After my pet hamster Squiggles died, we buried him in the vegetable garden in the backyard. It was summertime in 1935 and Mom said that Squiggles would like it there among the vegetables because he loved lettuce. What did I know? I was five years old.
“Okay, Mom,” I total her wiping away my tears. “Whatever you say.”
My ten-year-old brother Eddie had a different take on what was going on. He smirked, punched me in the arm, and said, “Don’t be such a crybaby.”
Even though Mom admonished him, I couldn’t help it, I started crying some more. Eddie just shook his head as he walked toward the backdoor to go outside and play baseball. I’m positive I heard him mumble “Looser” on his way out the door.
Later that night I crawled out of bed and knelt by my window. My bedroom faced the backyard and I propped my elbows on the sill and watched the vegetable garden and the spot where we’d buried Squiggles. I was waiting to see him rise from the ground and go to heaven like they said in church would happen. I had my fingers crossed hoping I’d see my beloved pet one more time. Unfortunately, I fell asleep with my head on the window sill and missed him. For at least a week I kept watch every night but never saw him go up into the sky. Probably because I fell asleep each night. Anyway, at least that’s what I told myself at the time.
But the death of Squiggles had a profound impact on my young psyche. I realized something monumental during those nighttime vigils at the window watching the vegetable garden in the backyard. It was this: I was going to die someday. Just like Squiggles. One day I was going to be gone from the world. Dead and buried and no more than a memory. Like Squiggles was to me.
The day after the realization hit me and still reeling at the sudden knowledge of my immortality, I went to Mom. “Am I going to die?” I asked her.
She looked at me, a sense of sadness in her eyes, and said, “Oh, honey, don’t worry your little head about things like that.”
Eddie was walking by at the time and didn’t pause except to say, “Of course, jerk face. We all die someday. You get old, then you die. Everyone knows that.”
The door slammed as he continued on his way outside to play. I looked at Mom. She didn’t say anything, she just hugged me some more. It was then I knew for a fact - what my brother had said was true. You get old, then you die. Geez. Heavy-duty stuff. I thought right then and there that I was glad I was only five. I had a lot of years left to live.
But then Dad died. He was only thirty-three. Not that old in my book. Or my brother’s for that matter. I was eleven at the time, Eddie sixteen. At the funeral I reminded my brother about his adage - you get old then you die.
“Dad was only thirty-three,” I told him.
He looked at me without a trace of irony and said, “Like I told you after that stupid hamster. You get old then you die.” He shrugged his shoulders.
“He was only thirty-three!”
He shrugged his shoulders again. “See, what’d I say? He was old, older than us anyway.”
I was no dummy, I knew there was more to it than that, but I couldn’t shake the notion of equating getting old with dying.
I turned twenty and congratulated myself on making that milestone. Me and my friends partied and had a good time. I didn’t think about dying once.
I turned thirty, just a few years younger than Dad was went he passed away, and only thought about it a little.
I turned forty, then fifty, then sixty. I turned seventy and I then turned eighty. Four years ago, I turned ninety.
I’m still alive. Eddie died a few years ago when he was eighty-seven. I was eighty-two at the time. Mom died when she was seventy-eight. I was fifty-six.
So, yeah, I’m still alive. I’m ninety-four right now. For the last five years, I’ve lived in Orchard Lake Senior Living. It’s clean and tidy and I like it. I worked as a product engineer for a large manufacturing company for many years until I retired at the age of sixty-seven. Ruth, my wife of fifty-five years passed away when I was eighty-one. We had a good marriage, and I’ve had a good life. I see my kids and my grandkids regularly and I have wonderful memories of my life with Ruth. My days are spent watching birds, reading, talking on the phone with my kids and the few friends I still have, and even taking classes on the Internet. It’s been a full life. Still is.
The point is this: for me, ever since that day so many years ago when Eddie told me ‘Hey jerk face, you get old then you die,’ I’ve continued living. I’ve looked at life and made the most of it. I’m still kicking. I may be old but that doesn’t matter. I’m not done yet. My brother’s adage may be true, but not for me. Not yet anyway.
About the author
Jim lives in a small town in Minnesota. He loves to write! His stories and poems have appeared in over 500 online and print publications. To learn more and to see all of his work, check out his blog at: www.theviewfromlonglake.wordpress.com
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