For today’s missive, let me begin the tale about one of the latest great “romantic” adventures of Big George and myself. We were invited to a FREE lunch date. I knew George would be in (FREE) so we RSVPd our energized yes and away we went. I don’t recall any batting of eyes or sparkly winking, but nonetheless we both ended up in the same car during the drive and that’s close enough.
 
The event was held at a local and (wait for it) well-respected funeral home/celebration-of-life establishment because, well, that’s what the talks were about following the complimentary soup and sandwich buffet, complete with beverages and dessert. All the tables were nearly filled and since most of us were of a certain age, we all behaved with decorum and gobbled up most of our meal before the presenters began.
 
Each attendee also received a really nice FREE ballpoint pen with a soft rubbery phone knobby-tapper thingie on the end. This was especially timely since every other FREE pen we’ve accumulated over the years was running dry. Each pen was clipped to a folder containing follow-up information and a couple survey sheets to fill out with our Cadillac version new pens which didn’t even leak or smear. Oh, and the folder also contained a photocopy of a “Dear Abby” article about a family member who’d very much appreciated her mom, who’d recently passed, having made all her own funeral arrangements, including prepayment.
 
I am a huge fan of this type of planning. My desire is to be helpful, even after death. In the process of full disclose, it also enables getting “the last word” even after I can no longer speak. (hahaha) I already have a bunch of takers lined up for “my help,” including that I’m a registered body donor to Mayo Clinic for their research. Since there are “things” that can disqualify your body, though, I even have a backup plan. It says right on my driver’s license I am an organ donor. But make that first call to Mayo because after they’re done with their research, they pay for FREE cremation (my desire anyway, and a parting gift to George, should I go first, because it’s FREE cremation!), return the cremains to the significant others and hold an annual FREE (parlaying at its best!) luncheon for the families of donors. I’ve heard terrific, warm and meaningful stories about this. If you’re keeping count here, the funeral home, which owns its own crematory, is sort of third in line for all my “gifting.” Well, they’re actually second, if Mayo declines and I do “get to” donate some organs, because there will be, well, the rest of me to contend with, and I am currently a super-size fluffy.
 
But back to the part where I’m still alive and have finished our FREE lunch, while we were eating, on the projection screen they listed a few housekeeping items, including the ever-repeated SILENCE YOUR CELL PHONES. While we chewed and browsed our brochures, for at least a half-hour that request was in everyone’s vision.
 
And don’t you know that shortly after the presenter began, a loud cell phone began ringing. It took a while for the table of folks with said ringing to figure out it was at their table. They were at the front of the room (of course) and it seemed everyone figured out it was them before they did. (Presenter keeps talking but all eyes and attention are on the action at the table.) It took them what seemed forever (raised eyebrows, shrugged shoulders, waving hands) to figure out the phone was in a handbag, on the floor, of a woman sitting across the table from the man whose feet were near the handbag.
 
If the presenter delivered the secret to beat death, we all missed it. By the time the handbag holding the ringing phone made its way around the table to its owner, of course the phone stopped ringing. We ALL saw that one coming! And do we think she turned the sound off? You just know it rang again.
 
But even after all of that, we enjoyed the presenters, learned a few things, took some notes with our FREE new pens and have continued conversing about our Final Arrangements. I’ve even used my new pen to fill out a few more items in the SORRY, IT’S YOUR PROBLEM NOW BECAUSE I’M DEAD spiral booklet containing my personal info, accounts and wishes I bought to further get in more last words, even after my lips no longer move.
 
Isn’t old age romantic?

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​A young (well, comparably, since he’s mid-fifties) friend of ours tore up his knee in an off-road motor bike accident. He and some buddies were out in the middle of nowhere rodding it up when ba-bam, he was down. Unable to walk and with no sensible-transport-for-an-injury vehicle parked nearby, his pals helped him remount his bike. GRIT! In ongoing heroic efforts, he figured out how to pick up his leg under the thigh and drop it down to help himself throttle or clutch or whatever and ride for help.
  
The drama! The mind over matter to overcome the pain! The focus. The heroics! The unbelievable achievement.
    
 And now we fast forward.
  
 For several weeks post-op (all kinds of repairs and pins and kneecap wizardry) he is not allowed to bend the knee or put weight on the leg. For an action type of guy—or anyone, for that matter—this is not a good time. It’s a crutches-and-brace laden time you must gird your loins with humility and depend on dependable people to help you along with daily functions such as carrying your plate back to your recovery encampment, if you can manage to not tip yourself over while filling said plate. Everything is exhausting. I remember this well after my knee replacement back in 2017.
    
His wife had to travel for business for a week and thus a spread sheet was put in place for dependable volunteers to sign up and check in, do whatever, keep him company. Being the mature, retired and dependable types, Big George and I signed up for three slots between us. 

The evening after George arrived home from his last shift, he realized he’d left his metal water bottle behind. The patient’s  wife was returning home the next day, so we waited another day so as not to immediately bug them with trivialities, before we called and asked if they could set it out on the front porch for our retrieval. 
   
Mind you, I had no harsh words (mostly, as I recall, or I suppose, er, I hope, maybe that's possible) for George’s lapse since he’s spent a good portion of his life retrieving items I’ve left behind. Glasses. Jackets. My water bottle on dozens of occasions. Credit cards. Purses. Any sense of decorum or brilliance.
  
During the “waiting day” between leaving his water bottle and picking it up, we attended a local play held in a church sanctuary. When we got home, guess who didn’t have her water bottle? The next day calls began to the theatre folks and church folks and everyone I could think of asking if anyone had seen my easily described, crumb-bummy looking, sticker-laden yet sentimental water bottle. Yes, it was in the church lost and found where someone probably took it with prongs, if they were smart.
  
On Double Retrieval day, we two dependable volunteers made our physical list on the back of an envelope. At this age, I tend to stockpile errands so we “have to” grab lunch or breakfast along the way because there are just “so many errands.” It’s like a build-in incentive and reward system which I highly recommend. 

When we arrived home from the marathon, I went to take a swig from my water bottle which is when I realized (checked the list) that we dependable people had missed that task since apparently, I’d crossed it off on the way TO the task (because it was crossed off) and lost track of the actuality of the situation since… crossed off means done. 

We were just too pooped to head out again so we added it to the next day’s agenda with the FOCUS of ONE TASK and ONE TASK ONLY: get my water bottle. GROAN!
  
The drama! The Mind over Matter to, eventually, overcome ourselves. The lack of focus. The questionable guys in our own story. The unbelievable old people's follies. 

Yet, here we sit, side-by-side in our lounge chairs, just sipping away from our water bottles, as though we are perfectly normal folks. 
  
Dependable. Eventually.