Blogging Molly

“There’s a place up ahead and I’m going
Just as fast as my feet can fly
Come away, come away if you’re going
Leave the sinking ship behind.”
~~ Creedence Clearwater Revival, ‘Up Around The Bend’




“We’ll make this thing run on nothing. On fumes, if need be. On our own fumes. Whatever.”
~~ Dave Eggers, A Heartbreaking Work Of Staggering Genius




I opened this blog with quotes that directly contradict the following:

“Slow down and enjoy life. It's not only the scenery you miss by going to fast - you also miss the sense of where you are going and why.” ~~ Eddie Cantor

There are fools who actually buy into this insipid platitude.

“You should take the time to slow down and enjoy your life,” they say.

Fuck those people.

I live my life with Ferocious Fury, Vibrant Vigor, Garish Gusto, and I enjoy almost every damn second. Some seconds I do not enjoy, but that is more a function of living in ‘reality’ than a function of ‘regret.’ In fact, I don’t have any major regrets in my life. Not yet. And I’m determined to continue living that way.

I resent that filthy axiom. The underlying assumption is that people who move too fast miss out on some important facet of their life. Read my blogs on Costa Rica and tell me that I moved too fast, that I missed the scenery. I appreciated every second I was there, with the possible exception of a bizarre sun-poisoning incident that made my forehead swell into a breast-like visage, much to Carney’s delight. But hell, even that moment gave me a good story. I took nothing for granted, and recognized how blessed I was to be able to have those experiences.

And let’s face it, if you don’t have a sense of “where you are going and why,” you need to move faster, not slower. Sitting on your ass and contemplating the mysteries of the universe or the number 42 or the worthless sentiments of a 20’s pop icon is not going to help you find direction.

Let’s try this simple exercise. Consider the following list of things that are too slow:

Wal-mart checkout lines.
Dial-up modems.
Old people.
Stupid people.
The last hour of work.
Traffic lights.
Southerners.


What did you feel upon reading this list? Frustration? Rage? Impending manslaughter? Of course you did. Because everyone hates these things. They hate these things because these things are worthless. And these things are worthless because they are slow.

So don’t tell me to slow down. You speed up. And if you can’t handle it, get out of my way and quit wasting my life with excuses for wasting yours.

Always willing to back up my arguments with pointless anecdotes (especially if it’s a pointless argument), here’s a story:




At the end of my sophomore year, I made a commitment to volunteer time at an ‘assisted living’ facility in Columbus. They were having a carnival – you read that right, a carnival – for the residents. This included -- but was not limited to -- carnival games, a cotton candy stand, a kettle corn stand, llamas, elderly musicians playing big-band music, and my personal favorite: the world’s oldest tap-dance group. These are men and women who tour the country dancing in a fashion that doesn’t seem feasible for the elderly. At least, not without lots of horrible crunching sounds. At the end of their performance, the tappers announce their ages, which range from the late 60s to the early 80s. This is one of those rare instances where I saw something with my own eyes and still don’t quite believe it (I’m not quite a cynic, but I am damn skeptical). This performance group alone makes a wonderful case study. They keep a tour pace more vigorous than most rock stars. I honestly think if I told one of those old ladies to ‘slow down,’ she would have kicked my ass, then tap-danced on my motionless body.

However, these jittering geriatrics are not the main focus of my story. Nor am I, if that’s what you were thinking.

When I arrived at the carnival, I felt completely overwhelmed. I haven’t dealt much with old people. I have a small family, and my own grandparents are firebrands (would you expect anything else?) who take offense at the idea of needing any sort of help at all. I’d worked at a hospital for the summer, so I had at least a vague background. But the chaotic atmosphere of the carnival completely threw me off. My first attempt at a conversation was awkward and confusing (you can tell there’s a generation gap when you mention Governor Taft and your conversation partner thinks you mean President Taft). I had several stiffly courteous conversations before I got a grip.

