A Very, Very, Very, Very Old Man (F)

I know what you're here for. Like the others.

My name is Gregario Fuentes and I was born on August 1, 1874. My birthplace was in the maternal home of my young mother located on Villere Street in New Orleans.

First things folks ask is if I knew any famous persons. Sure did. 

Mark Twain himself told me that all babies are ugly at first, but each is ugly in its own way. But that was in Manhattan when he lived on West 10th. I was working at the Fulton Market and Mr. Twain tipped me for fetching him an extra sack to carry some whitefish home.

The hard thing is still living after so many are gone. And being hard of hearing. That's a bad one, but better than being blind in both eyes. 

I do remember meeting Edith Wharton outside the library on 5th. I picked up her parasol for her and she thanked me and smiled very nicely as she walked on. Of course I didn't know much about her, but another lady told me who she was and what she was famous for. I was glad to do her a friend.

When I turned 38 I got it into my head that I would eat a serving of ice cream every day of my life. Had a spell when it was always chocolate but that got to me too much after several years. So I settled on vanilla with different toppings. Of late pecans have been what suit me most. 

I was told I was too old to join when our boys went over in '17. The ones I knew that made it back had it rough, a lot of them.

I saw Babe Ruth play one time in 1924. Saw one of his 46 home runs. Looked like it might not come back to earth.

I miss reading. My mother was very particular about learning to read. Last book I could get through was Last of the Breed by Louis L'Amour. That was some time ago. Now I just listen to the television and squint.

October 1st in 1940 I got my first social check for $23.67. 

Pearl Harbor, now that was a dirty one.

In 1989 three government men came out to see me because I was 115 and the social checks were stopped. They asked me a bunch of questions. Studied my birth certificate that I had in a Florsheim shoe box like it was from another country.

I got my first pair in 1896 by the way.

But the social checks started coming again and been getting them ever since.

And you want to know how much social I get each month.

Well that doesn't matter much as I am the sole heir of 52 wells in Vermillion Parish. 

Lyman 2025

Some Notes, In Passing

My first time sailing was aboard a Morgan 22 my father bought when we were visiting family in St. Petersburg.  The wind was light, 3-5 knots, and Tampa bay seas that morning 2' swells. In my father's excitement to take out his new purchase, we set off despite not having winch handles on board. Mercifully the wind stayed light, but sheeting in the head sail was still a chore. We spent 2 hours tacking back and forth. And I was hooked. At the time I was 12, my father 31.

My father's death came as a shock--an accident. He was 91. A very big number, I think.

The boat had to be shipped to our home port--Duluth, Minnesota. We built a small dock on an undeveloped spit across from Hearding Island. 

My father's standing request was there would be no formal funeral, no public notice, no obituary. 

One Saturday morning my father and I took the boat out into the harbor and before we were halfway to the lift bridge, a thick fog rolled in off Lake Superior. We were floating more than sailing. Behind us came the sound of mechanical equipment. Suddenly, to our shock, an ocean freighter came steaming by us no more than 50' on our port side. "Mother would be upset if she were here." I understood the message, loud and clear.

At a small family gathering, we shared stories and thoughts about my father and his life. Dutiful was the word I offered. He was a dutiful husband--72 years. He was a dutiful father for the 3 of us. He was dutiful in his efforts as an architect for his clients and as a college teacher for his students. 

And there would be no grave. No headstone. No epitaph. His body was to be cremated. I spread the ashes in a small garden he maintained at my parents' condo. 

Sometimes when sailing we would find ourselves close to other boats. There were 3 Cal 25s my father was keen to keep an eye on. Without much fuss, we would tack onto their heading and all engaged understood an informal race was underway. One time my father reported one of the other skippers merely said to him "Fast boat". He was pleased.

I envied my father's architectural career, to be able to in a real way see the fruit of his labor. Folks living in a residential building he designed, audiences enjoying performances in a theater of his, and the schools--all levels--full and thriving. But, I think he took just as much satisfaction from teaching architecture, and even simpler drawing classes. 

He was smart--very. He was capable. And he could cut to the chase. When I turned 16, he told me I was old enough to spend the night in jail. I understood that message too, loud and clear. As for going to college, he advised that by the end of the effort I should be something. 

He was bold. When he was 30, he moved us from Sarasota, Florida to Duluth. When he was 40 he left a successful private practice with my mother and younger brother and took up teaching at LSU in Baton Rouge. At 50, he accepted a teaching slot in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. He and my mother were in residence there for 5 years. He returned to architecture,working in Savannah, and then finished his career in Macon.

I believe he was as pleased for me when he stood in the companionway of my Pearson 26 as we raced in Charleston Harbor as when he skippered his own boat. 

He was a good man. To my way of thinking, his was a life lived. 

 

The Gulf of Mexico

Among my favorite childhood memories....

My mother took us out to Fort De Soto Park to play on the sandy beaches and scamper around the fort itself. Strategically, the fort was built to protect the entrance to Tampa Bay from the Gulf of Mexico. The fort is named for Spanish explorer Hernando de Soto, who led 9 ships in 1539 to the Florida coast on the Gulf of Mexico side. 

