Ramblings of a (Re)tired Mind

[Warph]

                

Nelson's Drug Store


Many of us grew up when neighborhood drugstores sold little but drugs and sodas.

In the 1940s, as we perched on green vinyl stools at a marble-topped soda fountain slurping our Green Rivers, who knew that from such humble beginnings would spring Walgreen's and McDonald's?

My drugstore, at the corner of Cedar, Meacham and Northwest Highway in Park Ridge, Illinois, was Nielson's Drugs. It's where I picked up my grandfather's insulin, where I got every sixth ice cream cone free, where I took my first date.

Nielson's, like most all drugstores of that era, began solely as an apothecary. In those days, druggists weren't mere pill pushers. With their mortars, pestles and magic — Eureka! — they developed compounds which remedied many illnesses. Legal cocaine and opium played no small part in making most anyone feel better.

Later, soda fountains were introduced for customers with upset stomachs. Drink bubbly mineral water, burp, and you were good as new.

By the time I came along, soft drinks had replaced bicarbonates, and high traffic for soda pop and ice cream had pushed the druggist to the back of the store.

Sure, there was still that bittersweet medicinal/syrupy smell about the place. But no one complained. We were too busy sucking up Vanilla and Cherry Cokes made with syrup and soda water, Lime Rickeys, made from limejuice and soda, and the ever-popular and oh-so-sweet Green River, "First for Thirst Since 1919."

My friend Bob Smith still remembers treating his first date to a Green River, "Triple up on the syrup."

What better way to impress a 5th grade sweetheart!

I remember the ice cream best. And the best thing about the ice cream was the chocolate malt. You see, by design or accident the malt tins in which they were mixed were bigger than the malt glasses. For two bits you'd get this huge glass of delectable calories, plus a bonus left in the malt tin, next to your glass.

Such soda fountain largess has a lot to do with what old-timers now call the "Good Old Days."

Meanwhile, about 30 miles west in then small town of St. Charles, Illinois, my friend Jerry Fisher worked at Bagge's Drugs as soda jerk, inventory clerk, janitor and "Apprentice Pharmacist." (He had a $2 license from the state to prove it.)

It was 1947. Jerry made 50 cents an hour; the average prescription cost 67 cents. Doctors and clergy got a 10 percent discount.

Patent medicines were at least as popular then as now. And for good reason. Lydia Pinkham's Vegetable Compound ("A Positive Cure for Painful Complaints and Weaknesses so Common to Our Best Female Population") and Hadacol ("What Put the Pep into Grandma?") contained so much alcohol that the government later made them illegal to sell without a liquor license.

Epsom Salts and boric acid, too, were found in most medicine cabinets back then. Soaking in the Salts sedated the nervous system as it drew out splinters. And boric acid? Well, today it's used for killing bugs and treating wood with dry rot. I never did learn its use back then.

So as not to offend, many of the more intimate products were stuffed away in drawers behind the counter. Jerry remembers his confusion when a man asked, sotto voce, for "Safeties."

"Safeties?" he responded. "What do they do?"

Blushing, the man demanded, "Let me talk to an adult! Now!"

And as "Safeties" euphemized condoms, tampons were "In-Packs." In those days young girls feared losing their virginity or becoming erotically stimulated by such devices.

Most drugstore soda fountains did a big lunch business, the first of the fast-food joints. At Bagge's Drugs, the olive date-nut salad sandwich was most popular. Early hot-dog cookers - electrodes in each end of the wiener - tasted more metallic than meaty and soon were replaced by boiling water.

By 1960 most all corner drugstores were gone, victims of the now ubiquitous automobile, supermarkets, and chain pharmacies.

Nielson's morphed into an architectural office. I often wonder if they ever got rid of that smell.

....Buzzy Balent, Geezer

[Warph]

As a kid of the '40s, I'd spend hours daydreaming about the enchanting prospects of invisibility.

I'd see movies, free.

I'd sneak a peek at a naked Mary Lou Bjorken in the girls' locker room. Oh I admit, I was too young to know what to look for, but that would have sucked none of the excitement from the scene.

