When one is 86 years old it's prudent to live week by week.  Or in fact day by day.  I have read stuff by much younger people with advice to us old. I  thought to write from my standpoint since I have not read much written material from 86 year olds about life management. Certainly in their 70's one could plan and implement longer term goals and objectives. The emphasis on the day or week on hand can command all of one's attention now, for me, and will forgo much thought about long term ideas. It may be that at 86 the present is the reality and the only relevant reality, since the past and the future are evanescent.
       The gratitude one has to be alive at that age and still be able to plan day by day, is a gift. The gift of a wife and family nearby, even if Covid 19 impairs the connection, can be solved with the internet at all times.  As I say, the gift of life, the capacity to plan day by day, and gratitude for the blessing of wife and family makes it all worth while.
        On our refrigerator a sign says Do Not Resuscitate. This alerts the ambulance paramedics to honor our wish to die a natural death if there are no signs of life, after a collapse at home. I often wondered if I should have the sign tattooed on my chest if I collapsed on the street to avoid the well meaning who might bring me back to a simple vegetative state with broken ribs.
         I spent 40 years in Orthopedic surgery looking after a geriatric hospitalized demographic of patients with life crisis events. It was a learning experience, but it never prepared me for 86. We can't carry over the unique character of others. And I realized somewhere along the line that I was cowardly. My wife, my brothers, my children and all those I love are younger than me and for me to go first, spares me the grief that I seek to avoid. Another character flaw unearthed and about to be earthed in due time.
        How my Christian faith flows  around this unearthly dialogue to myself I do not know. God forgive me because I am only human and a sinner. I tried to be a Saint and failed. I yam what I yam. Popeye the sailor man !

Doctor Y was an old time physician who was a member of the establishment in Lotus City when I arrived to practice in the 1960's. In a moment of utter madness  he had purchased a large old Tudor mansion with  acreage in the high end district of the city. It was a beautifully landscaped property and he did the gardening work himself rather than hiring help as most of his neighbors were wont to do.  He gardened in baggy cast-off trousers  and an old slouch hat. Pruning, spraying, weeding, applying mountains of fertilizers and mulch---he toiled in the soil with his customary efficiency.
       A newcomer to the district and a neighbor seemed to take particular interest to his work habits and she eventually came to doctor Y's fence and hailed him.
        She said,  " I've noticed how well you work and wondered if you might consider working as well for me. I'm close by. What do you charge? "
         He thought for a moment and said,  " The standard amount, but the lady feeds me lunch. "
         " Oh, " said the newcomer,  " I can feed you lunch. "
         "But " he said ," The lady lets me sleep with her. "  I don't know whether it was the slouch hat or the dirty baggy pants, or the impertinence, but that seemed  to bring cessation to the negotiations.
           It was said that despite the perhaps infelicity at the time, they became good friends and enjoyed a laugh about it all. It is however likely that she would always be hesitant to become his patient.

I idly thought of a potential treasure trove for the enterprising in recycled hair.:  human hair from the barber shop, pet hair from the groomers,  even chemical hair from the beauty shops:  dandruff and fleas notwithstanding. all collected from daily floor sweepings, gone tonight and hair again tomorrow.
    Think of it:  the volume to be collected from all these emporiums, free for the taking by someone with a broom and a bag.
      The rain forest on the coast in which we live is shared by the ubiquitous slug that forages on our vegetables and flowers. There has never been a satisfactory method of control short of getting up early in the morning and cutting them in half and awaiting the cannibal slugs to come so as to divide them in half as well.
            An axiom in Medicine is:  There is an inverse relationship with the greatest number and variety of treatments for any condition and  their effectiveness. Copper wire, beer, liquid and solid ferrous poisons and endless barriers and pathway impediments are to no avail. Give it some thought:  a tiny berm of hair around a tender line of vulnerable tiny shoots which the slug would have to traverse,  slug-slime coated in floor swept hair, prickly impediment dragging the unwelcome creature to its demise.
       Think of it!  A pickup load of hair delivered to your gardens from the multiple emporia of Victoria each day for distribution. I was enthused.
       Then,  I had a dream that a hairy slug entered  the spinach patch and delivered hair and dandruff to the organic gardener's spinach salad.  I had another dream that a realtor was discussing our home and garden as  Hairy Acres.  In my dream the place was impossible to sell. I concluded that there is no end to bad ideas when the mind races with fantasy

