This birthday thing is out of control. From now on I will count my
existence as scores of years. I am three-score and nine at present and I
think that sounds much better than saying that I am sixty-nine years
old. Sixty-nine sounds ancient but three-score and nine has a lighter
note to it. Besides, saying it in scores instead of continually
progressive years should make people stop and think a moment when they
hear or read it. Stopping to think is good as long as you don’t do it
while driving down the street. Verily, I will celebrate my next natal
anniversary when I become four-score.
My heart doctor summoned me for a checkup which I was supposed to
have attended just after my knee surgery last July. He tut-tutted at me
and then told me what I already knew; my heart is doing fine for a man
three-score and nine years of age. As soon as I left his office I went
and ate a huge celebratory cheeseburger and french fries. If you are
three-score and nine years old you should have learned over the decades
that greasy burgers are good for ones mental health just as ice-cold
beer is good for the kidneys.
Do you know me? Do you know that my favorite desert is blackberry
dumplings which barely edges out banana pudding or brownies? Do you know
my favorite meal is brown soup beans, mashed taters topped with peas,
spinach greens, fried country ham with red-eye gravy over biscuits,
green onions, and iced tea with a slice of lemon? I’ve been eating such
fare for most of three-score and ten years. Heart-healthy grub and fine
country cuisine.
Do you know that each evening after leaving the office I go to the
kitchen, get a small or medium size tomato, grab the salt shaker and
stand at the sink and feast? Now you know.
Title quote by Ludwig van Beethoven.