Invisible at our daily baseball game, I would hit an infield homer, reappearing just as I touched home plate.

Little did I know that by age 60, we actually do disappear.

I wouldn't have believed this 20 years ago. And it doesn't happen overnight.

Geezers become aware of their own evanescing when 20- and 30-year-olds start looking through them, Casper-like. If you were once attractive to the opposite sex, I understand that this experience can be terrifying.

And if that's not bad enough, sooner or later those same youngsters to whom you're invisible will run right over you if you don't step quickly out of their way. I may not move like a 25-year-old anymore. But I've learned to sidestep like one.

Sometimes, no matter how agile we become, we can't avoid collision due to invisibility.

A few weeks back, my buddy, J.C. Spitznagel, suffered such an accident while sitting quietly in his dentist's waiting room reading about some "current war effort" in a decades' old National Geographic. A young lady walked into the otherwise empty room, looked over the 10 or so chairs, and, not seeing him, promptly walked over and sat in J.C.'s lap.

"Oh my God!" she blurted.

"Incoming!" he shouted, diving for the floor.

If you haven't had an invisible moment, live long enough and you will.

By the time you're 85, hardly anyone ever sees you anymore. Even your family loses track of you for a day or two each week.

Unfortunately, by then you're too old to get away with much. Like robbing a bank. Even invisible, your creaking bones snitch on you.

Surely there must be some good in all this. After all, invisibility, like senior discounts and arthritis, is one of the gifts of old age. Right?

When I was a kid, I'd make bargains with God. If He'd make me invisible, I'd use it for world peace. Or at least by helping little old ladies cross a busy road near our home.

Now that I actually have the gift, what do I do with it? To be honest, I don't care anymore about seeing Mary Lou Bjorken naked.

But helping little old ladies?

That's something a little old man like me can handle, even while invisible, with pleasure.

...Ernie Blankkurd, Geezer

[Warph]

Warning: Don't open this!  
Oh... jeez, you've opened it...
okay.. Warning; Warning; Warning!  If you value your eyesight and modesty and the front lobe of your brain, I wouldn't read this!
You have been warned...This is a Warning... Do Not Read The Following!  If you go crying to the powers at be on this forum,
about this story, you're a Conservative and a big fat KnuckleHead.

You Have been Warned!

                       

           



Now, being close to their age, I would think that it would be nice to have an orgy or two if you are stuck in a lousy nursing home.  Some are such boring and horrible places.  I think they should bring in both male and female strippers who give extra services.  Why?  Why not.  Life doesn't stop because your old and decrepid.
                                             

I agree it must have been a frightening sight seeing all those wrinkles lathered in baby oil and gramps working hard to get a limp willy to respond.  If left alone, I'm sure the frustration of lack of stiffness would have stopped the orgy and all would have shuffled back to their rooms, sad.  If they were able to get it on, wow, hurrah for them.  What great aerobic exercise for their age, they should make it a regular exercise to keep them physically, mentally and sexually fit.

               
But Britain, like we prudish Americans, just can't stand such a thought.  Sex in a nursing home... LOL

In Denmark, prostitution is legal, and nursing home patients can order a prostitute to come and service them and the national health system will pay for it.  They say it keeps the residence more fit and much more happy and reduces fights and loneliness.   There are specially trained prostitutes for seniors and they receive a fixed payment negotiated with the national health plan.  The conservatives tried to defund it, but the citizens, seniors and nursing home directors responded very angry and so they kept the program.

               

[Warph]

How To Be A Pain-in-the-Ass Geezer

Personally, I'm now working hard at becoming a real pain in the ass.  Lucky for me, there's plenty to be a pain in the ass about.  Wholesale rudeness.  Airports.  Congress.  "Customer service." Telemarketers.  Age discrimination.  Our lousy Obumacare system.

You have your own list. The trick is to do something about it.  As my friend J.C. Spitznagel likes to point out, "Well behaved seniors seldom make history."  Great minds, from Aristotle to Churchill, all got crankier with age.

