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Topic: Ageism (2)
At 82, Becky recalls how Vilas Craig and The ViCounts concert should be – solid, creative rock music. But 65 years ago, the anticipation of one such concert with her high school classmate, Rick, had soured quicker than milk left in the summer sun.
“Oh, that dreadful Datsun,” Becky now recalls with a sigh, leaning back in her recliner, a mischievous glint in her eye. “That car was held together more by hope and rust than actual engineering.”
They were halfway to the Vilas concert at the Richland County Fairgrounds. Becky had meticulously packed a cooler with her famous deviled eggs and Rick’s preferred brand of root beer.
Just two miles from the fairgrounds, Becky heard a disconcerting thump-thump-thump on her side of the Datsun.
Rick, behind the wheel, furrowed his youthful brow in concentration. He initially tried to ignore it, mumbling, “Maybe it’s just the road.”
He tightened his fingers on the steering wheel as the thumping intensified into a full-blown wobble.
Wait!” Becky warned, her voice laced with the patient tone she would later perfect over decades of being married to Rick, “Something’s wrong!”
He finally pulled over to the side of the county road. The air was thick with the scent of honeysuckle and the ominous hiss of escaping air. Becky groaned. The rear passenger tire of Rick’s temperamental Datsun was decidedly flat. It slumped like a defeated soufflé.
“Well, isn’t this just peachy,” Becky muttered to the uncaring cornfield on her side of the road. She looked back at Rick, whose face had paled to the color of the car’s faded yellow paint.
Becky then noticed Rick was approaching the deflated tire with the hesitant curiosity of a toddler encountering a strange insect. He circled it once, then twice, apparently hoping its condition would magically improve with closer inspection.
“So,” Becky prompted, “what are we going to do? I don’t want to miss the concert!”
Rick’s gaze darted to the trunk, then back to the tire, then up at the cloudless sky as if divine intervention might offer a solution. “I… uh… I think there’s a spare?” he offered weakly.
The ensuing attempt to locate and then use the spare tire was less a well-oiled machine and more of a slapstick routine. The odd-looking jack was stiff and remained stubbornly folded. The owner’s manual, its pages brittle with age, offered cryptic diagrams that appeared to be written in a long-lost dialect of automotive jargon.
Becky, initially on the verge of tears at the thought of missing the Vilas concert, found herself alternating between exasperated sighs and bursts of reluctant laughter.
But Rick, looking increasingly bewildered, was admittedly trying his best, even if his best was … spectacularly unhelpful.
“Have you ever changed a tire before,” Becky finally asked.
“No, not really,” Rick admitted.”Have you?”
“I watched my dad one time.”
At one point, wrestling with the recalcitrant jack, Rick let out a frustrated yell. Becky, instead of scolding him, started to giggle. “You look like you’re wrestling a stubborn badger …”
Their combined, albeit clumsy, efforts yielded little progress. Cars whizzed past, their occupants likely enjoying the smooth ride and the anticipation of music, oblivious to the growing roadside desperation.
To Becky’s surprise, Rick finally suggested that they try flagging someone down for help.
After several more failed attempts at unfolding the jack, a battered pickup truck, driven by a man whose weathered face suggested a lifetime spent under the sun, finally stopped. He surveyed their pathetic efforts with a knowing smile and, with a few practiced movements, had the spare tire securely in place.
With dirty hands and a slightly defeated feeling, Becky slid back into the car and watched Rick finally drive the Datsun toward the concert. They had shared ineptitude. And, for the first time, she had seen Rick handle vulnerability. But, she felt strangely bonded by their shared ineptitude.
They missed the first set, and Becky’s perfectly arranged deviled eggs had been slightly jostled.
But as they sat on their checkered blanket and the music finally washed over them, Becky felt a new layer to their enjoyment. They had faced a minor disaster and their individual skills had proven woefully inadequate to deal with a small episode. Yet they had navigated it together.
Some 65 years later, Becky recognizes the insight of Brené Brown, who writes: “It takes courage to be imperfect. That courage gives us authenticity – the platform to be who we are. Vulnerability is the base for not only courage, openness and authenticity but also resiliency and empathy.”
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Age: Our Greatest Asset!
Jim Hasse, ABC, GCDF retired, author of “52 Shades of Growing Together”
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Sixty-five years ago they may well have been using a bumper jack. I remember, at the age of twelve, trying to change a tire on my widowed mom's `49 fastback Chevy. Dangerous operation with the back of that old beast wobbling just a bit as my cousin and I cranked the lug nuts and tugged that tire off its rusted hub.
Some 50 years ago, I had the sad task of providing a document to my employer’s board of directors which showed the president of our organization (my boss) was no longer competent in terms of having a clear mind.
As a result, my boss lost his job, went on SSI and worked no longer, even though he was well below 65, had a master's degree and was an expert in dairy economics.
About 20 years later, we accidentally met each other at a fast food restaurant, and he mentioned he was doing well with his new medication.
Doctors had discovered he was bi-polar, which was not commonly identified 20 years earlier – and often mistakenly diagnosed as another condition.
We had a root beer together that afternoon during our “chance meeting” in the spirit of forgiveness, courage and life’s imperfection.
* When have you discovered in others the courage to be imperfect?