Get a grip, I thought to myself. Not all old people are naïve and fragile, spending their time drooling on their cardigans and hallucinating that relatives they haven’t seen in years are there to visit them. There have to be some feisty, vulgar pricks here. People you can relate to. Let’s find some.

Once I had the right mindset, it didn’t take me long.

There was a break on the stage as the tap-dancers left and the staff prepared for the next act. In the immediate silence following the act, I heard two old women laughing boisterously to the side.

Perfect.

They were sitting at a patio table: an older woman in a wheelchair and her relatively younger friend sitting beside her in a plastic chair.

“I snuck you an extra bag of kettle corn,” the friend was saying. “Don’t tell your nurses.”

Punks.

Sweet.

I introduced myself.

“Have a seat!” the older woman barked.

For the sake of pretending my title is relevant, we’ll call her Molly. Molly was clearly in charge.

I sat, and they made the appropriate introductions. Molly, at one time, had been the babysitter of her friend … mmmm …. let’s say, Dianne..

“We’ve been friends our entire lives,” Molly said. “Must be … what, 60 years now? Shit.”

She swiveled around and stuck her face against mine.

“I hope you don’t mind that I swear. I’m 92 years old and I’m not about to quit now, dammit.”

She sat back in her wheelchair and lit a cigarette.

“You smoke too!” I said, laughing.

Molly shrugged.

“I’m 92. Lung cancer is the least of my worries.”

Our conversation took on a distinctive quality, one felt when conversing with the very young and the very old. Naïve, yet so full of wisdom. Some observations are so poignant and simplistic they are staggering.

“You ever go to dances?” she asked.

“Sure. Not so many now as in high school or junior high, but we have some.”

“You know, we used to do all the same thing you kids do at dances. We just never talked about it.”

Haha! This woman was great. She told me a few wild stories from their past. We talked about music (both of them loved jazz and so do I, so we had some common ground to work from), politics and sports. Molly knew more about OSU football than I did. At some point, I asked her why she kept up with football so well.

“I grew up next to Woody Hayes,” she told me.

I have this weird habit of shaking my head rapidly back and forth when I hear something outrageous. It’s sort of a physical manifestation of my need to clear away the jumble of nonsense that just hit my ears. I did this, then asked Molly to repeat herself. She did.

“I grew up next to Woody Hayes.”

Woody Hayes. Ohio State’s legendary football coach, who led them to approximately three billion national championships. The same legend I’d heard about my entire life (my uncle and grandfather are alumni of OSU). She told me dozens of hilarious stories about her and Woody and Woody’s brother. They kept in touch for his entire career, remaining friends until he died. I was cursing the fact that I’d already written my last story for the paper that quarter. A profile on this woman would have been gold.

As we were talking, one of the staff members pushed a wheelchair past our table. The employee was suddenly called away, leaving the wheelchair right in front of our little group.

It was the Cadillac of wheelchairs. Shiny, shiny chrome, a foam padded seat and a comfortable-looking backrest. A sweet ride.

We were in mid-conversation when Molly. sans cigarette at this point, winked at me and went instantly limp in her seat. In a shaky, feeble voice very much the opposite of her usual voice, Molly called out to one of my fellow volunteers.


Molly: D-d-d-deary …

Volunteer: Um, yes?

Molly: D’ya think you could … could help me into that wheelchair?

Volunteer: Oh! I … I guess … I don’t really know … I mean, is that your wheelchair?

Molly: I don’t see a name on it.

Volunteer: Well … I really don’t know how to help you … maybe I should get one of the nurses … oh my …


The volunteer shuffled away. Molly sat up again, digging for another cigarette.

“Shit,” she said in her normal voice. “It was worth a shot.”




I don’t believe I’ll have a very long life. But if I do, and I manage to live to be 92, I hope I am as mentally virile as Molly. A strong mind can overcome a weak body.

In the meantime, I don’t plan on slowing down. None of my heroes ever did.

Peace and love,

Sketch E.