No Place for Sissies

This is my dad in 1979. He practically lived on the tennis courts in those days, and nobody with whom he played was quicker or more nimble.

He is approaching his 81st birthday, and he's no longer so quick nor so nimble, but as he remarked today, "I'm a hellavu lot more on the ball than my dead friends."

Daddy jogged 5 miles a day for eons -- somewhere in the family stuff is a home movie of him at the end of his 10,000th mile. Jogging was still a curiosity back in those days and even the neighbors turned out to see him cross the finish line, which we created by stringing crepe paper across the street from the power pole at the end of our driveway to a tree across the street.

Anyway, the impetus for his remark today was this: at 2:30 this morning he suffered a fall. Until we got him to the doctor and the x-rays were studied, we were sure he had broken his wrist, or at least a couple bones in his hands. Nope. Just a severe sprain.

But when I went to their house this morning before that appointment, I was gently scolding Daddy about taking more care when he gets up in the middle of the night, reminding him that he's got some fairly severe balance problems. It was that bit from me that inspired his comeback.

When he was desperately ill 17 years ago, we all discovered that not talking about the future -- which included aging and death -- was less comfortable for us than talking about it. Humor's been a mainstay of this family since Michael U. got on that boat from England, I'm thinking.

He's managed each of the little indignities of old age with equal parts frustration and pragmatism, and it's from that that much of our joking around comes. It can sound harsh to those outside the circle of family, but it comforts us in an odd way.

***

The second piece of information you need to understand what I said to my Daddy this morning that made him crack up is this. Our family has been linked with another family here for what is now four generations. That family was, for years, one of the owners of humongous ownership shares of Coca-Cola, and includes the Bellingrath family. Whenever there has been a death in our family, one of the first things to arrive has always been a huge, fancy cooler full of Coca-Cola that is left at the back door without any fanfare, and which is magically restocked for a number of days.

So, I said to Daddy, "Daddy? Next time this could be a hip, and I just want you to know I have Elmore's number on speed dial for that occasion."

Okay, that's probably WAY too inside for most folks who might read that, but it made Daddy laugh, and it made Mama about fall out of her chair for the same reason.

And so we breathe a sigh of relief that I didn't have to call her this time, but I can promise you this -- the new catch-phrase that'll become the next family one will be, "Don't make me call Elmore!"