Look just like my Dad if he had Mom’s arthritis. And defied death a few too many times. For a lot of years.
My father was the first man in his family to live past the age of thirty-eight. I have a t-shirt that’s thirty-eight. (Shamrock Run. Eugene 1978.) My little brother went down for good at thirty-four.
Can still remember my father’s thirty-eighth birthday party. More like a wake. The next year, he drove to and from work awaiting a fatal crash. Came home in the evening, ate dinner, laid down on the couch, asleep he might not wonder when the fatal blow would strike. Or how. That was the worse part. Could be anything.
At least he wouldn’t be surprised like his father and his grandfather and all his uncles. Day after day after the next day. Something of a nightmare to watch.
When we threw Dad a birthday party the next May 28, more like a christening. After he turned thirty-nine, seemed nothing could kill him. A lot of stuff tried. Like when Mom took him to Vegas for his eightieth birthday and he fell off his stool ’cause he pulled the slot machine lever too hard.
I got to thinking about survival and Darwin when I saw a headline – Florida, of course – Police: Vest Fails, Man Shot To Death.
“A Tampa man faces a manslaughter charge after shooting his cousin in an attempt to see whether a bullet-resistant vest still worked…”
Joaquin Mendez, 23, wondered aloud if his vest was still functional. Alexandro Garibaldi, a 24-year-old felon in possession of a firearm and I’m guessing calves the size of cantaloupes, said “Let’s see.”
Next day. Another headline. Vest Not Made To Stop Bullets.
Another gun death. One in the ground, one in the pound.
And so it goes.