Changing Seasons

Never thought I’d get old but now that Metamucil and Milk O. Magnesia are my two closest friends, I guess I have arrived. Like the seasons of my life the season of the year has changed and I am now moving into my winter retiree mode: more reading, more writing and more afternoon hibernations.

When my daughters moved out leaving us as a couple of empty nesters, my wife immediately claimed their bedroom as her Den/Yoga room. Most recently she traded the double bed that used to take up so much space in the room for a single sized bed which she has disguised as a couch with large corduroy covered pillows. The couch/bed, the computer and computer desk, a roll top desk, three file cabinets, and a potted plant stand under an east window form the perimeter of the room. The center of the room is now open space and she has put a large oval rug with a thick underpad there to be her “yoga mat.” There is a full length mirror on the closet door and for the first time in memory the room actually feels roomy and not crowded.

As bad weather has set in I have taken to going into her room when she is at work to write on the computer and check the web; I do some crunches and pushups on her yoga mat. I take off my shirt and do curls and presses in front of the mirror. At my age this is an act of humility not hubris; a sort of forcing myself to face reality. I have long ago traded my six pack for a full keg. My goal this winter is to work out an hour each day in an effort to keep what I’ve got left; use it or lose it.

When my better-half returns home from work and finds me on her computer in her inner sanctum a comic argument between two curmudgeons ensues.
“It’s not your damn den…it’s my damn den.”
“No, it’s not YOUR damn den …Now it’s MY damn den.” And so on, back and forth forever. I know it is really her room but after a day without her I am bored and need a few minutes of good verbal sparring. It’s our way of greeting each other. For verbal variety and good measure we throw in a couple: “Don’t you make me come over there!” and “NO…Don’t YOU make ME come over there!” threats. Anyway I like what she has done to make the room a studio apartment and I will sneak in when I can.

I’ve reached that point where you can remember what happened forty years ago clear as a bell but you can’t recall where you put your keys five minutes ago. On this cold rainy Thanksgiving Day as I sit musing with a cup of hot tea in my (her) den and the raindrops pelting against the window, I am reminded of the rainy season as a soldier in Southeast Asia. As the rainy season arrives the Thai people celebrate with a weeklong festival when any and everyone throws and sprays water on any and everyone. We had been warned by the brass that we were guests in the country and we were to accept and respect this local custom of welcoming the monsoons.

As we stood at stiff attention in dress uniform for weekly inspection, our captain pivoted sharply to stare at each of us nose to nose and then inform us that our sideburns were a quarter of an inch too long or that we needed to shave (even though we had shaved immediately before the inspection.) Finally he pivoted one last time and marched back a few yards to face his line of men as the sergeant dismissed us. Before sarge could dismiss us, one of our crazy barrack’s Thai momma sans came running out of nowhere with a mop bucket and soaked the captain head to toe. It is my all time favorite military memory.