My Tattoo

My Tattoo 

Retirement would be so much more enjoyable, if only I could get used to not having a boss, not having a time-clock and not having any commute, said no one ever. The last time I ventured off the mountain was for the Women’s March in Sacramento, January 21st.

I once went six weeks without leaving Bell Springs Road and was none the worse for it. That was back in the dark ages, before there was an internet, and I didn’t even miss it. No matter which direction, one must travel at least a half-hour to get to a place where you can buy a quart of half-and-half.

And if you drive up the Bell to Garberville, it is a ninety-minute commute.

When I see the meme that goes, “By the time I finally got my shit together, my body fell apart,” I know I am fortunate. Yes, I blew out the anterior cruciate ligament in my left knee, playing a pick-up basketball game with my elective Spanish class, Friday, December 13th, 1991.

And yes, my reconstructed right shoulder still gives me a ration of grief, upon occasion, but at least it has stopped that pesky habit of popping out of the labrum. I have to tell you, nothing compares to the discomfort of a shoulder “popping out,” not the blown knee, the diverticulitis, the kidney stones, the inch-and-a-quarter sliver in my thigh, which I removed by slicing the length of it with a utility knife blade, and not the concussion that I suffered while home on leave from Korea, in 1973.

The medic in Long Beach Naval Station thought I was faking it, in an effort to avoid having to return overseas.

That surgery for skin cancer, with the seventy-five stitches, was a root beer float, in comparison. Not only that, but the scar that the surgery left, is as cool as any tat I have ever seen. Not having any conventional tattoos, I flaunt this one, and why not? I got it the hard way.

I have my annual physical scheduled at the VA in a few weeks, it having been slightly more than a year since the last time I visited the facility. That is a good thing when one is 64 and no one knows it better than I. The first thing that nice Dr. Mulligan, who also just happens to be the director of the Ukiah VA, will notice and comment on, is that I have not had my flu shot.

I will politely remind her that chemical sh*t-storms are not welcome on my premises. I am not a flu kind of person. I don’t get the flu and I do not believe I have had a case since I lived on Fellowship Street, down in SoCal, growing up.

My last cold was four winters removed from this one, despite the fact that I have only one mode of footwear: sandals. I traipse about the landscape in all weather, as my photographs clearly depict, with Dozer enthusiastically accompanying me. 

Gluten-Free Mama and I walk, when the weather is more temperate, and she can go out comfortably. And, of course, I move firewood around every day of my life. So I am a lucky guy to be so mobile at my advanced age.

I mentioned recently that at my last physical, Dr. M informed me that I was the only patient she had, of any age, that was not required to take some sort of prescription medication. Of course, we are talking vets, who might be said to have a broader range of experiences than the average guy.

I got my "tat" at the VA in San Francisco, via cancer.

And that could change this upcoming visit. Who knows?

The bottom line is that I live on a 40-acre farm, I live off of the farm and I walk almost everywhere I go, unless I am hauling bales of straw, or bags of rice hulls. Then I may take a truck but I still have to load and unload them. I am an active guy.

I had a couple of shots of Jameson at the Super-Bowl gathering that we had, but it was only the second time in recent memory that I have indulged. I don’t even drink wine anymore, now that Gluten-Free Mama has stopped bringing home the occasional zin or merlot.

Where would I be without cannabis? 

That’s the first question. The second? Is there a connection between consumption of vast quantities of this miracle plant, and my exemplary health?

Am I scrambling to “knock on wood?” Do I not fear that this next appointment will reveal bad news? 

I’ll be honest; I don’t. If I should, then take me out and shoot me and get it over with. I don’t fear death. I might not be quite as thrilled with the process, but you can’t have everything.

“You’re only as old as you feel.”

Que no?