My grandfather turns 81 years old today.
Brother, that’s news.
It’s not every day you turn 81. I’m looking forward to being an old Southern gentleman just like Guy Wiggins, so I’ve begun to study his mannerisms. Perhaps medical science can learn a few things from my grandfather. Perhaps I might even make it to 81 if I emulate his lifestyle.
So if I were to live like a man nearly six decades older than I am, this is how my day might go:
First, when I get up in the morning, I’ll eat lots of bacon. Bacon is an important part of an octogenarian’s way of life–it greases down the insides.
Then I’ll smooth down what’s left of my hair, put on some checkered pants, a stylish hat, and one golf glove. That ensemble seems to be all the rage among the AARP jet set.
My shoes will be really shiny. In fact, all old men seem to have shiny shoes. Grandfather Guy is so confident that he won’t scuff his shoes that he even mows his lawn in wingtips. Now that’s, gentlemanly.
I suppose there’s other things I’ll have a fondness of doing that don’t hold much appeal right now. Like the weather, for instance. At some point in a man’s life, the weather becomes more than a subject for light chit-chat. It becomes religion. On any given day, Guy Wiggins can tell me the dew point pressure in Manhattan, regardless of the fact that he hasn’t visited in twenty years. He also consistently monitors the rainfall in Andalusia. Currently, this is something of a mystery to me considering that Granddaddy only grows grass and the occasional tree. But I’m sure it will make sense when I’m 81.
I’m also going to talk LOUD when I’m 81. By the time I reach that age, I’ll know what I’m talking about, period. By the way, at 80 I’ll start ending statements with the word, “period.” Talking loud might also help further the myth that I’m hard of hearing. The good thing about getting old is that you can ignore people politely by pretending not to hear them. I call it “ear possum.”
Of course, there is much to be done around the house of an 81-year-old: plumbing to tighten, clothes to wash, clocks to wind, bills to pay, neighborhood dogs to run off the lawn, shrubbery to cut down to stumps, etc. . . . But of course, since I’ll have to get up at 4:30 in the morning, I should have all of this done by ten am.
Around ten, I’ll call my best friends and ask them to play golf with me. That’s what Guy does. A couple of phone calls, and pretty soon Logan Taylor, Bill Rue and my grandfather are strolling the links, scoring in the low 80’s most of the time. At least that’s what they say. They could be hitting 180 for all we youngin’s know, but that’s another advantage of being 81: you can lie.
Worse, you can tell the truth. Imagine all the fun grandfathers can have in department stores and dinner parties: “Yes, that dress does make you look fat” or “Did you fix this potato salad? What died in it?”
You see, grandmothers can’t have all this fun. They try to hid their ages. They can’t say “Get out of my way turkey, I’m 81!” They also can’t be too mean, because old ladies are supposed to be kindly, bake cookies, and tear up over baby pictures.
But not the genre of old men. The grumpier, the better. You don’t have to speak to anyone you don’t like. You don’t have to eat food you hate. You can sit around in your underwear. You can holler at the television for no apparent reason. You don’t even have to go to church, although most do since they figure the Lord is closer at 81 than He was at 24.
After a round of golf, I’d saunter over to the greasiest place in town and order me up some barbecue. Fact is, my grandfather is living proof that barbecue, bacon, buttermilk and cornbread are a vital part of a nutritious breakfast, lunch, and supper. While at lunch, I’d make it a point to lie big about my game (this is where the talking LOUD thing comes in handy). Then I’d impress the cute waitresses.
If there’s one thing I’ve noticed about my grandfather, it’s that he’s a hot ticket with the ladies in town. Statistically, the odds are in his favor. But more than that, women half his age say he’s a good dancer. ‘Course he’d be embarrassed to admit it, but he is in fact, an estrogen magnet. Think Tom Cruise in about 50 years. I’ve asked Guy for some pointers.
Granddaddy Wiggins shamelessly uses his sex appeal on a regular basis to get a new car. There seems to be a lot of little old ladies in Andalusia willing to part with their low-mileage automobiles when Guy comes around. It’s a hobby. His last Oldsmobuick had 4,000 miles on it and cost him something like, oh, seven dollars. That’s talent.
Finally, I’m looking forward to spending my pension on liquor and motorcycles. Or maybe the luxury of wearing all-white suits. Regardless, I hope to turn out to be as fine a man as my honorable, upright, hearty grandfather.
Happy birthday Mr. Wiggins.
—Morgan Murphy