Old Friends
Wow, my 80-year-old neighbour, bemoaning his new found status as an alter cucker, still casts longing eyes at me. He's not bad himself, for 80. He can't believe it, I can't believe it. Why, he was just a young pup of 65 when we first met. Doesn't look all that much different. All right, his hair is now white-white, but he's still got enough on top that there's no bald pate - not much of one, anyway. Hirsute facially, but oh so carefully groomed.
His toilette, as he calls it. He takes great care with it. And it certainly shows. He's the type who wouldn't think of launching himself into the great out of doors without a pair of carefully ironed-and-creased trousers, name-brand shirt, and immaculate footwear. He's always had an eye for the ladies. I'm a lady? For all intents and purposes. He came a-calling on Friday afternoon, gift in hand for moi. A neat little publication of Haiku. Much appreciated.
Then stood along with my husband, watching, as I unloaded a week's worth of groceries, miraculously finding place for everything in our crowded refrigerator and pantry. He had successfully undergone treatment for prostate cancer and that's well behind him. Always something new, though, and now it's his heart; his doctor is convinced there's something irregular there and tests are in the offing.
He doesn't agree, feels quite well, but will accede to his doctor's demand that he undergo these tests because good specialists are hard to find and just in case he needs to undergo the care of such a specialist, he'd like the man on his side. Wouldn't do to disgruntle the expert, after all, or confuse him with facts that might not fit into his diagnostic theorizing.
He's planning on a trip to the Charlebois region of Quebec. He's fluently bilingual, as is his wife, so no problem there. The problem lies elsewhere. His wife has just come back from a trip to Peru where she went to Machu Picchu among other places and had previously described for us one part of the trip where her group of mostly older women had to negotiate a loooong descent into a ravine, some of them on muleback on a narrow rocky trail.
And exhaustingly had to ascend that same ravine, perilous-seeming in some places where a misstep might take you plunging irretrievably down and down further beyond rescue. She often takes these physically challenging but culturally rewarding trips in the company of other adventurous women. She's almost twenty years his junior; the juice of life hasn't yet been squeezed out of this woman.
He lingered, eager to continue chatting, but averse to sitting, since his wife was awaiting his return. They're on the verge of going out somewhere... Finally, outside on the porch, he looks at me, says I'm looking really good. Do I preen? Nope.
Whaffor?
His toilette, as he calls it. He takes great care with it. And it certainly shows. He's the type who wouldn't think of launching himself into the great out of doors without a pair of carefully ironed-and-creased trousers, name-brand shirt, and immaculate footwear. He's always had an eye for the ladies. I'm a lady? For all intents and purposes. He came a-calling on Friday afternoon, gift in hand for moi. A neat little publication of Haiku. Much appreciated.
Then stood along with my husband, watching, as I unloaded a week's worth of groceries, miraculously finding place for everything in our crowded refrigerator and pantry. He had successfully undergone treatment for prostate cancer and that's well behind him. Always something new, though, and now it's his heart; his doctor is convinced there's something irregular there and tests are in the offing.
He doesn't agree, feels quite well, but will accede to his doctor's demand that he undergo these tests because good specialists are hard to find and just in case he needs to undergo the care of such a specialist, he'd like the man on his side. Wouldn't do to disgruntle the expert, after all, or confuse him with facts that might not fit into his diagnostic theorizing.
He's planning on a trip to the Charlebois region of Quebec. He's fluently bilingual, as is his wife, so no problem there. The problem lies elsewhere. His wife has just come back from a trip to Peru where she went to Machu Picchu among other places and had previously described for us one part of the trip where her group of mostly older women had to negotiate a loooong descent into a ravine, some of them on muleback on a narrow rocky trail.
And exhaustingly had to ascend that same ravine, perilous-seeming in some places where a misstep might take you plunging irretrievably down and down further beyond rescue. She often takes these physically challenging but culturally rewarding trips in the company of other adventurous women. She's almost twenty years his junior; the juice of life hasn't yet been squeezed out of this woman.
He lingered, eager to continue chatting, but averse to sitting, since his wife was awaiting his return. They're on the verge of going out somewhere... Finally, outside on the porch, he looks at me, says I'm looking really good. Do I preen? Nope.
Whaffor?
Labels: Whoops
posted by Pieface @ 5:13 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home