The Odd Reflection: Twenty-three years to go

My wife mentioned her Uncle Bill at lunchtime today while putting a few cheese curds and crackers onto the dining room table. Bill had the cheese delivered to us after Christmas.

Bill is 94 years old, continues to live an active life (he loves to gab, takes part in weekly dances and occasionally speaks to elementary school classes about his experiences in WW2), and now resides in a retirement home in Gananoque, Ontario.

Seconds after the curds arrived at the table I popped a curly piece into my mouth, thought of Bill and the move he’d made a year ago into the ‘old folks home’ from his apartment overlooking Lake Ontario. It was a necessary move. I’ll likely have to make that kind of move in the future too. Many readers will have to as well.

That being said - about the curds and all too - regular readers with very, very good memories will know how long I want to live, and why.

(Quick review: 87. Why? I retired at 53. I contributed to the pension fund for 32 years and want to withdraw from it for 32 years - plus 2 extra years. We all want two year’s of gravy, don’t we?)

At the moment I’m 62 years old, hope to live in my own house until I’m 70, and then a small apartment until I’m 85. And at 85 I plan to walk from the elevator of the Kismet Apt. on Wortley Rd. (two blocks from the Red Roaster; the Kismet isn't built yet, but maybe someday soon) carrying just one cardboard box of household items on my way to the cab that will drop me off at Punkydoodle Old Folks Home overlooking Thames Park. (Punkydoodles isn’t built yet either, but I have the lot picked out if anybody cares about such things).


["This photo just might make the cut."]

And what’s in the cardboard box? I’m glad you asked.

two pairs of used Levis

one leather belt (the one I bought from Quigley’s Leather Works in 1969 for $5)

four T-shirts

one sweatshirt, likely a hoodie

ten pairs of underwear

three pairs of socks

my iPad 12

six particular framed photos

a bottle of Tums

wild cherry breathmints

a small red cedar birdhouse

one well-thumbed copy of “I Want to be Buried at Sea”

the Good Book

Besides the clothes on my back and leather shoes on my feet, I won’t require much else, except regular visits from family and friends bearing cold IPAs or hot dark roast coffee.

Of course, I have 23 years to go, so plans might change a little.

Maybe I’ll see you at Punkydoodles.

PS Uncle Bill. Thanks for the curds.

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