Ever
notice how, as you get older, time seems to become needed less and
less. Time appears to take on new meaning when you reach fifty years
of age. The years of personal history with all its triumphs and
failures seem to blur and sometimes get pulled into the black hole
located deep within the brain. There are multiple advantages to this
stage of memory loss.
My
Lady and I oft times giggle about never struggling to find something
to watch on the television. It doesn't matter that we may have seen
a given program or movie fifteen times because it usually has been
forgotten and we enjoy viewing it anew each time. I would hate to
have guests or children in the house now because I'm sure they would
be complaining about having to watch the same things over and over
again.
Another
neat little thing about elderly memory recession is never worrying
about subject matter for conversations. I must have told some
stories a hundred or more times. The beauty of it in our household
is all the repeated stories are always new! You see? There are
advantages to getting old and losing some of that unimportant
short-term memory.
It
fascinates me that some things done years ago stick with you no
matter what. Many of those memories just happen to be the ones you'd
like to forget and have all your buddies who were witnesses to those
things forget them as well. For example. I had been a rather good
Archer for a number of years with both Right and Left-Handed bows. I
was most comfortable with Re-curve Bows because I'd confidently used
them for many years without issue or incident. My buddies had finally talked me
into purchasing a new-fangled Compound Bow. I bought a used one
because I didn't want to sink a lot of money into something that I
might wind up not liking at all. I had worked on the new/used bow
for several days. Lubricating, tightening here and there, adjusting
and drawing this complicated tool of modern archery. I finally began
to practice with it with target tips roughly aimed in the general
direction of the target affixed to the hay bale twenty yards from a
tree root used as a line in the ground. I'd loose an arrow and watch
for the fletching to stop indicating the arrow had struck its mark.
Another adjustment or thirty to the sight posts and I was becoming
quite accurate with my new toy. With the sun lingering low on the
horizon, I packed arrows and bow away to pull out and play another
day. (Make a rhyme every time!)
It
so happened that one of my buddies called and asked me to come over
to his house to fling some arrows downrange, as he called it, the
next day. I piled my bow and extra arrows and tips next to the door
so I wouldn't forget them in the morning. I then laid down to try
and sleep but couldn't for thinking about how I was going to surprise
my friends the next day.
The
sun finally began to slip through the blinds and onto my closed eye
lids which told me it was time to get the coffee brewing. I showered
and hurriedly dressed in my finest Real Tree Cammo outfit, grabbed my
archery gear and headed off to Wayne's house. As expected, I pulled
into the driveway to chants of “Re-Curve Man!” They all loved
giving me a hard time about my older technology bows. I just smiled
as I got out of my pick up, reached into the bed and grabbed the bow
case and a large quiver stuffed full of my best arrows. I went over
to a table and laid everything out and began to prepare for the
target practice. Out came the Compound Bow and the hoots and hollers
started! “It's about God-damned time you decided to get with the
rest of the world!”, Wayne chided. I just smiled back at him.
It
was finally time to nock arrows and ceremoniously loose the first
ones in unison which was our custom. All three arrows made purchase
deep within our individual, hay bale backed targets nearly simultaneously. I
reached for another arrow to nock and noticed Wayne was staring at me
and then to my centered 'Bull's-Eye' downrange. I could tell he
wanted to say something smart but he held his tongue as I raised the
bow. Just as I reached full draw, I heard a loud crack then rapidly
found myself wrapped in bow-string with one of the broken bow limbs
swaying dangerously close to my left eye.
I
stood there, shocked and perplexed for what must have been a minute
or two still in my full draw position. I was brought back to reality
as the sound of unbridled laughter began to make its way forward into
my consciousness. Back to myself once more, I took a series of tiny
little steps to turn around still maintaining my full draw stance.
Once I had turned enough to face my truck, I used similar baby steps
to carry myself back to the safety of said truck. I finally started
the arduous chore of untangling myself from, what seemed at the time,
miles of bow string.
Both
my buddies laughed for more than an hour. Neither of them were able
to loose another arrow the rest of the morning. All they could bring
themselves to do was imitate what they had witnessed during my
equipment failure and start laughing all over again. Of course they
had to tell everyone they saw just what had happened to me on that fateful morning. As a
result of their retelling and reenacting "The Tale Of The Broken
Bow", as they had named it, I
still get ribbed for the incident to this day! I wish this event
could be wiped clean from every person's mind who witnessed it or has
heard the tale. God love 'em! The bastards!
The
Moral Of The Story? No matter how many things you forget as you grow
older, your surviving friends will still be telling your most
embarrassing story to as many people who will listen. Since they
suffer the same memory issues as you do, they'll tell it over and
over and over and over and over and....
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