Towards the end of his life my father just waited for the day to come when he was to die.
When he was in his late fifties the company he worked for was bought out. He was an old fuddy dud so he was in the first group let go. He faced what many men face at that age. You can be replaced by a younger model at a cheaper price. It was devastating for him.
The next chapter that my dad turned the page into was just as hurtful. One by one his circle of friends started to die off. His phone stopped ringing as often and he had less people around that knew him.
He finally found himself in a retirement home with his last wife. Together they formed an alliance to just wait to die. His wife died and my dad was alone with a horrible quality of life.
Covid fortunately took his last breath and now he strolls the Magnificent Mile in Heaven.
Today I am at the same age where my father’s life started dying. Early 1990’s was about the time when each day wasn’t lived, but just spent waiting to die.
The Clinton years saw the downfall of my father. He lost a job that he loved. He lost friends that thought he was special. He lost his drive to put energy into the world.
Sure he still made the guy at White Hen smile when he bought the morning paper. He didn’t skip a beat being kind, but it was out of habit and not out of love. The passion just wasn’t there.
I’m thirty years younger than my Oldman. My 2020’s can very well be his 1990’s. Maybe my 2030’s or 2040’s end up those years where my passion is gone. The time where counting the days until death takes over the countdown to Mardi Gras or Christmas.
This morning is my 20,721st day since I showed up in Chicago. I asked Siri…. “Hey Siri? How many days ago was July 1st, 1966?”
“July 1st,1966 was twenty thousand, seven hundred and twenty one days ago… you old fat fuck.” In her sexy Siri British accent.
I’m not going to start writing the countdown until death on the Morning Chalkboard… not just yet.
You will hear me say that I have twenty eight summers left these next five months. Then you’ll hear me say that I have twenty seven summers left.
I say this because it’s a motivation not to take the Summer of 2023 for granted. Not to take Memorial Day of 2023 for granted. Not to take Thanksgiving and Christmas of 2023 for granted.
You’ll see Countdowns often on the Chalkboard. In fact I want you to know we have 282 days until Mardi Gras 2024.
I might not be checking off items on my bucket list right now. I don’t think I’ll be seeing the Eiffel Tower anytime soon, but I can see the sunset reflect off the Sears Tower.
I’m not going to have a scone and cup of tea in England this year, but I will have a hotdog on a picnic bench in the near future.
I don’t think I’ll ever get the chance to make love with Julia Roberts. I don’t think I’ll ever go on safari in Africa with Morgan Freeman. I don’t think I‘ll cook a Sunday roast with Gordon Ramsay and I don’t think Oprah is going to interview me because of my philanthropy.
I am going to watch three children turn into solid adults. I will see the Bears win another Superbowl, the Sox a World Series, the Blackhawks another Stanley.
However…. I will also watch my circle of friends dwindle down. I will have a last closing bell at work and eventually I’ll look at a tree stump. All that remains from the tree of life that I once climbed in the Summer of 73. The tree that gave me shade in the Summer of 93. The tree that gave me kindling for a fire in the winter of 13.
The day when the tree nor I have nothing more to give…
On a less morbid note… it’s National Waffle Day! Go have a waffle with someone that thinks you are special.
