Memento mori

It’s funny, having friends in their seventies and eighties. You know they won’t last forever. Just got off the phone with a friend who mentioned that he’s not worried about the ammunition shortage, because he’s got enough to last the next two years and he doesn’t think he’ll still be shooting longer than that. It’s not a big thing the way he says it, just a datum. He’s past seventy, and I know he hadn’t retired yet last summer. He’s an old Mainer, the kind they don’t make any more. Indestructible working class guys, with the old Maine accent. Only the old guys really have that these days. They’re easygoing, have nothing to prove to anybody, and they aren’t lazy. One fella down the street, close to ninety, is out there shoveling after every snowfall. We go down to help him and he says he doesn’t want help, but he’s happy to lean on his shovel and chat for a while. Another one, a neighbor, we lost last fall in her eighties. Old Mainers are tough.

But they don’t last forever.

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