I AM NOW AN OCTAGENARIAN

But I may still go to the Methodist Church on occasion!
This title came to me because I have known some folks that think “octagenarian” has something to do with religion. It doesn’t, unless you include the fact that most of us read the Bible more often than we once did, but only because we are studying for our finals.

The day has come…. and gone. On December 14, 2009, at 6:00 AM, I reached a milestone in my life, although at the present moment it seems more like a millstone.

I am now eighty years old.

Please don’t tell me that it is “eighty years young”. In the early mornings after my three mile walk (with a little running thrown in), I feel young for a short time. Then I have a cup of coffee with my friends at the Table of Truth and Justice in Chattahoochee, or I check my E-mail, or I plan my calendar for the week, and I feel most, if not all, of those eighty years.

According to my mother I was born at 6:00 AM on December 14, 1929. I grew up thinking that the song “Dixie” was about me, since it goes: “In Dixie’s land where I was born in, early on one frosty morning”, and if mid December is not usually frosty and if any time before 7:00 AM is not early, then I have been living a lie. I choose to believe my mother, since she, unlike my father, never sold cars, and thus had a solid reputation. She also was not a lawyer, and that placed her even higher on the veracity scale.

I have learned that I do not need to read the entire obituary column in the paper. I just read down through the “H”s, and if my name is not there, I should have a pretty good day. By the way, does it bother anyone else that folks around here die alphabetically?

I am sometimes amused by the way these notices are written. Some of the deceased I knew pretty well, and I wonder if the typesetter got the wrong name at the top. I don’t go to many funeral services any more, but I have been to a few that, after listening to the preacher praise the deceased, I wanted to go up and open the casket and see if we were burying the right person.

Several months ago I was in Pensacola with some old shipmates, and one announced that he had written his own obituary. When queried about the reason behind this, he stated that it was so they would “get it right”. I then asked him if he had told of the two fine looking New Zealand women that showed up at his father’s house ,with luggage, looking for him after his ship had returned from the Pacific. He mumbled something noncommittal, so I decided that if I outlive him I will be certain that his column will include that event. This may be embarrassing to him now, but we were all very envious then.

In spite of the years, my mind is still like a steel trap, although a little rusty and slow to spring. If you ask me about someone, I will recall his name, but usually not until three o’clock the next morning. I will then call you and set you at ease if you wish. It is the least I can do for an inquiring mind.

A few nights ago I was watching NCIS and admiring Abby Schutto, the Tattooed Lady of that show, when Jim Roberts called. He described a woman that he had shared a pew with at a funeral service that day. I was sitting in the Republican pew just in front, and she asked him if I were Homer Hirt. He assured her that I was. I am certain that my strong resemblance to Sean Connery confused her. As we were leaving, she spoke to me and I knew her, but I did not recall her name. It seems that Jim was impressed with her “singing voice”(HAH!), but did not know her. Jim will be eighty in a few weeks. He confided in me that he “knows a lot of people but can’t recall their names”. He is going to make a very good octogenarian. I welcome him to the ranks of the forgetters, even though I am ahead of him alphabetically, and will be listed that way in the obits.

My father lived to the age of eighty four and my mother to eighty nine. I, who have lived a life beyond reproach, will probably make it ten more years. Here are some of my goals.

Most of my readers know about my planned race with “The Runner” on my eighty fifth birth day. She runs a mile in eight minutes. I am covering a mile in sixteen, but I have brought it to that point from twenty minutes in less than a year. So I am on track. I will continue with this endeavor.

I would like to keep writing for the Jackson County Times, in spite of the machinations of one or two of the staffers. Mangling Editor Sid Riley usually places my column with the want ads, and then tries to charge me by the inch as though I were an advertiser. Stephanie the REAL EDITOR, a charming and intelligent lady, corrects this and not only puts me ahead of “Pet of the Week” but has been placing my name and the page number of my column in the masthead. Then the Head of our Shipping Department negates this by sticking mailing labels over it.

I intend to keep going to Seacrest Wolf Preserve and working there as a volunteer. So far owners Cynthia and Wayne Watkins have not put me on the “wolf poop” patrol. They think I am a hero. I assist where I can and I enjoy spreading the word about this very unusual experience a short fifty miles from our county. When you visit give my regards to “Teton”, a very special wolf and a real hero.

I am a member of some organizations that have to do with our rivers, and I intend to continue with them. I have been involved with the “Water Wars” for about twenty years, but I have yet to receive a medal. I also have not been shot at, so that balances out. My knowledge about port and barge operations is worthless when compared to that of the general public. It is somewhat like being a high school basketball coach in Jackson County. If the coach drops dead during a game, there will be at least one hundred fans in the stands that feel capable of stepping in and taking over his duties.

I hope that I will continue in good health and that my American Express card will allow me a couple of future trips. I want to return to Gettysburg Battlefield and argue with the guides, who sometimes tell it all wrong. I have also done this at Chickamauga and Shiloh, much to my grandson’s chagrin, who accompanied me and stood to one side as I argued, and tried to act as though he did not know me. That’s why I kept the car keys in my pocket.

And I would really like to go to Maine. I want to sit on the rocks and look at a real ocean and then go to the Outer Banks of North Carolina. One of my ships spent so much time patrolling off Cape Hatteras, “The Graveyard of the Atlantic”, that there was talk of placing a permanent marker labeled “USS TWEEDY” on the navigation charts.

I realize that these trips will be better if I have someone to accompany me, other than my grandson. I am thinking about a contest to select a companion. It would be all expenses paid for her, and maybe the Head of our Shipping Department could assist me in collecting applications, since she only has to affix labels once a week and has a lot of time to spare. I would require that the selectee be a female, twenty years my junior, does not like Elvis Presley and looks good in a French maid costume.

But wait, that’s who I want for a housekeeper!