Pack Creek Ranch, San Juan County, Utah
Finally some Winter – clouds, wind, snow flurries, 25 degrees – and then clear blue skies in the afternoon, and back to calm and mild.
Written over several days at the winding down of January in 2012.

Last Saturday morning I found the tracks and scat of a mountain lion on the path between my house and studio. In truth, from the size of the evidence, it was probably a small mountain lion.
But not a bobcat – I know the difference.
Though, in the innate fearfulness of the scardy-cat part of my imagination, it was as big and as dangerous as a full-grown man-eating Bengal tiger.
And it had not run away very far . . .
It was out there . . . crouching . . . waiting . . .

It is a well-established fact that mountain lions are people-shy.
For good reason.
They’re not stupid.
Creatures like me are far more dangerous to them than they are to me.
My species has guns and dogs and poison and Apache Attack Helicopters.

On reflection, the evidence of the presence of this mountain lion was a fine sign that something wild and wonderful and mysterious silently passed nearby me in the darkness of the deep snowy night . . . and moved on . . .

ELDER HOSTILE

In front of the Walker Drugstore in Moab there are some requisite Handicap parking spaces.
Also a couple of special spots marked Senior Citizens Only.
I never park in either one.
Not my categories.
But today the parking lot was full, except for one Senior Citizen space.
And I was in a hurry . . .

In Moab, a Senior Citizen is pretty much anyone over the age of 60.
I’m 75 years old.
Technically speaking, I qualify for the parking space.
So I pulled in and parked.
I didn’t think anyone would notice or complain.
I was wrong.

A black Ford 150 4x4 pickup truck pulled up right behind me.
The horn blared belligerently. honk/honk/honk/honk/honk . . .
I got out of my car and walked back to the Ford.
The driver, a trim little blue-haired old lady barked at me:
“That’s a Senior Citizen parking space! Move out!”
“Well, I am a Senior Citizen.”
She looked me over, toe to head.
“No you’re not!” she growled.
“Here, I’ll show you my driver’s license.”

And I took out my wallet and opened it for her to check.
She scrutinized my driver’s license, and did the math.
Handing my wallet back, she scrutinized me.
And smiled.
“Well, well,” she said, “Want a date?”

“I’m flattered,” I said. “And you look pretty good to me. But I’m married.”
“Well, too damn bad,” she said.
“However,” I said, “I won’t ask to see your license, but a hot lady like you in a truck like this doesn’t belong in a Senior Citizen parking space either.”
Big smile. She winked. She laughed and drove away.

I probably missed a good time . . . and I liked her truck . . .

I’m not Handicapped, except perhaps mentally, but that’s always been the case, and is a matter of opinion.
But Senior Citizen is not my identity, either.
I don’t think Senior, act Senior, dress Senior, talk Senior, or live Senior.
I don’t belong to the AARP and don’t take Senior Discounts.
Not my style.
I just don’t do Senior.

Culturally, when you pass 60 or retire you are a Senior Citizen.
Which means old or elderly or over the hill – subject to pity and jokes.

One is free to accept the status or not.
It’s a choice – an attitude.
A personal, internal decision, no matter what the culture says.

And the culture says to men over 60, “Get in the box - get a lounge chair -plant yourself in front of the TV - get a walker or a cane - let your hair and beard grow – including what’s sprouting out of your ears and nose.

Get some beige orthopedic walking shoes with Velcro straps, a baseball hat, a stupid T shirt about aging, baggy cargo shorts. And learn to shuffle or duck-walk, mumble, and eat the senior fodder specials at the local cafe.
Use a toothpick to scratch away at your teeth as you go out the door.

Wear baggy sweat pants and your house-slippers to the grocery store.
And fart or belch whenever and wherever you please.
Change your underwear once a week and your socks when they fall off.

Get the moves, the outfit and the attitude.
Get in the Senior groove - and talk non-stop about it:
Tell stories about Social Security, Medicare, Medicaid, vitamin supplements, doctor visits, medications, and coupons.

In sum, just go to seed.
You can probably buy a Senior Citizen kit at Wal-Mart – with a manual.
And get Senior Citizen apps for your I-phone, I-pad, and toaster oven.

The transition into Senior-hood can take less than a week.
I’ve seen it happen.
And some men do it quite willingly – they’ve looked forward to Senior.
They’re done and don’t give a damn.
And that’s their business.

Not me.
Not yet . . .

I was recently asked to contribute to a book about aging.
And I replied, “No, I haven’t thought about it and haven’t done it much yet.
Ask me again when I get old.”

And you might reply, “Fulghum, who are you kidding. You are in denial.”
You might ask, “Fulghum, have you looked at yourself naked in a full-length mirror recently?”

No, I avoid full-length mirrors.
I just look at myself in the loving blue eyes of my sweet wife every morning over oatmeal and coffee.
She keeps her eyes on me for awhile . . . she smiles.
And I don’t see Senior.
Not yet . . .