Start by getting a bumper sticker saying: "I'M RETIRED.  But I work part time being a pain in the butt."  Bellyache every chance you get.  I don't recommend freestyle, angry-at-the-world grouchiness.  There's nothing wrong with that as long as having friends is not a priority in your life.  Far more effective, however, is to practice righteous indignation against the specific evils on your list.  It feels good.  And you might accomplish something beneficial for the world.

Let your battle cry be, "Curmudgeonize! Cantankorize!  Let no evil go ungrumped!"

You might try this.  Lets say you're at the Property Tax Revanue office and you just paid your property tax.  As you are leaving, you might flip this at the Tax Assessor:
     

Or if you're looking for a big time role model:
You won't find better than Ava Estelle, 81-year-old Australian granny, who was so angered when two thugs raped her 18-year-old granddaughter that she tracked them down, photographed them to show her granddaughter "to make sure as hell it was them," then returned with a pistol and shot off their testicles.

"I shots 'em right square between their boney legs, right where it would really hurt 'em most, you know. Then I went right down to the police and turned myself in."  

Said one detective, "It will be difficult to throw an 81-year-old woman in prison, especially when three million people here in Melbourne, FL want to nominate her for sainthood.*"

Wow... Go Granny! Go!

   
* Even if it's only urban legend, it should have happened if it didn't.


....Warph

[Warph]

                  

Now is the time to start thinking about your epitaph. It's never too early.

As you know, life after 50 is patch, patch, patch.

What if you died yesterday? Your stone might well read: "Here lies Betty. We'd say more, but she wasn't ready."

Folks spend more thought picking out their screensaver than they do their epitaph. This is a mistake. It can even lead to tombstone typos like: "Gone to be an angle" or "Rest in piece."

Such bloopers are forever.

An epitaph is a public declaration, the last and probably longest-lasting expression of your life.



What do we remember about W.C. Fields, for example? That he was the most successful juggler of his generation? That he was the first movie star important enough to have his name billed above the producer's? No. We remember his epitaph, "On the whole, I'd rather be in Philadelphia."

So what can you say about yourself that's profound enough for eternity?

According to Boswell, Dr. Johnson believed "allowance must be made for some degree of exaggerated praise. In lapidary inscriptions a man is not upon his oath."

Maybe my Uncle Charlie was right after all.

One thing is certain, terseness is essential. In 200 years, how many will choose to read these faded words on stone?

"Here lies a poor woman who was always tired;
She lived in a house where help was not hired.
Her last words on earth were: "Dear friends, I am going
Where washing ain't done, nor sweeping, no sewing:
But everything there is exact to my wishes;
For where they don't eat there's no washing of dishes...
Don't mourn for me now; don't mourn for me never -
I'm going to do nothing forever and ever."


Nice sentiment, but geez, it's way too long. Better, this:

"Five times five years I lived a virgin's life
Nine times five years I lived a virtuous wife;
Wearied of this mortal life, I rest."

Speaking of virgins, I always liked this one:

"Here lies all that remains of Charlotte,
Born a virgin, died a harlot.
For sixteen years she kept her virginity,
A marvelous thing for this vicinity."

And this: "She sleeps alone. At last."

So how do you begin to compose your life in a few short and pithy phrases?

If you're a professional person, you might begin with your occupation. An Arkansas doctor's epitaph read: "Office upstairs."

Attorney John Strange had this to say about himself: "Here lies an honest lawyer. That is Strange."

A dentist, this: "Filling his last cavity."

Perhaps religion, or the lack of, is uppermost in your mind. Short and to the point are, "Oh reader, be prepared" and "The Lord don't make no mistakes." More fun, perhaps, is this from Thurmont, Maryland:

"Here lies an Atheist
All dressed up
And no place to go."

Whatever, don't procrastinate. Even if you live to be a centenarian, here, from Nova Scotia, is what happens if you don't prepare an epitaph for yourself:

"Here lies
Ezekiel Aikle
Age 102
Proving The Good
Die Young."

For me, I always liked the brevity and wit of Dorothy Parker, whose epitaph reads, "Excuse my dust." But I plan to dodge the bullet with cremation.

...Roger "The Dodger" Wilcox, geezer