Tim Dowling's dad, Bob: I’m 98, and life is still mayhem
First of all: why me? The whole family knows I never write anything. An old girlfriend once said my letter read like a social security card. My favourite poem is Ode To A Girdle*, partly because of its brevity. And this is a fine time to try to get me to start writing. I’m 98: when I get an idea into my head, I forget what it was before I can write it down. Why not wait till I’m 100?
I live with three of my six grandsons, a seven-year-old and three-year-old twins, in Connecticut. It’s mayhem, but we had four children in four years, so I’m used to mayhem. One time we were going to visit my wife’s parents and had all the kids and the dog in the car. When I started driving, I realised we had left a suitcase on the roof, because our clothes were flying all around the road. When I stopped to retrieve them, the dog tried to get out and I accidentally shut the door on his ear. He flew around the car, shaking blood everywhere and scratching up the kids until everyone was howling.
The twins’ father – Tim’s brother – has them enrolled in every athletic event in North America. He recently had them challenge me to a running race. We went down to the beach, where my son drew a starting line and a finish line in the sand, and shouted: “Ready, set, go.”
I had a bad start and came in third. A few days later there was a rematch: 25 yards, this time on grass. I lost, because I stepped in a chipmunk hole; the little bastard dug two holes six inches apart. I’m working towards a third race, somewhere flat. Now that the state has taken away my driver’s licence and I have to walk everywhere, my legs are starting to round into shape. I’ll leave those shrimps in the dust.
Actually, the state didn’t take away my licence. When I got notice that it would expire on my 98th birthday, I figured they would never give me a new one, so I sold my car. Then I found out that, in America anyway, they will renew your licence no matter how old you are, as long as you pay the fee. I went to get one, just for identification purposes. They asked if I wanted to renew it for six more years, but I only did two.
I do miss my car. There was never a chance of me having an accident. Everybody got out of the way as soon as they saw me coming. I’m thinking about getting a golf cart instead.
Lately, I’ve been looking into medications for memory loss. I can’t recall what I had for lunch, but I can clearly remember things that happened 90 years ago, like the fight between Florence Parker and Sylvia Needles on the lawn of the Methodist church. That’s where all the kids went to fight, because it had a nice grassy lawn. Kids seemed to fight a lot back then.
But the doctors say the medication route is not promising; they say it’s a waste of money. What they recommend is exercise, and a good diet.
Related: Tim Dowling: a dress rehearsal for old age? No, this is the real thing
I think fear is the greatest problem of the elderly. It prevents you from doing the things you like doing. I used to be a distance swimmer, racing across harbours all over the state, but now I swim only where I can touch the bottom. Lately, I’ve been swallowing water when I swim, so I started doing backstroke. It works fine, as long as I don’t swim into a boat.
The point is not to worry about the fear too much: do as much as you can, and take advice from friends and relatives.
Anyway, where was I?
* Tim Dowling writes:
This is news to me. I can only imagine my father is referring to On A Girdle, by the English lyric poet Edmund Waller (1606-1687), which begins:
“That which her slender waist confin’d,
Shall now my joyful temples bind.”
He’s right, though, it is brief: three stanzas, 12 lines, a mere 83 words in total.
