowels from rioting. We’re not complaining, mind you. We’re just glad to be here. And how bad can it be when we’ve still got Sears, our favorite elder-bars, jam-packed pro football games and our rock-‘n’-roll cover bands. Say what?
“Don’t look back. Something might be gaining on you.”---Satchel Paige
These days it’s the Grim Reaper, but he’s slow and Satch’s good advice should be considered. The cloak and scythe weigh the fellow down but he’s not worried, he read The Tortoise and the Hare just like you did. Still, a couple of facts should be recognized: housebreakers will always prefer the home without the gate and bears will be satisfied to gobble the slowest guy at the picnic. Low-hanging fruit is hard to resist and The Reaper is as lazy as the next guy. Plan well and you’ll live longer than the competition.
Many thoughts assault your everyday 80-year-old. First, he’s lived past the average lifespan of a U.S. male. Second, he doesn’t know a passel of 90-year-olds. Third, he’s sadly certain he’ll never ride through Paris in a sports car while the wind blows through his hair. Oh sure, there’s still time to get to France, but the hair is MIA.
We heard a line once that resonates with oldsters. Two of the principals on the television program Thirtysomething were commiserating over now being in their mid-thirties. One of them said to the other, “When I walk across campus now, the girls just don’t look at me the same way” (as they did when he was in his twenties). A bittersweet but pithy moment. When you walk through campus at 80, however, you’re just happy they don’t cross over to the other side of the street.
“I’m alright through the day, but the day fades away, and the long, lonely night takes its place.”---Marty Robbins
When I was seventy and my long-time gymmate Robin Martinez was ten years older, she collared me one day and said “Bill, you don’t want to be 80. Every day, I wake up and something else is wrong with me. One day it’s my neck, the next day my back or my knee or the arthritis in my fingers. It’s a mess.” The only thing Robin was wrong about is that falling into this morass didn’t necessarily take til age 80. I’ve now chalked up one heart attack, a prostatectomy for prostate cancer and a bundle-branch issue which led to a pacemaker implantation. I already had a moderate form of asthma. Many of my friends have been through worse, which is why your average 80-year-old often lacks a sunny disposition. At least I still have all my original parts, if you’ll excuse those trips to the dentist.
The activities of daily life are a balm to the serious concerns of octogenarians. We whimsically wheel our carts through the supermarkets, careen through the yard on our riding mowers, pose for nude pictures for our blogs and temporarily put death and destruction out of our minds. But the night invariably comes and brings malevolent worries. I wonder how long I’ve got? What decision should I make about my (insert any number of health issues here). I feel a little odd---should I go to the emergency room or just ride it out? What should I do with the time I have left?
Tomorrow is another day. We rise, stretch (carefully), put on the coffee and don our battle ornaments. After breakfast, full of gusto, we march outside to seize the day. Our neighbor, Bernie, is gassing up his Toro for more abuse to his grass. “Whatcha gonna do today, Bill” he asks, expecting the usual bland reply. This morning I told him, “I’m driving straight through to goddam Colorado!” He almost fell off his mower. I left in a cloud of dust, chuckling. But tomorrow, I just might do it.
Deep in December it's nice to remember the fire of September that made us mellow. El Gallo said that.
That’s all, folks….
bill.killeen094@gmail.com
Aftermath: we hope you actually READ today’s Flying Pie, it’s tough to drag people away from the pictures of stellar photographer Kimber Greenwood, the queen of Water Bear Photography. Kimber has set up shop just outside Newberry and she’s busy as a little bee, so call her ahead of time if you want to talk. KG calls herself an adventure photographer, which covers everything from shooting your stage coach or train robbery to recording your trip to the Great Barrier Reef. And as you can tell from today's photos, she’s not timid. When you call, remember to tell her The 80-Year-Old Man sent you. There's only one.
Editor's Note: This is the first of 5 pulse-pounding episodes. Next week, Bill escapes the rules and regs of home when he railroads across the country to try his hand at college. Originally, we intended to publish just two of these birthday columns. Obviously, it got a bit out of hand.
