After my grandson and I left the White Sands Bataan Death March Memorial Marathon, we went to my sister's house to visit her and her family. They live in the house we grew up in. When our father and mother got older, they moved in to help them out, and they never moved out. Now the house is theirs. There are a lot of ways to get a house. That's the hardest way I know.
Hmm... let me backtrack on my story a bit first:
Hmm... let me backtrack on my story a bit first:
When we left for the Death March, my grandson and I were wearing clothes that were freshly laundered. My wife made sure of that. Three days later, we're still wearing the same clothes and neither of us are quite so fresh.
My grandson and I, we like to sightsee and take our time. We got to the White Sands Missile Range on Friday, the Death March is on Sunday, and, after we completed that, we left. There are showers available, but they're all together in one big room, not individual stalls. My grandson is only four. I figure he doesn't need to shower with a bunch of naked GIs.
Neither do I, for that matter.
I like travelling with my grandson. He's up for anything, and he doesn't complain. He didn't mind not showering. We even slept in our clothes in their big gymnasium. Everybody who sleeps there just puts a sleeping bag on the floor to claim their space, GIs and civilians alike. He liked that the best.
My grandson and I, we like to sightsee and take our time. We got to the White Sands Missile Range on Friday, the Death March is on Sunday, and, after we completed that, we left. There are showers available, but they're all together in one big room, not individual stalls. My grandson is only four. I figure he doesn't need to shower with a bunch of naked GIs.
Neither do I, for that matter.
I like travelling with my grandson. He's up for anything, and he doesn't complain. He didn't mind not showering. We even slept in our clothes in their big gymnasium. Everybody who sleeps there just puts a sleeping bag on the floor to claim their space, GIs and civilians alike. He liked that the best.
When we arrive at my sister's house it was a little after twelve in the afternoon. No sooner did I park my SUV and walk out, than I notice a van pass by. I notice because of how it slowed down as it passed us.
"Take a picture," I think to myself, "it'll last longer."
We get to the door, greet my sister, but before I can walk in I see that the van has made a u-turn, doubled back, and is parking on the other side of the street. An old lady starts to get out.
"I'll be back," I tell my sister, and she takes my grandson inside to feed him. That's just what the women in my family like to do. Feed people.
Meanwhile, the old lady waddles toward me and asks, "Are you ...?"
I'm thinking, it's probably one of my mom's high school friends.
I answer, "Yes."
"Take a picture," I think to myself, "it'll last longer."
We get to the door, greet my sister, but before I can walk in I see that the van has made a u-turn, doubled back, and is parking on the other side of the street. An old lady starts to get out.
"I'll be back," I tell my sister, and she takes my grandson inside to feed him. That's just what the women in my family like to do. Feed people.
Meanwhile, the old lady waddles toward me and asks, "Are you ...?"
I'm thinking, it's probably one of my mom's high school friends.
I answer, "Yes."
She picks up the pace of her waddle so that she can greet me with a big hug.
"I'm Abby...," she tells me.
Abby...? I haven't seen her since... She was my sister's friend, but I also knew her from grade school. My mind must be slipping, because, try as I might, I can't recall what she looked like all those years ago. She's a few years younger than I am, but looks older. Much older. She looks so old her birth certificate could be printed on a rock. And, boy, does she like to talk.
She tells me her whole life story in less than ten minutes. Her mother sold her the house she grew up in for $20,000, but then gave her back $15,000 to add a second story. She has 13 grandchildren and one great-grandchild. Her husband has diabetes, but refuses to give up drinking beer. Did I say her name was Abby? It's more like Blabby.
"I'm Abby...," she tells me.
Abby...? I haven't seen her since... She was my sister's friend, but I also knew her from grade school. My mind must be slipping, because, try as I might, I can't recall what she looked like all those years ago. She's a few years younger than I am, but looks older. Much older. She looks so old her birth certificate could be printed on a rock. And, boy, does she like to talk.
She tells me her whole life story in less than ten minutes. Her mother sold her the house she grew up in for $20,000, but then gave her back $15,000 to add a second story. She has 13 grandchildren and one great-grandchild. Her husband has diabetes, but refuses to give up drinking beer. Did I say her name was Abby? It's more like Blabby.
Now, I haven't seen her in decades, so why's she telling me all this? She even knew that I had moved out of town, where I moved to, and that I was now retired. How do people find out this stuff?
She then starts asking me about some of the people in the neighborhood we grew up with. Do I know where so-and-so is and whatever happened to what's-his-face? Back then, we were all close, but these days I had no information about any of them. I must not have been holding up my end of the conversation, because she starts to tell me about another two friends of ours from back then, Emma and Vivian.
What she didn't know was that I had dated both of them when we were in our early teens. Emma when she and I were 13 and Vivian a year later. Unfortunately, I'm feeling a bit vain and make the mistake of bragging about that to Abby.
