This past Independence Day proved that despite our best efforts; eating right, exercising, applying sunscreen, and refusing to wear suspenders and appliqued sweatshirts; Hiram and I are starting to show our age.
This devastating truth became apparent during our community’s Fourth of July barbeque and municipal band concert. We held up pretty well during the meal since we turned down the baked beans to avoid gas issues later. But once the band started playing one patriotic song after another, all of which we could sing along with because we’d learned the words in elementary school music class, we deteriorated rapidly.
I went all soft during the Armed Forces Medley, when those who served in Army, Navy, Marines, Coast Guard, and Air Force were asked to stand at the playing of their branch of the military’s song. Seeing those men, forcing their stooped shoulders and creaking limbs to stand proud and tall, brought tears to my eyes. Hiram’s moment of truth came when he got tearye-eyed during the piccolo solo in The Stars and Stripes Forever.
But the final indignity came when we were too tired to join our dinner companions, all about our age, for the fireworks. We declined and went to bed. By nine-thirty, we were both snoring and slept like babies all night, thanks to our no-bean diligence earlier.
Since we turned fifty, we’ve thrown away every AARP mailing we’ve received. But this past weekend has me thinking it’s time, once we lay in a supply of suspenders, shoes with good arch supports, prune juice and Beano, to fill out the paperwork. I’ll mention it to Hiram at supper tonight, after I serve the baked beans. That should put him in the right mood.
