On occasion, and mainly because I’m a public spirited sort of guy, I’ll gather the children in the neighborhood together; my wife will fix them some knockwurst sandwiches; and I’ll regale them with delightful stories about the good ol’ days.
They seem to enjoy it. “Kids,” I’ll start, “would you like to hear about the good ol’ days?”
“Yippee!” They’ll exclaim. “Please grandpa,” they’ll say.
They like to call me “grandpa” because they know how much it hurts. I try and pretend it doesn’t. But, often, as my tears well up, they can tell. Nevertheless, I continue to share with them tales of my youth.
“Okay, kids,” I’ll say, doing my best to hide the tears. “I can remember a time when we could go down to the local filling station…”
“Filling station?” they ask as if they’ve never heard of it.
“Well, that’s what I call ‘em,” I’ll say, with a twinkle in my eye.
“Yeah, he still says, ‘icebox,’” Jimmy Witherspoon will pipe up. I don’t know why I keep inviting Jimmy. He makes me cry more than all of the other kids combined. But, they all get a good laugh over my calling the refrigerator an icebox.
“Jimmy, you’re not only obnoxious, but you’re also fat,” I’ll laugh. I think my scorn will, one day, make a man out of the little brat.
Anyway, by this time, I will have forgotten what we were talking about. “What were we talking about?” I ask the kids.
“The good ol’ days,” they sing together, almost as if we were all in an episode of Sesame Street.
“That’s right,” I say, beaming, because if there’s one thing I know, it’s the good ‘ol days.
“And, if you don’t mind, what were we saying about the good ol’ days?” I’m not that old, but memory is among my souvenirs, so to speak.
“The filling station, Gramps,” Jimmy says. Sometimes when he walks past me, I’ll “accidentally” knee him in the head.
“Yes we were,” I agree vigorously, and continue. “Well, back in the day…” I say before I’m quickly interrupted.
“What day?” Sally Kimchuck asks. Sally’s a sweet little girl, but, well, she is blonde.
“Huh?” I ask, scrunching up my nose in a way that still makes me look rather cute.
“What day?” Sally repeats. “What day are you talking about?”
“No particular day,” I’ll say.
“Well, you said, ‘back in the day’?”
“He doesn’t know what he’s saying,” Jimmy interjects. “He still calls the refrigerator an ‘icebox.’”
“That wasn’t funny when you said it two minutes ago,” I say, somewhat educatingly. But, interestingly, all the kids still laugh. Why can’t I seem to remember before I invite these precious children over, is just how obnoxious they can be?
“Back in the day,” I say, continuing to educate, “simply means in a time gone by, a bygone era, if you will.”
“If we will what,” Sally asks?
“Sally, did your mom drop you on your head when you were a baby?” I’ll ask. Now the kids are all laughing. I do so love children, despite their personalities.
“’If you will’ is just an expression,” I say. “It means, that, well…It’s kind of like saying, ‘if you…’ well, I don’t exactly know what it means. But regardless…”
“Don’t you mean ‘irregardless’?” Billy Wells asks innocently.
“No, there’s no such word as ‘irregardless,’” I say, thinking this must be how a college professor feels. “Sometimes people might use that word…”
“Use what word?” Sally asks.
“Irregardless,” I answer.
“I thought you said it wasn’t a word,” she says.
“Well, there isn’t really.” I’m getting somewhat frustrated by this point.
“Well, why did you call it a word?” Sally continues.
“He still calls a refrigerator…”
“Shut up or go home, Porky,” I snap
“I’m sorry,” I apologize. Jimmy starts to cry. “But you have to admit, you are fat.”
Trying to change the subject, I speak up, “Let’s all sit back down and let me tell you about the good ol’ days.”
“Oh boy,” they all kinda say, or something to that effect. Anyway, I go to the ice box and pour them some milk. I get the Oreo cookies out. As the kids start to pull their Oreos apart, licking the creamy center filling in a way that reminds me of the time when I didn’t have diabetes, I start my story again.
“Back in the good ol’ days," I say, "I could go down to the local filling station and the gasoline only cost three dollars a gallon.”
“Wow!” they’ll shout in disbelief. “Really?”
“Really!” I answer them, knowing they’re looking at me admiringly. I think they think it’s cool that they know someone who can remember those good ol’ days. “Why, I could fill my car up and drive a whole week for less than sixty dollars.” I know this impresses them.
“Gee, Grandpa,” they’ll say, “Do you think we’ll ever return to those good ol’ days of yesteryear?”
“I doubt it,” I say. “Life just keeps on changing. Now, take my cell phone,” I say, pulling my cell phone out my pocket.”
“Okay, thanks,” Sally says, grabbing my phone.
“What the hey,” I shriek, grabbing the phone back from her sticky little hands. “Leave my phone alone.”
“But you said take it,” she wails.
“Yeah,” I say, “but I didn’t mean ‘take it.’”
“Well, what did you mean?” she asks.
“I just mean consider it. I mean think about cell phones. Used to be…”
“You mean back in the day,” Sally asks, smiling because she’s learned something new, and, for that, I’m proud.
“Exactly,” I smile. “Back in the day, a cell phone was only good for making phone calls.
“That’s all it would do?” Bobby Barry asks in total shock and disbelief.
“Well, you could also use it as a very dim flashlight,” I say, “but other than that, it didn’t do much else.”
“Wow, you are old,” Bobby says.
“And, you have a big ugly birthmark on your arm,” I remind him. “But, anyway, take this cell phone I have now. Leave my phone alone, Sally,” I yell.
“But…” she starts to explain.
“Shut up,” I remind her.
“My new-fangled Android shows TV programs. It has games. It plays music. It sends text messages. I can check my email and get the sports scores and keep appointments. It’s marvelous. I just wonder one thing,” I say, remembering, finally, why I invited the kids over in the first place. “Do you think one of you could show me how to make a phone call?”