Date: 2018-03-17
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Miles today: 0.0

I was told recently that I should act my age. I fear that I didn¢t respond in an age appropriate manner and certainly not gracefully, unless derision and a raised middle finger pass for eloquence these days. At least I refrained from hissing like an irate cat and baring my fangs or suggesting what they might do with various appendages and orifices. But I thought it, so the sin be mine. It is good that I didn¢t have children, because I would have been the sort of grandpa that children love but parents caution against. ¢Don¢t listen to anything he says. He¢s just trying to be different and he wants to make you that way too. He never did fit in. He doesn¢t care about anyone¢s feelings but his own and does exactly what he wants to do. He¢s dangerous he is, and shouldn¢t be allowed to be around little ones.¢  Fortunately, I value of the opinions of dog and cats over those of most people. Dogs like me, and cats find me amusing, so I must be good for something.  A belly rub or a scritch behind the ear is not too dear of a price for needed approbation. If I can be of value to these magnificent and, in the case of cats, superior creatures, then for a bit longer I can push off the start of a sittin¢ and a rockin¢, drool running down my chin.  Ageism is rampant in our society, even in enlightened Vermont. When people ask what I do, and I answer, ¢I¢m retired,¢ that usually ends the conversation. They have found my pigeonhole, and whatever came before is irrelevant to the present. Whether I had been a groundbreaking surgeon, a Broadway producer, a deckhand on a tugboat (I can actually claim that profession, blessedly briefly), or a tax partner in a CPA firm (alas, sadly true) is all in the past. What I did is not what I do, and what I do is, well, nothing. So nothing is what I am. But I still have my own teeth and can inflict a nasty wound. I can still write deeply nested sentences of tortured syntax.  My age rage, strangely enough, brings me back to the Appalachian Trail. I have hiked the Trail in Vermont several times, as either the Appalachian Trail or the Long Trail, there being at least a mental distinction for me. Hiking Vermont northbound, the first endless climb is Stratton Mountain, named for Major Isaac Stratton, Esq. who showed great valor in the Revolutionary Battle of Bennington and founded the town of South Williamstown, Massachusetts, where he died in 1789.  The mountain, however, predates Major Stratton and was called Manickmung in the Algonquian language of the Mahican, meaning ¢place where the mountain heaps up.¢ For the hiker at least, this description takes precedence over colonial history, and it makes complete sense. On a clear day, the views from the 55-foot fire tower on the summit are staggering, extending 200 miles over 360 degrees, to Mt. Marce and Whiteface in the Adirondacks; Mt. Washington in the White Mountains; south through the Berkshires to the Catskills; and through a gap, even Wachusett Mountain overlooking Boston. Manickmung is a sacred place in Trail lore, where James Taylor conceived of the Long Trail in 1909, and 12 years later, Benton MacKaye had his vision of a giant striding the length of the Appalachians.  The Stratton fire tower and the two warden cabins near the tower base were entered in the National Register of Historic Places in 1992. The newer log cabin, built in 1970, is a generous 80 square feet. Since 1996, the cabin has served as the summer home of the Green Mountain Club Stratton Summit caretakers, Hugh and Jeanne Joudry. They also served as fire watchers there from 1968 to 1979, so it is no exaggeration to claim that they are a part of the mountain. I have had the good fortune to meet them twice, and on the second time, Jeanne invited me into their cabin for a cup of tea and to see her paintings, which are described as abstract. They don¢t strike me that way but rather as a myopic vision of the mountains and trees, swirled by rain and wind into mystic patterns. If I¢m fortunate enough to meet her again this year, I¢m hoping I can persuade her to choose a work for me to purchase. Hugh is a wood sculptor. His work reminds me of African stone sculpture. They have had joint shows, and now that I¢m in Vermont, I will search them out. Hugh is the reason for my telling this story. Yes, there is a reason. Jeanne shared with me that Hugh is related to the Welsh poet Dylan Thomas, whose advice for aging includes:   Do not go gentle into that good night,   Old age should burn and rave at close of day;   Rage, rage against the dying of the light.So act my age, be damned! Feel free to blow past me as you race down the trail. I¢ll happily breath your dust. Brag about the miles you have hiked today. I bet I¢ve seen more, the flower in the crannied wall, eternity in a chestnut.  One of my clients put it to me quite simply twenty-five year ago. ¢If you want to keep walking, keep walking.¢ It¢s as simple as that. Don¢t stop to listen to the naysayers. If I can¢t walk, I¢ll crawl and claw my way up the mountains. The grave is patient and will gladly wait a few more years, and a few more after that.