Two people, in their 60s, maybe early 70s, just walked down the road. Probably a married couple. Strolling along. It looked so enjoyable, you know, out in the sun, on a mild winter’s day where, before I saw them coming, I was taking stock of the moss taking over our yard, spreading lies and rumours and ugly promises.
The woman thin, spirited, the man rotund and robust, passed by in matching knitted hats with large pom poms, winter hikers on their feet, their heads up, faces to the sun, the wonder of newborn babies in their eyes, yet looking like poster people for some new seniors’ community with “reasonable” rates and bowling alleys, pool tables, card tables. Bingo every Tuesday evening and finger sandwiches. Or for a communist propaganda poster.
They each had a stick, but rather than lean into the sticks, they embraced them in one mitted hand, occasionally waved them in the air like batons as though overcome with joy, like they were leading a parade of 76 trombones.
They looked jubilant. And healthy. And fit.
Make you sick.
And on they strolled. Oblivious of their knees or the barometric pressure.
I know. The hobbled man’s bitter and jaundiced view of people with good knees.
But this, unfortunately, is where I am in my head. And you know what they say, when you’re a nail, everything is a hammer.
Seriously though. Right now if somebody asked me to choose between winning the lottery or having good knees again, I’d take the knees in a heartbeat.
I don’t want a new car or a big house or the cash to pay a landscaper to come here and completely tune-up our yard.
No, I’d take the knees and run.
I have never wanted to go for a walk so bad in my entire life.
See, what happened was, I was into the walking bigtime back in the fall. But on this one particular day, I couldn’t just go for a walk; no, no. I had to be Rocky again.
I had to be the tire piler I was 44 years ago. Piling tires all day on the factory floor and going home to change into my shorts to head out for a 10 km run. Coming home for a hot shower, devouring a whole chicken and a banana split for supper. 6’4, 165 pounds. More energy than a greyhound.
Immortal.
That day I decided to climb the bleachers five times a lap at Vince Muise’s Ballfield behind Fatima. That’s when I felt this little kink in my knee. When I should have stopped and gone home. But no, I had to be Rocky.
So much for immortality.
The doctor says don’t worry about it. Take ibuprofen or Tylenol. Ice. Rest. Stretch. Elevate your knees. Come back in a month and we’ll take it from there.
Meanwhile, I’ve learned how to read a barometer. It’s the first thing I look for now in a weather forecast. Who cares about rain or snow or wind or -50. That thing dips and my knees start singing the opera.
And this is 2021?
Turning away from the window, I looked at my knees.
“Yis might think yis are winnin’ this one, but yis aren’t,” I said.
I resisted cracking open a couple raw eggs into a glass and downing them.
Resisted playing “Gonna Fly Now.” Watching Rocky run up the stairs at the Philadelphia Museum of Art.
I made a pot of coffee and returned to reading my book, “The Genius of Birds” by Jennifer Ackerman. It’s a great book about the genius of birds. Did nothing whatsoever for my knees.
But it’s the kind of book that might open one up to the possibility of aging gracefully.
Circle of life and all that.
And in the grand scheme of things ...
There are worse things.
Mike Finigan from Glace Bay is a freelance writer now living in Sydney River.
