SIL - Jan/Feb 2020

A Note to Baby Boomers
Go West, Old Man. At Least Go Somewhere.
Iknow Tammy and Janet.
I do not know if they attend
church or dye their hair or watch
“Dancing with the Stars.” I do not
know if they pay their parking tickets
or have sworn off red meat. To be
honest, maybe they are not Tammy
and Janet at all.
They could be Phyllis and Bertha,
in witness protection.
Still, I know them. I know them
because we met in Seattle and reunited
in Baltimore. I know mostly that
they, like me, love the San Francisco
Giants and that they, like me, go to
crazy lengths to watch Giants games.
That is enough for now.
I look forward to knowing more,
though, if or when we get together in
Cleveland or San Diego or Toronto or
Miami or wherever else the Giants
show up. Our beloved, beleaguered
team is our common denominator.
But there is also another.
They, like me, have suitcases and
know how to use them.
It is work to not work. I fumble
through retirement. I win some and
lose some in my stare-down of senior
citizenship. Am I saving enough? Am
I eating right? Should I see doctors
more? Do all old guys spend half the
night in the bathroom?
Why, all of a sudden, am I ready
for lunch by 11?
Then there is travel. Some old
people know flight attendants as well
as I know my cousins. They head
off to Africa and to Alaska – and all
points in between – like I head off to
Aldi.
One friend, a decade my senior,
actually visited Timbuktu. He
showed me pictures. I guess there really
is a Timbuktu.
These wrinkly vagabonds are on
cruise ships and airplanes and tour
buses. They bike, they hike. Meanwhile,
I check Facebook for updates
of their adventures. I more often look
forward to doing nothing rather than
doing anything. Sure, I occasionally
convince myself to blow the budget
on ballgame tickets and beach sunburns.
Then I occasionally opt instead
to play it safe, to be ready for new
hips and the nursing home. I envy
8 • Jan/Feb 2020 • Southern Indiana Living
these whirlwinds. Yet somehow I do
not join them.
I think longingly of far-out ZIP
codes. Then I think of staying close to
kids and grandkids and pets, in some
order. Predictability is here, after all.
Predictability and I get along
great.
The thing is, unpredictability is
where the fun is, where the sights are,
where the other Tammy and Janet
types are. Millions of strangers, ready
not to be strangers, are out there.
And too few of them are here.
A trip to Jeffersonville is not on their
bucket list, believe it or not.
I shared a recent afternoon trading
lies and chugging beers with an
ox-sized, tattoo-plastered, missingfingered
butcher. I had to go to Florida
to do it.
Here is home and family. But
most incredible museums are not
here. Most top-shelf history is not
here. Most of the greatest hits of nature
are not here.
Plus, of course, the Giants are
not here.
So why am I here almost all
the time? Why, as I write this, do my
wife and I have absolutely no trips
firmed up? We debate the options like
we debate flavors of potato chips. We
list the maybes and then, a week later,
list them again. We rule in, then out,
the usual places as well as the unusual
ones.
We have made reservations but
sent in no deposits. So no new memories
are around the corner.
Good reasons to go lose out to
bad reasons to stay. We somehow say
no to cruises and no to Vegas. Canada?
Mexico? Europe? If only they
sold passports at Sam’s Club.
We say yes to too little, that’s
clear. These strangers and their stories
are out there. They must be fetched
like yogurt and orange juice. To go, to
stay, it goes back to the guts to live in
the moment, to do what’s best with
one’s best-left years.
Why worry so much today about
tomorrow? Why not join those who
never will see enough, do enough,
take enough pictures or go through
enough airport pat-downs?
Are these wanderlust people to
be envied or committed? Are vacations
worth the expense or the time?
How many stolen little hotel shampoo
bottles are too many?
The value of getaways is in the
These wrinkly vagabonds are on cruise
ships and airplanes and tour buses.
They bike, they hike. Meanwhile, I check
Facebook for updates of their adventures.
anticipation, of course. It’s a treat to
look forward. Here I am, nonetheless,
with absolutely no pressing reason to
hit up AAA for maps and tour books.
Here I am, another winter without
joining the snowbirds in Florida. Another
Christmas will come and go
without me checking out the New
York lights.
Not everyone is worth meeting,
I assume. But why just assume? Why
don’t I go find out, make my own
Facebook news? Instead, while others
wander, I leave people to wonder.
Is that Moss guy on house arrest or
something? Why is he not in Timbuktu
or at least in Tuscaloosa?
Why should Tammy and Janet
have all the fun? •
After 25 years, Dale Moss
retired as Indiana columnist for
The Courier-Journal. He now
writes weekly for the News and
Tribune. Dale and his wife Jean
live in Jeffersonville in a house
that has been in his family
since the Civil War. Dale’s e-
mail is dale.moss@twc.com