A Mr. Cranky's Neighborhood Story.
This is a weekly column consisting of letters to my perspicacious progeny. I write letters to my grandkids — the Stickies — eventual selves to advise them and haunt them after they've become grups and/or I'm deleted. Best perused on a screen large enough for even your parents to see and navigate easily.
Trigger Warning: This column is rated SSC — Sexy Seasoned Citizens — Perusal by kids, callowyutes, or grups may result in a debilitating meltdown.
"Old age and treachery will always beat youth and exuberance." -David Mamet
My favorite Mormons (no connection to the early sixties sitcom) live in the house next door to Casa de Chaos. I've mentioned them in previous episodes of Mr. Cranky's neighborhood. Both Mr. and Mrs. Morman are 80ish. Both, as you might expect, suffer from a health problem or three.
The weather in early spring in the Hooterville metropolitan area is often a study in sharp contrasts. You can wake up to snow and 15 degrees one morning and the next day the high temp can shoot up into the sixties.
Recently, the temperature remained in the civilized zone for a few days before a blast from Canada came through and reminded me of why I'm glad Tricky Dick ended the Vietnam draft just before I might've been forced to decide if I wished to become a Canadian citizen.
I happened to glance out of our kitchen window and saw Mr. Mormon tinkering with his Can-Am Spyder, an extremely cool-looking three-wheeled motorcycle, gently throttling the engine up and down. Unlike a certain brand of motorcycle that shall remain nameless, the Can-Am's motor is as quiet as its competitor's motor is loud, a gentlepersons sort of motor.
{You've also made mention of this old dude's bike in other Mr. Cranky's neighborhood episodes. What's your point?}
I have two points actually. First, my big brother Eddie taught me a long time ago that in the case of non-birthing persons over the age of 30, with (temporary) exemptions for men caught up in a midlife crisis, the louder the motor, the smaller the penis is likely to be. You can look it up.
{Are you trying to get your butt kicked?}
Second point. I was completely unaware that Mrs. Momom had ever/would ever awkwardly and carefully climb onto the back seat of the trike and join her partner of multiple decades for a spin around the neighborhood, neither of them wearing a helmet.
When I expressed my surprise to my daughter, who's always much more in tune than me with what the denizens of our hood are up to, she told me I was reporting old news and that the two of them taking a spin was not uncommon.
When I pointed out they weren't wearing helmets and they're even older, much older, than I am, she helpfully pointed out that they, like most people, aren't actually that much older than me. And given that it has three wheels, that he doesn't go very fast, and they don't go very far, they were both likely to survive the journey.
I'm happy to report that they survived and that the next day I saw Mrs. Mormon awkwardly and carefully descending her porch steps while grasping the handrail with one hand and the hand of a toddler, one of her many grandkids, with the other.
I still take a daily walk around my neighborhood most mornings; you need to keep moving if you want to keep moving, which brings...
{Wait-wait-wait, I wanna write that down.}
Which brings us to dogs and canes.
{Well, obviously.}
I use a HurryCane, the preferred cane of cool kids everywhere, because I suffer from something called lumbar spinal stenosis and osteoarthritis. Actually, suffer is too strong a word, I'm somewhat inconvenienced by both conditions, but I refuse to have back surgery if or until it's absolutely necessary (right, Ben?).
I give my cane full credit for enabling me to walk away from a recent encounter with a Pit Bull unscathed. Fellow geezers and geezerettes, if you use a cane, or perhaps even if you don't, and regularly walking is part of your fitness routine...
{Maybe even the only part.}
And if you prefer walking around your neighborhood to walking around your local mall...
{I hear that's a good way to meet chicks.}
Get yourself a cane like the HurryCane, one with three or four, stabilizers(?) on the bottom. Something a barking, growling, drooling beastie can't fail to notice when you point it at its face while slowly inching sideways towards safety, never taking your eyes off of the little furry little...
{One of them babies with a large, four-pronged frame on the end would be great. You could have a prong with a point added in the middle that's shorter than the others so it wouldn't touch the ground. Then...}
Because even if Cujo's owner comes running and begins screaming at the dog because it seems reluctant to pass on a chance to have fresh human for breakfast, you might still have a chance if it chooses to be a bad doggie.
{Do they still make sword canes?}
Poppa loves you,
Have an OK day
P.S. No canines or writers were injured in the course of the events that led to this column being composed. However, I must confess that I (only briefly, of course) fantasized about reenacting the Caning of Charles Sumner with the assistance of the dog's owner who mumbled a brief, insincere sounding apology in my direction while screaming at his dog to go back to the house.
I noticed he didn't attempt to grab it by the collar (no chain in sight); he must have been smarter than he looked.
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