When we fished off the Lotus City waters the pianist's extended family, a farm family, visited us from South Dakota for the Christmas season. On a beautiful winter day several of the party including the pianist's uncle went fishing with me at Fiddle Reef. Now Fiddle Reef is aptly named because the reef is shaped like  a violin and is marked by a navigational  buoy at the wide end where through traffic is heavy, and at the stem end where fishing traffic is heavy. The rock is low enough at low tide that it doesn't dry.
     We all planned to have supper at the marina after the fishing excursion. I was intent on having my guests catching a fish and trolled for most of the later  afternoon around the outer margins of the reef, delicately avoiding grounding our lures on the reef.  Despite my best effort, --- nothing! The pianist's uncle was one of those gentle special human beings and waited  at last until it was finally his turn on the lines.
     It was getting late and the balance of the family had gathered at the marina and they could see us at Fiddle Reef, our running lights on, fishing in the gloom. It was cold so we trailed clouds of steam as we went forth in terminal desperation to catch a fish. The winter season was such that the fish there,  were all winter Spring Salmon of 5 to 15 pounds, developing size on winter bait at that time of the year.
        Suddenly, as we were about to give up, a line screeched into action and a fair sized fish started breaking water at tremendous speed, shaking and writhing with each jump. Fortunately the uncle could play the fish more easily because he had the Penn reel in hand rather than the knuckle duster. I said to everyone that surprisingly we had a Coho on because a Spring Salmon rarely leaves the water  in the struggle to free itself. Was I ever wrong? One thing the Spring  Salmon does to a bait ball is enter it with its tail lashing to cripple some small herring or anchovy so it can turn and eat them at leisure. However, sure enough the 10 pound Spring Salmon was hooked in the tail. It behaved like a Coho because of that. I had never seen a tail-hooked salmon before or since, but in retrospect that seems strange because of the manner of salmon tail lashing in bait balls. Moreover salmon lures are designed to simulate crippled bait.
      Salmon. like all of us I guess, prefer getting things the easy way, and returning to have a leisurely lunch.Our uncle had a good time fishing and when he went back to the farm, he said he had quite a 'tail" to tell to his friends.

Last night I thought of the familiar Christmas short story of the young couple who didn't have  enough money for presents to one another. O Henry's story recounts the boy had a watch that he prized and she had beautiful hair. He sold his watch unbeknownst to her to buy her a beautiful set of combs for her beautiful hair and unknown to him she sold her hair for the money to buy a  special band for his prized watch.
             Christmas evening was met with dismay initially,   then later a realization set in. This story is simple but profound. Love and sacrifice are inextricably entwined with one another. Love is willing to sacrifice again and again and sacrifice is a part of love in action. That's where Christmas came from. There is glory in this mistake, and something to remind us that the law of unintended consequences teaches again and again that we are not as smart as we think we are. The Magi saw something more in the stable.

She had been sitting for a fairly long period and had to go to the bathroom and her leg kept going to sleep. "Can we take a break?" she asked.
"Just a couple of minutes , ' he said, " I'm tidying up something."
A trace of amusement passed her face and she shifted slightly to wait. He looked up just as the wisp of amusement was there and it was imprinted on his unconscious memory. Unknowingly he painted it in.
       He much later showed the portrait to the Eminence. "Very average painting" ,the Eminence observed. "but there is something intriguing about the face."
       Then he made a much fuller comment about the portrait  and observed that the enigmatic smile was significant, as it reflected a depth of both sorrow and joy;  that life and death, goodness and sin were omnipresent as a part of the human condition. Centuries later,  the enigma of the smile continued to confound as gallery travelers marveled at what they were told to see.
                        So dear Brutus, let us not be airy-fairy
                        If you hear a chirping in the bush
                        It's probably a sparrow and not a canary.
        The law of unintended consequence!
    

Some time earlier we had a workshop on story telling. It appeared to me at the time that I   was perhaps the most curmudgeonly attendant there or maybe the oldest and needed something. I got it! The workshop was conducted by a visiting EpiscopaL priest who is a professional story teller. Her stories were allegorical but not scripturally based that day. However, the sort of story telling that scripture utilizes is often allegorical stories that tell us something about ourselves, if we identify with the stories and the characters within them. They can be creative and constructive.
        Half of the people at the workshop were Anglicans and half were not church people but were interested in this kind of story telling. The priest may have avoided scriptural tales in view of the nature of the participants. The act of relating to one another through listening to allegorical tales, reacting to the characters in the stories in the way one does, and vicariously to one another as a result, provides an interesting and valuable  insight about how one thinks about oneself and the tangible and intangible  reality you think you know, or thought you knew.
      Whether fable or parable, allegory or metaphor, we can delve into a head space for ourselves or learn from others. Of course, whether we were church goers or not, there was no discernible difference in the responses at all, in our workshop.
       And yet when I look at our liturgy in church on any Sunday, the readings of scripture, the hymns, the psalms sung, even the prayers, have significant elements of allegory. What does that allow in respect to interpretation? A respect of the diversity among us. It allows our God-given right to be ourselves in all things of the spirit and to follow where it will in charity and harmony even for the most curmudgeonly.
      

