“Despite all odds, Bill Killeen will become eighty-five years of age on November 2, 2025. This is as stunning an event as sleet falling on Key West or North Korea landing on the Moon. Neither snow nor rain nor gloom of county jails could stay this courier from the swift completion of his appointed rounds. And he’s got miles to go before he sleeps.”--- Either Herodotus or Robert Frost
When we were kids, 85 was a big number. Our grandparents seemed pretty old to us and they were merely in their fifties. Nobody had great-grandparents, and Dan, Dan, the Dirty Old Man, a besotted relic who lived at the end of the street was barely seventy. Slow-moving Monsignor Daly, ever-festooned in religious paraphernalia and looking a lot like God, was the oldest person we knew. Nobody had any idea how old he was but 75 would have been startling, even though he looked older than dirt as he wobbled through the incensed aisles at Midnight Mass.
Babe Ruth, a very old baseball player, retired at 40. Dwight Eisenhower, an ancient president, was elected at age 63. The average life expectancy for men in 1960 was a whopping 66 years. My maternal Grandfather died in his fifties and my Father at 63. If Vegas was posting odds back then, I would have been 200-1 to hit 80. Nancy Kay would say I was lucky, but Tina might ask what’s luck got to do with it?
It’s not as though The Reaper didn’t have his chances. At 10, I fell out of the tallest tree on Garfield Street, but landed on top of a telephone pole. At 40, a deranged lunatic held a shotgun on me and accused me of being the leader of his invisible tormentors. At 45, I rolled my T-top Toronado into a ditch in Micanopy. At 65, I had a heart attack that sent my ejection fraction spiraling down to 25. And as a cherry on the cake, last November I had a 50 mph head-on collision with a bumpkin in Marion County, four miles from my house. Run, run, as fast as you can, you can’t catch me, I’m the gingerbread man.
I have had dangerous girlfriends like Claudine Laabs and Patti Wheeler, both at the same time. I have ridden in Jack Gordon’s car on a Los Angeles Freeway. I have climbed Half Dome, navigated the Zion Narrows, escaped from the Ape Caves, worn my Red Sox cap at a game in Yankee Stadium. I have consorted with drug dealers, bar fighters and Janis Joplin. I have driven a car with no brakes from Tallahassee to Gainesville. They say if the first one don’t getcha then the second one will, but I’m on number 15 and holding. How many years must a mountain exist before it is washed to the sea? The answer, my friends, is blowin’ in the wind, the answer is blowin’ in the wind. But surely more than 85, right?
Being 85
When you’re 85, you don’t take much for granted, but there’s no point in being maudlin. Several years ago, I found myself looking around on our western vacations, soaking in the wonders of a Yosemite or a Yellowstone or a Golden Gate Bridge and telling myself to enjoy it, it would be the last time I’d visit. Then, a few years later, I’d be back again, feeling silly. I didn’t tell myself anything the second time.
When you’re 85, you can’t do some things you think you can do. I used to be able to hop a paddock fence pretty easily. Just get a bit of a running start, grab the top board with both hands and hop over. I tried to do that awhile back and my arms didn’t have the strength to get my legs halfway up the fence. I was appalled. I’d been diligently doing my strength training three days a week without fail, what happened? 85 happened, that’s what. Apparently, most people who are not damn fools know that.
When you’re 85, you get a lot of advice, some of it from people who haven’t made it to 50. Everybody wants to tell you why you shouldn’t do something. Stay off the roof. Avoid ladders. Don’t sit all the way up in Row 54 at Gator football games. Stay away from young women, they’ll give you a heart attack. Siobhan told me again last week what a long walk it is from the stadium to my post-game pickup spot at Paesano’s, which is a breeze, really. To humor her, I got a pedicab ride back to the car. You wouldn’t believe how fast those pedicab drivers can go. A fifteen-minute walk turns into a two-minute shuffle. It’s almost worth the $20 to beat the traffic.
When you’re 85, you think you’ll be too rumpled to attract female attention. It’s not true because there are also older women in the world, and they have needs. It doesn’t even matter if you’re married. A few years ago, I told an aggressive lady at the gym my status and she just said, “That’s alright, honey, it’s every woman for herself.” I go to Williston every day to drop off Siobhan’s shipments and pick up a newspaper at Walgreen’s. At least once a week, the same fortyish woman is in there and comes over to talk. She’s not bad, either. The other day, she told me to give her a call anytime I wanted to go to the beach. I gave her Will Thacker’s number.
When you’re 85, people think you’re a sexual benchwarmer, or worse yet, cut from the team. I was visiting with an eightyish friend the other day and he recalled some crazy sexual hijinks he and his wife participated in years ago, then said, “Of course, we don’t do that anymore?” As if he got a notice in the mail sex was outlawed after 70. I just looked at the ceiling and shuffled my feet. I figured if I put up an argument, he might call the Sex Police and turn me in.
The Great Escape
When you sit down for a game of blackjack with the Grim Reaper, you’d better have an ace up your sleeve. Everyone from the Chinese Emperor Qin Shi Huang to Nicolas Flamel to Harry Houdini to Woody Allen has searched for an elixir of life, a philosopher’s stone, a magic trick to beat the Reaper. Alas, he’s still undefeated and untied unless you buy into the bounce-back of Jesus, who, you’ll have to admit, had friends in very high places. At least we know now what doesn’t work. Or do we? Who’s to say Qin’s notion of an island with herbs that granted eternal life was a fallacy? Maybe his boys just couldn’t find the right island. Flamel’s philosopher’s stone was supposedly capable of turning base metals into gold, as well as granting immortality. Could be that in his haste to construct the stone, Nicky got careless and left out the nutmeg.
