In the audience of one newspaper that
carries my weekly column lurks a letter-to-the-editor
writer who suffers from acute apoplexy whenever he reads
my prose. He rambles on with abandon and apparently the
editor allows him to do so (although, quite honestly, I
have never had the misfortune to read even one of his
unedited diatribes.) I suppose the adage about when
someone is making a fool of himself; the best recourse
is to simply let him go on and prove it beyond all doubt
is appropriate in this case. So my hat is off to the
editor in this regard for running his letters in what
appears to be their complete fulmination.
But the one thing that
I find slightly irritating in all this is that this guy
simply refuses to show respect for my age. He always
manages to insert some pejorative having to do with
immaturity. In his last published letter, he referred to
me as a “cub reporter.”
I can’t help it if my
head and shoulders makes me appear younger than I really
am or if my writing style betrays a mindset decades
before the onset of “geezerdom,” which apparently this
old curmudgeon suffers from.
But I’m
51—I’ve had the AARP membership card to prove it for
over a year now—and if that’s not sufficient evidence, I
can produce color photos of the inside of my large
intestine from a recent colonoscopy that everyone
serious about the early detection of cancer should have
when he turns 50. (This is actually more convincing
evidence than the AARP card. Who in his right mind would
consent to a colonoscopy a day earlier than absolutely
necessary?)
But there are other
evidences that could be cited as proof of my claim that
I’ve been at this craft of newspaper writing in
different forms for over 20 years now.
I had my first root
canal five years ago. Now there’s a ceremony, complete
with blood, sweat and tears, designed to initiate anyone
into manhood.
My oldest son passed
his road test in March and has been successfully
negotiating the highways of New Jersey ever since.
That’s cause for several sets of wrinkles and a few gray
hairs; nevertheless, the only gray I have in my head is
so sparse, you really have to look close to see it. The
really gray ones would appear on my face in a beard and
moustache if I let them. But vanity dictates a daily
close shave before they have a chance to betray I left
my 30s long ago.
I have four kids—two of
them are teenagers and the other two are toddlers; one
still in diapers. Talk about stress—there’s rarely a
quiet moment in our home right now. It seems like we
have been changing diapers for the past 18 years.
But there is an event
that is about to take place in our family this August
that undoubtedly signals my departure from youth and the
casting aside of all possible characterization of
immaturity. It will sound the death knell to any notion
that I could possibly be a “cub reporter.”
It is the
beginning—albeit the very beginning—of the empty nest
syndrome: My oldest son—yeah, the one who passed his
road test—is leaving for college.
Say it’s
not so! Where did the time go!
It seems
like only yesterday he was born; that my parents—now
both departed from this world—held him in their arms at
the hospital.
Was it
just last week that we collected insects for his science
project or was that in preparation for his entry into
junior high? Was it mere months ago that I heard him
exclaim, “You’re the best dad in the whole world!” upon
seeing a Nintendo in among the Christmas gifts under the
tree or more than a decade? And when was it that he put
39-cents into an envelope—his entire life-savings at the
time—to give to his mom to show his appreciation to her
for making Rice Krispy treats?
Sometimes
I lie awake at night wondering where the time went,
waxing philosophical about life. It’s like a blur—or
more exactly, a vapor to use the vernacular of the
Bible, “that appears for a little while and then
vanishes away.”
Bear with
me. August will be a rough month for this sentimental
dad. And if you must drop me an e-mail or write a letter
to the editor, be nice, and show some respect for my
age.
n
