When you hear an older person talk openly about death, when they wonder aloud how much time they have left, don’t dismiss it as shallow fatalism. There comes a point, if we’re lucky enough to reach that point, when we recognize that we’re much closer to the end than we are to the beginning, and we can’t help but think about such things.
Seeing our contemporaries fall only spurs those thoughts. Last week, a high-school classmate passed away (age 68). The week before, I lost a former colleague (73). My college roommate (67) died in October.
And so yeah, I think about it.
When I ask the Social Security Administration to calculate how much longer I can expect to live — ain’t Big Government great? — it tells me that I have 17 years (barring calamity, of course, or some sneaky illness). That’d give me two years more than my father got.
But there are countless variables, not the least of which are geography and the culture that goes with it.
Stark County, Ohio, where I was born and spent my first 18 years, has an average life expectancy of 75.9. In Fairfield County, my permanent address for over 20 years before I moved to The Mountain, it’s 77.
I also spent 21 years living in Middlesex County, Connecticut, where it’s 83.
Now I’m in Marion County, Arkansas. A white Ozarkansan male can be expected to live to the age of 73.7 years.
That’s a big spread — between six and seventeen years. I might live longer. Or I could die tomorrow. To coin a phrase, “No one knows the day or the hour.”
What makes all this relevant to me now is that I’m facing a complete reset. Everything from home to companionship starts again at essentially zero. (Speaking to the latter, I’m not sure I have another courtship in me.)
So is six years enough time to rebuild a satisfying life? How about 17? As the locals would say, I’m fixin’ to find out.
Cayman Jack canned margaritas aren’t terrible. For some strange reason, two of these 24-ounce bad boys were left behind after The Grab. I had one the other evening.
Traveling to and from Mountain Home yesterday, by way of Gassville, I noticed a few things.
Crooked Creek is flowing strong, at a very healthy level. The White River at Cotter is high, likely due to a big release from Bull Shoals Lake.
Traffic on US 62 is heavier than it’s been in months. Tourist season has begun.
At Lowe’s later to pick up a small-but-necessary item, I saw that about a third of the vehicles sported Missouri tags. I’d noticed that before in Mountain Home — it’s a border town, even closer to Missouri (ten statute miles) than I am (about 18 miles).
My main objective Saturday was to load the contents of my Gassville storage unit into the Silverado, haul it back to The Mountain, and stow it in the soft shed. It took two trips and 70 miles of driving, but I was done by noon. It dovetailed great with the run to Lowe’s.
Once the storage people process things on their end, eliminating that rental will save me $85 a month. These cuts — like realizing $116 a month by removing a vehicle from my auto insurance policy, or reducing the amount of electricity I use by 40%, to name just two — are adding up.
I’m making this work.
It’s been a good while since I’ve featured a “Volunteer of the Day.” This is Arkansas Beardtongue (Penstemon arkansanus), which is blooming now on the lower level.
Take care of yourselves, Patriots. Stay calm. Stay sharp. Stay free.
#WiseUp #LibertyOrDeath #Ungovernable