Author’s note: I mean no offense by the image of the rather voluptuous soaking wet angel I have chosen to use for the cover art. She amuses me and appears to be searching and seeking in her suspended reality. Me too. It’s just that I couldn’t hold that pose.

And I hate the rain.

Now look damnit I don’t want to keep on writing about getting old although my mentor David Sedaris, the American humorist (notice the nod to the American spelling, which is let me be clear the incorrect way to spell ‘humourist’) my mentor David Sedaris, says the key is to write about things of which you know. And Good Lord I feel as though I’m learning more and more about getting older with each passing day.

I’ve told you before I’m good with getting old and know that I am blessed with relatively good health to enjoy it. I also am keenly aware and mindful through my own sad losses that I am alive which is a good thing, when you still have stuff to say. But that humble acknowledgment aside I am determined that I’m going to speak up with my remaining time.

Random cascade of thoughts to follow.

For example, who came up with the naming protocol for ageing ailments. I’ve noticed in the last couple of years that I bruise easily and when I do physical work my arms are quickly marked with large, unappealing purplish blobs under the skin. As I write I have one on my right arm. It looks for all the world like Iceland. See the thing is when you’re older you have time to consider which country the marks on your body resemble. I can recall a day not so long ago (which as an aside is about as far back as ‘I recall’ goes these days) when I had some time on my hands and I was able to identify several islands in the Outer Hebrides. My wife seemed remarkably unimpressed notwithstanding my enthusiasm for the discovery.

“Hey Mac, look at my arm. There’s Calvay and Scarp. And look there, by my elbow there’s Balashare.”

Ah well, perhaps we’re in the quiet reflection stage of our relationship. That can be romantic. I’m sure. But all that time filling fun aside, I needed to know what these horrid marks on my forearm were and what they are called. To my utter dismay I found out.

Senile Purpura!

Good Lord! Of all the words in all the world they had to come up with Senile Purpura. Ageist bastards! Unmindful to the sensitivities of older patients In the doctors’ office (I realize some of you may not have actually experienced a ‘doctor’s office’. It was a place we used to go to see a doctor. Ask your grandparents if you need to learn more). In any event, I digress. It happens.

So where was I. Ah yes, Senile Purpura. Now intellectually I understand where the words come from because I studied Latin in my early years. Mr. Green, Kelowna Junior High 1963, if you don’t believe me. Weird I know but what’s weirder is that throughout my life a base knowledge in Latin has allowed me to unravel most any word in the English language AND as an additional observation not get laid far beyond my natural due date. Apparently facility unravelling the root meaning of any English word did not get otherwise available teenage Canadian girls hot for young Tony. It was the 60’s. How could they possibly know the adventures awaiting?

But I digress. Where was I? Ah yes.

Senile comes from the Latin root word ‘senectus’, meaning ‘old’. I won’t even bother with ‘purpura’, it sounds for all the world like something they would feed old men in the home. My point is some young punk fresh out of medical school, unmindful or even worse uncaring about the bruising, concussive and hurtful impact words can have decided to call it ‘Senile Purpura’. Would I call him or her (or they, I know, I know!) PrePubescent Juvenalis? Actually, as I think about it I just might. Would serve ‘them’ right. Hey, I’m getting better at this gender thing.

Sorry about all this. It must be tedious to read. But hey, for me I have to acknowledge it’s really quite therapeutic. It’s as though I’m able to get rid of troubling and bad thoughts simply by writing about them: Scribius Flatus, if you will.

In any event, where was I?

Ah yes, Senile Purpura. ‘They’ could have just as easily called it something well, less jagged. Perhaps ‘Gentlus Purpanus’ or some such thing. Or as I just said that out loud, perhaps not. It could lead to an examination for hemorrhoids.

Of course when I go off like this it helps to have my gang nearby, an empathetic sounding board if there ever was one. A safe place. And they’re old as well so they kind of get it. I was recently hanging out with my mates Mo, Dan and Ron at the Departure Bay Dog Park in Nanaimo, on BC’s Vancouver Island. As I recall I was complaining about this thing they call ‘Senile Purpura’, displaying my arms to underscore my point and they appeared attentive. At least if nodding gently up and down was any indication, although at our age that may well not be the case. My friend Mo, not surprisingly, was the first to voice comfort.

“Hey Tony, you’re too hard on yourself. Don’t worry about it. You look great for 78.”

Comforting right? Just what your friends are for. Thing is I’m 72 and Mo knows it. My friends couldn’t stop laughing at their joke.

And memory. Now there’s a Beast with a mind of its own, which it chooses to share, or not. I’ve always been a wee bit absent minded, all my life as I recall but this, whatever ‘this’ is, is not about being absent minded, it’s more about an absent mind. When my glorious wife Mac and I get into the car these days she will often ask, “Testicles, spectacles, wallet and phone?“. It’s kind of our inside joke and a nod to The Beast. Of course there’s only one of those things that I know I didn’t forget, from which I have always taken considerable comfort. Fact is these days, it’s an otherwise essential checklist.

It is simply the strangest thing, getting older.

One day you’re young. Next day, “Oh look honey, it’s a tufted titmouse at the feeder?”

And the fact is, I don’t know if I can get used to it. And I’m running out of time, if you know what I’m saying. A friend of mine recently gave me some advice about this whole ageing thing.

“Tony, it takes about ten years for you to get used to how old you are.”

Hmmm. No comfort there. None whatsover!

Beastius Tempus Fugit! (from the Latin ‘bestia’ animal, ‘tempus’ time and ‘fugit’, oh just say that last one out loud. It works in both Latin and English.)