It seems both my wife and I are losing our hearing. Our kitchen is separated from the living room by a dining room. I would estimate the distance from the kitchen sink to our recliners to be approximately thirty feet. One of us is always calling to the other from the kitchen to the living room or vice versa. It seems neither of us hears the other on first call. When repeated more loudly the second time, and even louder with clearer enunciation the third time, the imminent response of either, “You don’t have to scream!” or “You don’t have to be so hateful!” occurs without fail.
This weekend, my wife was reading me a Facebook post from the Loveland Prayer Group page. A church member’s sister had been on a ventilator and was not doing well. The family made the painful decision to remove the ventilator, upon which the patient seemed to improve. I said, “That’s odd.” My wife said, “That’s God.” I replied, more loudly, “I SAID THAT’S ODD!!” My wife said, even more loudly, “I SAID THAT’S GOD!” Getting old is such fun.
For the last few years of his life, my brother J. C. and I went on vacations, just the two of us. If you have ever watched Carroll O’Connor portray Archie Bunker on All in the Family, you know what my brother was like.
On our first vacation we flew to Las Vegas. We went to rent a car within the airport. A very nice lady assisted us. At least, she was nice while J. C. explained to her that we wanted to rent “one of them there Toyota CAM-RAYS”. As she was concluding this transaction for us, J. C. thanked her for her help. He said something to the effect, “Lots of times you get these foreigners that can’t even hardly speak English. They either need to stay where they come from or learn our language.”
The lady’s smile disappeared quicker than a coin in a slot machine. Her face clouded over and her entire demeanor changed. She replied, quietly, “My husband is a native Iranian. He speaks several languages.”
I could see this was not going well, so I tried to intervene. “Does he teach?” I asked.
“He could if he chose. He’s highly intelligent. And I’m doubly proud to be both an American and an Iranian citizen.” She cast eyes of loathing at J. C. “Through the door, down the stairs, to the left. Have a nice day.” J. C. tried twice to resume the pleasant conversation of just a short minute ago with the lady, but she kept repeating in her cool mechanical voice, “Through the door, down the stairs, to the left. Have a nice day.” J. C. did figure out by the third repetition that the lady was not going to say anything further. When we had passed through the door she had indicated several times, J. C. looked at me and said, “What the (blank) was wrong with that woman?” I replied, “Who knows?” Explanation would have been fruitless.
On one of our journeys, J. C. decided to take some fresh (he pronounced it “frash”) vegetables from his garden. He placed these vegetables in what we southerners call a “light bread poke”. Much later that day we stopped at a Kentucky Fried Chicken somewhere far west of Knoxville. J. C. was, as I now find myself becoming, hard of hearing. He seemed to have particular trouble hearing and understanding people with heavy accents (the Southern accent excepted). He said “foreigners” (defined as anyone from anyplace other than Tennessee) talked so fast you couldn’t understand them. At this particular location the girl behind the counter was both young, of a foreign persuasion (Mexican ancestry, I assumed), and a giggly, fast talker. J. C. couldn’t understand her, and she couldn’t understand him. I found myself inept as either interpreter or translator. It took J. C. at least ten minutes to get her to understand his order. When the girl asked him what he wanted to drink, J. C. asked, “Do you have any ‘frash cawfee’?” The girl indicated she didn’t understand, so J. C. repeated his question, much more slowly. The girl still didn’t understand. J. C. moved his hand to his mouth as if he were drinking from a coffee cup and said, “You know, the black stuff you drink for breakfast.” A light of understanding came into the girl’s eyes, and she said, “Oh! Cauff-ee!” J. C. looked at me and said under his breath, “These (blank) people out here don’t even know what ‘cawfee’ is!”
It might have been hoped that now J. C. had his food, “cawfee”, and was happy. Not quite. At this point he remembered his “frash” vegetables from home. He went to the car and carried them proudly inside the KFC, Merita light bread “poke” and all. He returned to the counter and negotiated with the poor girl for a knife with which to slice his treasures. I watched (happily) from afar as once again he went through the understanding game. He finally came to the table with a package of utensils wrapped in a napkin. Of course, they were the plastic “spork” and knife routinely provided to all customers. J. C. unwrapped his eating ware and uttered an oath when he saw the plastic knife. “I want you to look what a (blank) knife they give me to cut these ‘maters’ with.” He went back to the counter for a third time, and what to my wondering eyes should I behold? J. C. succeeded in getting the girl to understand that he wanted an actual metal knife, and actually provided him with a paring knife from the kitchen. By this time, she was probably less fearful that J. C. would use it to do her bodily harm than if he didn’t get satisfaction. As if he had conquered Everest, J. C. proudly came to the table, knife in hand, sliced his vegetables to perfection, and kindly returned the knife with a pleasant thank you to the girl upon our departure.
Laugh if you must, young chicks. Someday you too will become the old hens and roosters that young chicks have such trouble understanding. I leave you with a thought from my email world to begin your new year:

I got myself a seniors' GPS.
Not only does it tell me how to get to my destination,
it tells me why I wanted to go there.