Carl is 96 years old and was outside, blowing leaves on Thursday. 

He is using a wheeled leaf blower that looks kind of like a lawn mower, with a gas engine and a big fan.   Something like this.

I didn’t walk over to take a look at it because Carl would tell me a long story about where he junk-picked the blower, and what he did to fix it.  We both had work to do.

Carl still tells good stories and is more active than anyone.  When he was born in 1929, cars looked like this.

That’s a Ford Model A.  Carl has one of those, and last spring, he was trying to find an alternator belt for it.

I hate to say that getting old is a choice, because it sucks when my doctor says shit like that, but there is something to it.  Carl knows how old he is and his physical limitations, he just doesn’t care.

I would never offer to do things for Carl.  He would take it as an insult.  At school, there were a few young, strapping male teachers who would offer to carry the box or equipment I was lugging.  I get it, they were being respectful and kind, but I’d still tell them to fuck off.  You have to tell them that.

Carl does know that if he needs a second man, I’d come over.  He still chops down trees, or moves heavy equipment.  A second guy can be useful for that.

When Carl was working on the Model A, I was worried that he could get pinned underneath or stuck somehow.  He has a bunch of those vintage car horns with the rubber thing you squeeze.  I asked him to keep a car horn within reach.  If he gets stuck, he should keep honking that, and if I hear it, I’d send Sparky over to investigate.  If I didn’t hear it, a bunch of geese might land.

With those old guys, you gotta bust their chops.  That’s how they know you still respect them.  Being pathetic or pitied is what they hate most.

I’m saying ‘they’ and ‘them’, like I am outside their camp.  Fine, ‘we’ and ‘us’.