DEVIL MOUNTAIN CHRONICLES: Retired… or Just Plain Tired?

Age is an issue of mind over matter. If you don’t mind, it doesn’t matter.

— Mark Twain

On March 2nd, I turned 74 (and my liver turned 92). These days I try to avoid mirrors. But when I accidentally gaze into one, my reflection scares the hell out of me. I see the ghost of my long lost grandfather! Then I realize that this spooky image is mine; and like a terrifying moment of clarity, I face the somber fact that I’m an old man now.

Holy crap! Maybe it does matter?

I played my last gig — with the Tim Sullivan Band — at the Glacier Club on New Year’s Eve, 2019. I packed up my drums into their cases, loaded them into my truck and drove back to Pagosa through a snow storm. That ended my music career that had started in Dallas in1968, when I was 17. Arthritis did me in, but the late night drives were also part of it. Think of a Suburban hauling a double axle band-trailer over Red Mountain Pass in a white-out at 3:00 in the morning.

Years of this sort of insanity becomes routine. But routine makes one complacent, and complacency can get you killed quick up here!

Since I retired, most of the time I have no idea what day it is. All my days are indistinguishable. Once in a while I’ll glance at my calendar to make sure I haven’t forgotten a doctors appointment, a colonoscopy or some other geriatric indignity. Oh, yeah. I’ve got to get my eyes checked and order some more arthritis ointment, and many other prescriptions from the VA. (At least I don’t need Viagra. I may be retired, but Mr. Happy is still on the job.)

Last week I shaved off my beard and found an extra chin. My wife squints and claims I look younger, but what does she know? She’s got macular degeneration in both eyes. They say that older gentlemen look distinguished. Right.  I look “extinguished” – the fire has definitely gone out.

My dad, Spike, died at age 75. (Wait a minute. I’m going on 75.) Dad died making love to dear old Mom. And like the song says: “If I could choose a place to die, it would be in your arms.” I wouldn’t mind going like that, but Jayebird probably would. One thing for certain: I don’t want our savings to expire before we go.

What I look forward to is continued immaturity followed by death.

— Dave Barry

I’ve got sleep apnea, but when I do sleep I have strange dreams. (Could it be one of the meds?) I dream of frustrating situations, usually after a crazy gig in some backwater town on Elm Street – of course, Freddy Krueger is the front man.

I have a recurring dream where I’m opening one of our shows for Linda Ronstadt in 1978. There are thousands of people out there and I’m playing great. But suddenly my drum set starts falling apart. The rack toms fall off and crash to the floor, the cymbal stands collapse, cymbals fluttering around, the kick drum rolls off the riser into the audience and the snare and floor tom topples over. Suddenly I’m sitting on the drum throne . . . stark naked! I awaken slowly to the roar of a huge crowd laughing their ass off. (So sad when that happens.)

My memory plays tricks on me. Sometimes I remember things and other times I draw a blank. Names were always a problem, but I always remembered faces – especially pretty ones. Now everyone I encounter looks so familiar. The other day at the City Market I saw a cute woman on aisle 5 that looked like somebody from my sordid past. It turned out to be my wife.

I’m still doing dumb shit, except much, much slower than before. But slowing down the pace is what retirement’s all about. Jayebird and I don’t go out much anymore. In fact, my back goes out more than we do. And there are no more Harleys, no more partying, no drunken all-nighters and definitely no more drugs. (I never really liked cocaine; I just liked how it smelled.)

They say aging is like toilet paper. The closer to the end, the faster it goes. It seems like I just changed the calendar last week, and now it’s July already. Time doesn’t wait for anyone; it just keeps ticking away. And we all have just so many ticks left. The trouble is that we can’t go out and buy another roll of toilet paper. When this one’s done, that’s it — you’re all wiped out. (So to speak,)

I spent the first part of my life messing up and the second part making up. I’m in the third part now, but each part has had some, shall we say, interesting chapters. Jayebird and I met over half a century ago and have been married for 52 years. It’s almost unbelievable. We basically grew up together.

We lost our son, Tait, 29 years ago. He was just 23. He had been autistic, hyperactive and had congenital renal problems resulting in a serious operation that saved his life. He turned 2 in the hospital.

Our 23 years with Tait taught us a great deal about life. And believe me, he taught us much more than we taught him. During those years, Jaye and I developed a deep spiritual bond, something that really cannot be put into words. We are like two old soldiers who endured many skirmishes together on the battlefield of life. And every wedding anniversary is celebrated more like Veteran’s Day.

God only knows what I’d be without her.

— Brian Wilson

We have found a cozy paradise atop our hill with views to kill for. We are now deeply invested in each other’s health and happiness. Part of that happiness can be attributed to our sick sense of humor. We laugh a lot and never go to bed angry. Our little dog, Punky, is a cross between a dingo and a wombat; she’s a dingbat! She’s more of a cartoon character than a canine . . . one funny little creature.

Someone asked me what DC stands for and I replied: “trouble.” I feel as though I’ve gone through a sort of life long male menopause. But, in retrospect, it was the result of 6 generations of inherited bipolar genes: the Bloodline 6! Somehow, despite all the trouble, with the miracle of modern medications and the love of a patient wife, I have survived . . . and even thrived.

Part of survival is peace of mind and the company you keep.

We have a nice group of good friends — including our neighbors and relatives — that we cherish. My dear brother, Ross, another lovable cartoon character, lives across the road within yelling distance. He and I are survivors of the tumultuous sixties, with plenty of battle scars to show for it. All in all, Jayebird and I have a great support group. (Too bad none of them are shrinks!)

Count your age by friends, not years. Count your life by smiles, not tears.

— John Lennon