The real disappointment was Houdini, the universally famous magician and escape artist who could do anything. Harry promised his wife, Beth, that if he died first he would send her a coded message from the hereafter as proof of his continued existence on another plane. He gave Beth the phrase “Rosabelle Believe,” an acronym for a stage code they used. Houdini died in 1926 and Beth held a seance every year on his birthday for the next ten years with no luck. In 1936, she declared the contract broken. “Ten years is long enough to wait for any man,” she sighed.
Living forever, or even to a ripe old age requires the consent of the subject, of course. At 85, the spirit may be willing, but the flesh is weak, and life as an infirm nursing home resident is no bed of roses. Strange things sometimes happen, however, on the way to the mortuary. One of our good friends called a few years back to lament his neurological disease, hinting that it might be time to push the ejection button. He was living alone and could barely take care of himself, there was little hope in sight and he was having a hard time finding a reason to hang around. But a short time later, an associate steered him to a clinic where new treatments for neurological problems were being attempted. Over a two year period, he improved to such a degree that he felt safe driving again and was able to travel. In the process, he reconnected with an old girlfriend and they decided to join forces to battle the universe. As Dave Barry used to say, we are not making this stuff up, it actually happened. Life is a quirky taskmaster. Just when you’re willing to give up on it, a magic carpet arrives at your door and whisks you off to Neverland. Other times it takes you to Oakland.
The Old Philosopher Rambles
If I could give you any advice, it might be to grow up a Red Sox fan. You’ll learn early that life dishes out a good share of cruelty and disappointment, but if you hang in there and have faith, eventually you’ll win the World Series.
Some people will tell you that money is not important, which is a big fat lie. If all the guys in your rock band are collecting Social Security and your wife had to get a second job at the carwash, it might be time for a career change. Nobody should be a slave to the almighty dollar, but after age 60 noone but Smokey the Bear should be living in a tent.
You should travel as much as you can, especially if you are young and have few responsibilities. The American West is a goldmine of opportunity, even if you’re not as mobile as you used to be. While it’s typical to pick out a single destination and spend a week or more there, we’ve found that it’s more rewarding to string several stops together, as in the California coast from San Diego to Sausalito, with a side trip to Yosemite, or perhaps an eye-popping drive north and south of the Arizona-Utah state line.
Do not be put off if the rental-car man tells you he has no cars to pick up in Seattle and leave in Portland, he does. You might have to tell a gentle fib and promise to bring it back to SeaTac, but there will be no sad repercussions when you don’t. The bill will be the same and the folks in Portland will be thrilled to get an unexpected vehicle. Like George Washington, we believe in telling the truth at all times, but you don’t have to be fanatical about it when you’re dealing with an intractable adversary. By the way, it’s always cheaper to rent a car from a non-airport site. Use the airport if you’re leasing for a day or two, but rent off-campus if it’s for several days. We’re talking $300-$400 difference over a couple of weeks.
Finally, don’t be too quick to marry or have kids. Save some money, see the world, expose yourself to the vast choices that are out there. There is no single formula for everyone. A recent poll told a surprising story—two-thirds of those questioned said that despite their love for the children they now have, they would not have kids if they had it to do over. Among other regrets, they felt their lives had been significantly limited. Obviously, many people are thrilled to have children, but nobody should consider it an obligation. Before you sign up with a partner, make sure that person totally agrees with you on whether or not you’ll have kids.
And about that partner---don’t be in too much of a hurry to find one. Sometimes, the early bird does get the worm, and that’s not what anybody is looking for. It’s tough enough to live with an ideal partner, let alone be part of a mismatched pair, so take your time. Try to find an equal, not someone you can push around. And remember, if you really love someone, your objective should be to enhance that person’s life, not just your own.
For you younger people out there, for God’s sake get a grip when an early relationship falls on the rocks. Your life isn’t over when Sally Mae takes up with the blacksmith or decides she can’t stand the way you eat. Before you jump off the Sunshine Skyway Bridge, try this: move far away for a month, at least. You won’t see Sally any more and your new surroundings will be interesting and exciting. Sooner rather than later, you’ll run across Rhonda, a woman famous for rendering aid, and all will be well again. You’re welcome.
It’s tough to be 85. There are aches and pains in places you didn’t know existed, the other drivers get worse every day and all your friends are dive-bombing into oblivion. But hey, it’s November---the air is fresh and cool, you have a great wife and you don’t live in Memphis. Maybe you’ll go to see Gilbert Shelton in Paris next summer or cruise along the Inside Passage or write the best Flying Pie ever. Maybe you’ll go to one more wedding instead of a steady diet of funerals.
If we’re lucky, we get to keep our memories. Of childhood on Garfield Street, of hitting our first home run, first-kissing Mary Ellen Jamison and hitchhiking with Jackie Fournier to a Red Sox game at age eleven. Of riding a train across the country from Boston to Stillwater, of delicious adolescent days in Austin, of courting Marilyn Todd, of sleeping in a vacant room at Rice Institute, of hearing Janis Joplin sing for the first time. Of living through the never-to-be-forgotten hippie years, when art and music and fashion and new ideas were exploding all over the place. Of Pamme Brewer and Claudine Laabs and Harolyn Locklair and Betsy Harper. Of Dick North and Gerald Jones and Newt Simmons and Rick Nihlen, of Bob Sturm and Danny Levine and endless others. Of The Last Tango, with all of its emotion, excitement, sound and fury.
85 is not just a number, it’s a reward, an accomplishment and more than a grand finale. If you look at it like I do, it’s just another step on the way to 90. Rock on! See you at the party!
That’s all, folks….
