Me,
Seventy-five ?
Published in Marietta (GA) Daily Journal, 6/16/19
In 1984 during a
presidential debate Ronald Reagan said of his opponent Walter Mondale, “If my
opponent will not hold my age against me, I’ll not hold his youth and
inexperience against him.” Mondale asked
for it. He had just brought up the issue
of Reagan’s age.
Mondale
took it like a man, however. He laughed
as much as the audience did. Like his
fellow Minnesotan, the Happy Warrior Hubert Humphrey, Mondale laughed much
anyhow. That was back when our politics
was far less acrimonious.
Reagan
went on to begin his second term one month before turning 74. The man gave old age a good name. His cheerfulness put to scorn the claim of
columnist George Will who, upon turning 50 wrote, “Looking forward from 50 is
no bowl of blueberries.”
50? Old? Sounds
young to me. Will turned 78 this past
May. Let’s hope he didn’t go into
depression.
Looking
forward from age 75 - if I live for two more weeks – shouldn’t be too difficult
to do. Nine and soon to be ten
grandchildren will remind me that life goes on.
Our republic is far stronger than the constancy of cable television news
leads us to think, and everywhere I go I see teenagers and twenty-somethings working
their heads off. I know there’s more to
the picture than this, but I’ll still take hope wherever I see it.
My
first memory is from age three, but from the fabric of the last 72 years I have
plucked three others, all of which have been sources of joy and/or
learning. These particular memories also
remind me of the debt I owe to so many who have rendered me a rich man for
three quarters of a century.
I
remember the dirt, the soil I mean. Oh,
the dirt, the fields, the gigantic gardens that my father and other farmers up
and down Old U.S. 80 Highway cared for.
Their dirt was a precious possession, almost their second self. I wish that children today understood that
groceries don’t come from grocery stores.
School teaches them where groceries come from, but only at the
intellectual level. How I wish children
and teens could experience real dirt for themselves and get outside their
houses more.
My professional life has required me to haunt
libraries and bookstores, but even the printed word has not erased the memory
of the smell, the feel, and the mystery of dirt. Directly or indirectly, food comes from
dirt. “From dust to dust” is a phrase
too many children and teens have never even heard.
Antonia
(“Pupi,” we called her) was the Italian woman brought to America by one of my
much older brothers after World War II.
What a memory. What an education
this tough, resilient woman brought to a poor Southern family. Her broken English and knowledge of Europe
made her not just an exciting oddity, but the interesting centerpiece of our
lives for the rest of her life. Antonia left her family and a significant job
for an American soldier boy.
A
more recent memory is the year 1971 when I moved to the county I now live
in. From Day 1 this county has been
forward-looking and even more inviting than a bowl of blueberries, or peaches
either for that matter. While some
counties around us falter educationally, economically, and socially, ours
thrives. I say it’s not because we are
an educated county. It’s because many
good people have landed here, most of whom treat others well. We fuss when necessary, but because of
visionary political, community, and religious leaders, we still have something
special.
Oh,
for the space to name names. Suffice it
to say that my two mayors (I live in one town but have the address of another),
commissioner, state representative, state senator, Congressman, governor, and my two U.S.
Senators are good people and effective leaders. My last three former governors,
the only former ones I was ever around (one Democrat and two Republicans) are
all men of good will. They are also
givers. That’s something to remember
when I start thinking the nation is going to the dogs.
Men
of faith, pastors particularly, have shaped my county also. Two pastors helped me raise my children. Two others have helped me to look steadily
forward in faith as I grow older.
Another, a retired Methodist minister, has become a great friend to this
aging Baptist. He knows I believe John
Wesley was actually a Baptist.
My
county’s leaders and citizens obviously seek civil peace – order. Just call it being a good neighbor and loving
your neighbor as yourself. Whatever it’s
called it can surely produce good memories for a guy who is not getting
younger.
Roger Hines