By the way, my paternal grandfather for a stint served as a pilot bringing ships from the Gulf of Mexico into Tampa Bay. He would guide them from Egmont Key, which sits in the Gulf of Mexico, safely into the bay. 

My maternal grandfather often carried me fishing--his way of phrasing it--with him up to John's Pass, which carries the tide in and out between the Gulf of Mexico and Boca Ciega Bay. Most often we would fish the incoming tide and catch dozens of speckled trout and sometimes saltwater catfish and less often small stingrays. Ebb tides flowing back to the Gulf of Mexico would bring good sized reds as well.

My paternal grandmother enjoyed swimming in the Gulf of Mexico and so she would take me, and sometimes my younger sister too, out to St. Pete Beach for a swim and a light lunch. She was diligent about keeping us out of the water for half an hour after we ate our tuna sandwiches. Many times we were close to the Don Cesar Hotel, which looked like a huge pink cake trimmed with icing. The hotel offered spectacular sunset views across the Gulf of Mexico. 

In the summer of '63, my family rented a cottage at Bradenton Beach, another barrier island separating the Gulf of Mexico from Palma Sola Bay and Bradenton. Often, when we went to the beach in the morning, no one else was there. Because we were the first most days, I would toss pieces of riprap out into the shallow water to chase off stingrays. Even early in the morning, the Gulf of Mexico water would be warm.

That year we moved to Sarasota and that meant multiple trips across the Sunshine Skyway Bridge to see my grandparents in St. Pete. The bridge, around five and a half miles long, separates the Gulf of Mexico from Tampa Bay. Coming home and sitting in the back on the passenger side provided a fantastic view from 180' above the Gulf of Mexico.

Living in Sarasota changed our favorite beaches to Longboat Key and Siesta Key, both barrier islands situated between Sarasota Bay and the Gulf of Mexico. 

Then in 1965, we moved away from the Gulf of Mexico to another good sized body of water, Lake Superior. 

Of course, at that time it never occurred to me that the Gulf of Mexico should be renamed to increase my pride as a citizen of the United States.

Guess I was not ready to set aside childish ideas.  

Senior Moments

Another "school dream". This time an English 4 class--Brit lit--seniors and I are reading Macbeth out loud. They are just several months away from finishing their public school years. They are feeling chatty. I am pushing ahead, reading the part of Macbeth and offering commentary along the way. I fuss--not too stridently. They settle for a bit. More chatting. I move to a student desk next to two of the more disinterested students. Some focus. More chatting. I address students by name. Less noise, more Macbeth. Then, more chatting. 

I wake, grumpy. Another school dream? Damn, I think, still after 11 years retired. I know, I've read dreams are a way to clean out memory files. But every school dream I have is underscored by frustration or some level of anxiety. How much more does my mind need to clear out? I'm 71. Will this type of dream still be part of my mental landscape at 81? Or 91? 

Will I still be around at 81? Even with 90-year-old parents, 91 seems preposterous.

Yes, such thoughts cross my mind. 

A couple of days ago I headed to the master bath to grab a spray bottle of glass cleaner for the front windows. Instead I went into the kitchen and opened the freezer.

Yes, that moment gave me pause. More than a pause.

Unconscious desire for blueberries battling the conscious decision to do a chore? A serious senior moment? I don't know.

I do know I fumble now more often than I remember with keys, silverware, small tools. With pencils and pens, eye glasses, coffee cups. Always thought I had pretty good hands and pretty good grip strength. Now, well I'm not so sure.

Yesterday a woman who looked to be around 50 took my empty grocery cart: "Hon, I'll put that up for you". Nice, of course, but I would call her tone one of helping-the-old-guy-out. 

It does occur to me that what I think of as defining news events in my life often took place more than half a century ago. JFK's assassination, MLK's and RFK's assassinations, Chicago 1968, the conduct of the Vietnam War, the moon landing, Nixon's resignation. 

Obvious moments, some of the jokey kind. Body a little sore for no reason I can explain. What I mowed in 90 minutes several years ago, now 2 sessions of nearly 60 minutes. Time steady by the day, fleeting by the week, the month, the year.  

Hey, at least I can still push the damn mower. 

Ah, victory!

Emotions are a little less in check. Not that I've been emotionless most of my life, but I seem quicker to feel sorrow, especially for others. Misty-eyed unexpectedly on news that is not mine personally. Especially parents pulling children from rubble. 

On the plus side, I rarely feel anger. Appears a waste of energy to me these days.  Besides, haven't I seen most situations resolve over time? These, too, most likely will pass is the vibe.

I have a friend of half a century who always reminds me of his wish to live to 115. I groan when I hear this. Another 45 years--47 for him--I ask: Why?

"I can't imagine not being here," he says. 

I think of all that has happened in my life since I was 26. Wow.

I'm going with my simple mantra that upright is all right. Each day. One at a time.