Her eyes get wide and she tells me, "Wait... are you telling me... really?" She twists one finger around the other, shows it to me, and says, "Emma and I are like this. We talk on the phone all the time."
Like magic, her cell phone is in her hand and she starts to dial. Someone answers and she tells the person, "Hang on, there's someone that wants to talk to you."
I wonder who that someone is, because it's certainly not me.
She hands me the phone. "It's Emma," she says.
Her eyes get wide and she tells me, "Wait... are you telling me... really?" She twists one finger around the other, shows it to me, and says, "Emma and I are like this. We talk on the phone all the time."
Like magic, her cell phone is in her hand and she starts to dial. Someone answers and she tells the person, "Hang on, there's someone that wants to talk to you."
I wonder who that someone is, because it's certainly not me.
She hands me the phone. "It's Emma," she says.
I'm like, WHAAAT?
I get on the phone. I really don't know what to say or ask, but somehow I muddle through it. We talk for about five or ten minutes and then hang up. I feel like the taxi driver from Harry Chapin's old song. I hand Abby back her phone.
Funny, I think to myself, Emma sure didn't sound like an old lady. It was easy for me to remember what she looked like way back when. She was gorgeous. So was her mom. But that's another story.
I get on the phone. I really don't know what to say or ask, but somehow I muddle through it. We talk for about five or ten minutes and then hang up. I feel like the taxi driver from Harry Chapin's old song. I hand Abby back her phone.
Funny, I think to myself, Emma sure didn't sound like an old lady. It was easy for me to remember what she looked like way back when. She was gorgeous. So was her mom. But that's another story.
The next few hours is all cloudy. Abby leaves. I go inside, talk with my sister for a while, and then my grandson and I leave. All the time I'm thinking I know what's going to happen. Emma is going to call Abby back and ask her, "What did he look like?"
I can hear Abby's answer now, "Well, he looked like a prince. A dirty, smelly prince. He was wearing an old pair of glasses, I guess he can't afford contacts. He looked like he had been sleeping in his clothes for three days. They were all wrinkled and dirty. He hadn't shaved. When I first saw him, I thought I had spotted Osama bin Laden. His hair wasn't combed and it looked like he hadn't washed it in weeks. At least he still has his hair, I guess. It looked good with the piece of lettuce he had stuck in his front teeth."
"Really?" Emma would ask.
"Really," Mary would say.
"Really," Mary would say.
You know, in the many years that I have gone back to my old house in my old neighborhood, first to visit my parents and then to visit my sister, not once have I seen any of my old friends and acquaintances. Now, when I look my absolute worse, I run into someone who just happens to have an old girlfriend of mine on speed-dial.
And a big mouth.
Life is cruel.
And a big mouth.
Life is cruel.
Now I know why my wife doesn't go out in public until she has her face on and her hair is done.
Still, as I drive away, I can't help but wonder what the gorgeous Emma looks like now. She's almost as old as I am, so that doesn't bode well. I have yet to see any woman my age who didn't look like an old lady to me. However, I'm no fool, I know I look the same way to them.
So, my friends, what did I learn?
The first thing I learned is that it's best to remember your old friends the way they were, not the way they are today. Now that I've seen Abby as a senior citizen, that's the way I'm always going to picture her.
The second thing I learned is not to leave the house unless my hair is combed, my clothes are clean, my nose and ear hairs are trimmed, and I've bathed within the last 24 hours.So, my friends, what did I learn?
The first thing I learned is that it's best to remember your old friends the way they were, not the way they are today. Now that I've seen Abby as a senior citizen, that's the way I'm always going to picture her.
And the third thing I learned is that when a girl from out of your past asks you if you know what happened to any of your old friends, the best answer is to tell them they're all in jail.
"What happened to Carlos?"
"He married a little changita, and then went to prison for bestiality."
"Ritchie?"
"He murdered his grandmother, and ended up in prison."
"Frank?"
"He was convicted of embezzling from the bank he worked at, and was sent to prison."
"Bug?"
"When I filed charges against him for not paying me for that car I sold him that he wrecked, he was found guilty and sent to prison. No one's seen him since. I hear that when he was released, he took a wrong turn and is still wandering around that prison looking for an exit."
"Gory?"
"He was sent to prison, where he was brutally gang-raped by his cell block. When he went to complain to the prison guards, they gang-raped him, too. He's spent the last twenty years being gang-raped. Funny thing is, he was given parole fifteen years ago, but refuses to leave."
If you tell them that, it doesn't matter if you haven't bathed or changed your clothes in three days. Heck, you could have just stepped in what comes out of the tail-end of a dog, and, by comparison, you'll still look like a prince.
A dirty, smelly prince.
Raising MyFather
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jimduchene.BlogSpot.com American Chimpanzee
@JimDuchene
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