Pub. Note: This is a little ditty I penned recently that seemed to resonate with friends of my vintage. Even if you’re not in your eighth decade, you likely have an aging parent, grandparent, family member or friend you might like to share it with. The Ode also gives younger folks some idea of what they have to look forward to…
An Ode To Octogenarians
This ode is for all the menfolk
Who’ve lived eighty years or more,
And experienced nearly everything
That one’s life holds in store.
The best thing about this status
Is what we no longer have to do,
From the perspective of the men
Who’ve always been tried and true.
I begin this list with the knowledge
That it is far from complete,
But here goes nothing, as they say,
And if you don’t hear—I’ll repeat!
No longer will we feel obliged
To accept any invitation
To any event held anywhere
Outside our man-cave location.
Goodbye to Kiwanis and Rotary,
We’re past the luncheon thing.
Don’t try to sign me up again,
Or give my phone a ring.
And to all you robo callers,
A message you should heed:
We have all the life insurance
That we will ever need.
Same thing goes for hearing aids
And home-appliance warranties.
Take us off of your call list NOW,
We beseech you, pretty please!
Nor will we respond to calls
For an annual physical check.
At this point our aging bodies
Are obviously a virtual wreck.
Having lived in it for eight decades
We are our own best docs,
We know its every limitation—
Like when trying to put on socks.
Having said that, there’s no end
Of little aches and pains,
And a couple of chronic ailments
That’ll never, ever wane.
The best cure I’ve discovered
For a pain of any kind
Is just the simple remedy
Of an otherwise occupied mind.
Funny thing about a pain,
Whenever you find one more
It seems to make you just forget
The one you had before!
Our every joint has failed to work
At some time in our lives.
Then there were the maladies,
Like measles, mumps and hives.
Then there are the several scars
Of operations past.
This is my declaration
That those will be the last!
Yes—no further operations
To help extend our days.
It’s time to face reality:
This is our final phase!
And no man who’s lived past 80
Hasn’t thought that he has cancer.
Yet, he lets the year roll by
And dares not seek an answer.
Six or seven hours of sleep,
Used to suffice just fine.
Now, to feel fully rested,
It takes at least eight or nine.
I liken life to a football game,
Each quarter is twenty years.
We’re now living in overtime,
Me—and all of my peers.
The gray hair is getting thinner
If, indeed, there’s any left.
And our once-slim youthful bodies
Continue to add more heft.
We still read newspapers,
And turn to the obits first.
Then check out the headlines
To see which news is worse.
In music, we like doo-wop.
Please turn off all that rap!
It’s the biggest indicator
Of the generational gap.
Golf is the exercise of choice
For many guys our age,
But it’s becoming clearer
That it’s time to turn the page.
The drives are getting shorter,
With slower clubhead speed.
It’s time to move up farther
With where the ball is teed.
No tie will e’er again gird this neck
Or be accompanied by a suit.
Comfy clothes are the fashion now,
For all else we don’t give a hoot!
Elastic waistbands are in vogue,
As are shirts of one size bigger.
Gone are the days when our bodies
Rivaled Arnold Schwarzenegger’s.
And no more do we have to care
About our annual wage.
That’s the thing we always used
Our life-success to gauge.
No more corporate ladders
Do we now have to climb,
No more boss to have to please
—Or occupy our time.
Instead, it’s now the grandkids
Who fill those open days,
Driving them to soccer games
Or recitals and school plays.
Driving was easy in our heyday,
The roads were not so jammed
Now every hour of every day
It seems all routes are slammed.
And flying ain’t what it used to be
When all the jets were new,
And you could smoke on airplanes,
While enjoying a drink or two.
There were no terrorists—or TSA—
To encounter on your flight,
And paying extra for carryons
Was not considered right.
Home maintenance, in general,
Was never that much fun
Especially the yard work—
We’d rather pay to have it done.
Retirement’s now a passe word,
But some still go to work.
It’s either that, or run the risk
Of driving our wives berserk!
I am in year eighty-four
And my wife is eighty-three.
Our home is just for us now,
So, please don’t visit me!
We truly lived in the “good ol’ days”
—Before the digital revolution,
Which has led to deep divisions
And threats to our institutions.
Back in that day a church funeral
Was automatic upon our demise.
Now there are myriad options,
Like being used to fertilize.
If you’re around to hear this Ode,
You’ve had a good, long life,
Hopefully filled with lots of joy,
And very few days of strife.
In recent years, I’ve found new peace,
And let me tell you how:
I’ve stopped making memories
And just enjoy them now.
Sadly, most of us must admit
That this is where sex ranks,
Safely tucked away there—
In our memory banks.
So—let us raise a glass and toast
Those many years now past,
And say NO to any worries—
However long our lives shall last…
—Larry Coffman (aka The Poet Larry-ate)
June 9, 2019 (with periodic additions after that)
Dear Larry
Loved the poem, send me updates if you can.
For octogenarians and above who still want to give it a go there’s a new nonprofit in Washington state “VR for Seniors.” It is actually much more than the name describes. We want to establish a connecting network of experience and insight with other networks who have less of these.
Robert Sanders (80)
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