Alas it didn't work out and shouldn't have either. In 1969 and earlier I was on call for orthopedic injuries at a downtown hospital in Lotus City. It was hard work and I was often tied up for hours day or night, every other day.The Emergency department had a number of doctor parking spaces allocated to us adjacent to it, but they were not only filled by doctors called to Emergency but by police who were often part of the scene. I was a bit cocky and felt if the police were in one of the doctor designated spaces and it was fully occupied I could park with impunity on the adjacent street. I got a lot of parking tickets which I ignored, convinced of course of my own rectitude.
       One day when the pianist was strapped  and busy  with children she received a visit from the city police department who told her I was under arrest for failure to pay multiple parking tickets ad should appear at the police station. On hearing this I clearly thought my contribution to mankind at that time would be apparent  and absolve me if they understood using our spot for police cars was not on. I hastened down to the police station to deliver my opinion, was informed of the charges, booked,  finger printed, and jailed. Shortly after, the desk sergeant said I could make bail and my  jail door was unlocked.
         He asked me if I was guilty of the charges and I said no, since given the situation and the self importance of my work  I considered they were dealing with me unfairly. Still, I was my own worst enemy and deep down I knew it. Despite that I believed I could argue my own case before the judge. We had a date and I argued my case as I thought it would be convincing. The judge smiled at me and said, "50 dollars or ten days and all your tickets in arrears to be paid." I smiled at him and bit the bullet. Never walk loudly and carry a small stick. I learned my lesson. It may be cliche but it is so applicable I must use it.  " Too soon old too late smart."

In the Lotus Island Market every weekend, wheat grass is sold as a uniquely gifted health food when prepared as a juice, with nutritional and restorative powers. Its virtues at the time seemed to me to be something of a more modern and innovative discovery, although it was , as I learned , investigated in the 30's and 40's, and the art of juicing and marketing the drink occurred in the 50's. Remarkable claims have been made as to its benefits.
      Fancy then, that Rabelais (1494 to 1553),  physician,  author, theologian, and humanist, in his epic novel about the adventures of Gargantua and Pantagruel, he  described the benefits of " wheat in the blade " in   1534 .  Indeed, there is nothing new under the sun. I'm not sure Rabelais is everyone's cup of tea but he was France's treasure, although despite that, the church drove him from his country as a result of his failure to conform . Its not everyone who becomes a commonly used  English adjective such as  "rabelaisian".
      His observations on wheat grass were clearly outlined.
      He writes:  " From wheat in the blade you make a fine green sauce, simple to mix and easy to digest, which rejoices the brain, exhilarates the animal spirits, delights the sight, induces the appetite, pleases the taste, fortifies the heart, tickles the tongue, clarifies the complexion, strengthens the muscles, tempers the blood, eases the diaphragm, refreshes the liver, unblocks the spleen, comforts the kidneys, relaxes the vertebrae, empties the ureters, dilates the spermatic glands, tautens the testicle strings, purges the bladder, swells the genitals, straightens the foreskin, hardens the ballock, and rectifies the member:  giving you a good belly, and good belching, farting both noisy and silent, shitting, pissing, sneezing, crying, coughing, spitting, vomiting, yawning, snotting, breathing, inhaling, exhaling, snoring, sweating,  and erections of the john-thomaa;  also countless other rare advantages. "
           Unfortunately we are not told of the other countless rare advantages. Nevertheless the observations of Rabelais render the modern pitch of wheatgrass rather pallid,  woudn't you agree?

I have no background knowledge of music or music instruments since I am a surgical mug and tone deaf, but I am married to the pianist so I glean her periodic droppings. I go to the occasional musical soiree and nod at expressions of ecstasy shown by friends so as to join in, but I know where I really belong and it's the other kind of theatre, the operating theatre. I have tried!!
       The pianist's mother was a concert cellist and she played till she was eighty five, and practised in our home rather than her apartment since she was driving her fellow apartment dwellers crazy with her unending scales.!
        I was working one day in the operating room with a colleague doing a long case and he was going on at the time, endlessly it seemed, about a side occupation he did in addition to his general practice. He was a classical music lover and scholar and had an interest in brokering string instruments. He was enthusiastic about a Stradivarius he had acquired the rights to and had traveled to Olympic city, " Where the money is, " he said, " to show it to a client. "  I half listened to him as he rattled on gaily about his forays in the precious instrument trade, while I kept track of the surgical matter of his patient in my hands.
          Then he said out of the blue, "I have a bid on a Vaillaume cello as well. They are rare but there is a client of mine in the market for one if I can find it. "Oh ya ,"  I said,  half listening, "we have one of those in a closet at home."  There was silence.  He knew I was a barbarian and couldn't tell the difference between a cello and a kettledrum.  At least that's what he probably thought.
           " No," he said
          " Yes, " I said, " It's probably in a closet somewhere in the house."
        Well, there was no way that he wasn't going to see it that night.  He said nothing more and assiduously paid attention to what we were doing to his patient over the balance of the case.  Then I couldn't hold him back. He bounded up the stairs of the home at ten pm and said in profound disbelief to the pianist, " You don't have a Vaillaume cello in your closet, do you?"
        "Yes" she said,  " My mother bought it in Paris when she played there in 1928."
       My colleague examined it carefully and then looked at me as if I was a newly hatched giant of the music industry. I felt like a poseur after all that talk , but I wasn't going to let him know that I was just a surgical mug who knew what was in a closet , somewhere in the house.