Well-Thumbed Cards

Quarter-century younger, when alarm clock would ring me from a warm bed and signal time to tie on the jeezless running clogs, step out in what memory seems was always freezing temps, at very least cold no matter the season, I’d wonder if reaching the big 7-0 was in my deck of cards. Already’d lost some twenty percent of classmates from High School. Time of life when health supplements of every description, prescription, and price jammed that set-aside kitchen cupboard, when most were tried for few weeks or months, then realized really weren’t the panaceas TV ads, cocktail party friend’s recommendations, and well-meaning doctors cracked them up to be. Still occasionally find a bottle tucked away, tablets lost color, kind of all melted together, marvel at expense and what they must surely cost now. Only one I take of the myriad has survived and I sometimes wonder if that’s just a head thing.

This month, before Mike has perpetrated another issue of this now venerable publication upon a suspecting public, I will have recorded two extra years in the initial proposition replete with medical records of knee replacement, sciatica back operation, cancerous body part, usual aches, pains, loss of hair, loss of hearing (replaced with ringing titled by an innocuous name Tinnitus), muscle spasms in the night, spine requiring semi-annual alignment, few replaced teeth sculptured from which we built boat parts, all accompanied by friendly reminders of how I need to walk at least 50 miles a week to remain healthy (?).

Now, to be perfectly upfront, I’m not too overly burdened with belief in all this walking and gym stuff. I look at my uncle, “Skip” Parsons. Flirting with ninety, that’s “90.” Every time I see him, and never often enough with his significant other, Shirley, who’s in mid 80s and you’d swear just left 60s, he tells me he’s having to slow down a bit. Meaning, in his parlance, he’ll take a break on the front porch perhaps twice a day from tending their quarter-acre garden, the raspberry patch, keeping the property looking like a spread in “House Beautiful,” taking vegetables around to friends and neighbors, or collecting road kill for an indigenous bird they’ve befriended. Skip never stops. Always seems to have another project in mind. Something to look forward to. Friday nights, if the roads clear, they drive the fifty-odd miles to Brewer, dance at the singles club till coming on eleven, then drive home. He’s been dealt a good hand. However, I’ve got to believe he played those the cards well.

Some ten years ago, when suspicion arose I just might turn the corner of 70, I decided I just might need a workshop. Then, thought occurred, needed place to put my more-than-several-volume library. Oh, and a place of quietude where more unread articles could be devised would need consideration. Where paint would be daubed on canvas. Certainly not in AJ’s living room, and the project began to take on a direction of its own. With tape measure in hand, drafting board in full swing, and realization this was a one-man project (with occasional help when four hands were needed). Project was set in motion. Summers and falls, and then only few days a week were time available. More after retirement. Many several were 10- and 12-hour days. Nights inclusive, figuring next step or how to maneuver timbers into place alone. Always something to look forward to. Get done at the end of a day, probably used most muscles I owned and some I didn’t recall. Felt great. Each step was an accomplishment. Stop. Look back. Enjoy the pride. Began to realize, perhaps this was what good aging, good health was about. Remaining active with body and the mind.

Every deck of cards, thankfully, is different. Several spend their days in intense exercise. Treadmill, biking 30 miles, swimming oceans. Others chart a course from chair to chair or chair to bed wherever the desired television resides. Exercise being a trip to Wal-Mart or the dining table. And, the beauty of it all. It’s our choice. Longevity perhaps, and only perhaps, bows in the direction of the exercised. And, as a good friend and breakfast companion has mentioned several times, “I exercise not for trying to live longer, but for the quality of life while I’m living.” Yet, we all know or have heard of neighbors or the famous in terrific physical condition canceled out in prime of life. Pair of Aces, Full House, Dead Hand. Playing the dealt hand to the fullest, in my humble opinion, is really about all a human can expect to do and have some fun in the meantime.

And, along that rhumb line, for those with a few well-worn cards matching mine, I’m happy to report my latest martini recipe is gaining ground, been named “Leeboy,” and at least two bartenders have remembered the ingredients........2 ozs. Good Vodka, Half cap of good Pinot Grigio, “Shaken, not Stirred” (Vigorously), with a rub around the rim of a cold martini glass and twisted, a peel (green only) of a fresh lime.

And, keeping the intake of good food in mind, we’ve been trying a few new directions in the rattled pans area, including this one with Italian simple in mind.

• R E C I P E •

Find and keep a good olive oil on hand. Go to one of the new shops where you can sample and buy the one you like the taste of best. Use for special recipes.

Boil off some yellow or redskin potatoes and allow to cool. Slice desired number into approx. 3/16 slices. Mix in 2 tablespoons of the good oil, a tablespoon of rice vinegar (more if needed), and sprinkle with a few tablespoons of rather finely chopped basil, or chives, or green of spring onion. One only...experiment. And coming from a Maine boy who still loves Maine potatoes, this is not a travesty. They’re delicious.

Fair Winds and Good Roads
– Lee Wilbur