I recently wrote about how important it is for some retired men to have a project. Preferably one project at a time that holds the possibility of someday being completed as opposed to six at a time for which there will never be an end to any of them. I encouraged the man’s loved ones to tolerate his projects because, as his age creeps up on him, his projects can chase away his fears.
But what I didn’t address, until now, is how this very same man, as the days on his calendar tick down, might someday become a project himself, a task undertaken by serious people usually dressed in white coats.
But this is where I am at now, as the days of my 74th year on Earth dwindle down. And I have become a project on multiple levels, thankfully, so far, confined to the areas of my body from the neck up. Specifically, my teeth, ears, eyes and skin. From the neck down, so far at least, I am still as spry as a wily chicken, albeit a sometimes creaky one that’s missing a few feathers. I am grateful mobility is still a possibility with me.
I can still walk and even almost run, if a wild animal, real or imagined, is chasing me. I can still bend down to pick up a dime off a sidewalk, and can still climb a ladder, although these days I prefer ones that have no more than three or four steps.
I don’t mind being a series of projects for other people, for the most part, but those projects differ in a few aspects from the projects I choose for myself, which are enjoyable, or I wouldn’t choose to do them.
With the projects being selected by all the specialists that are regularly in my life these days, a major difference is I get sent home after each appointment will long lists of do’s and don’ts. How this differs from my self-chosen projects is I don’t want to do any of the do’s and I really don’t want to avoid any of the don’ts that are detailed on my very long nice and naughty lists. Among those items is the strong suggestion that I order sun-protective garments from Australia.
So having become a cranky old bugger who has only gotten more stubborn about following orders as the years have gone by, I often do all the don’ts and I don’t do all the do’s.
Someday, some final specialist I am sent to, will tell me with a long, sad face, that I should have done the do’s and not have done the don’ts but his assessment won’t come as any surprise to me and maybe not even as a disappointment.
Because among the many features of my body located above my neck that keep me swamped with medical demands large and small, another one located up there is my brain, which so far hasn’t attracted much attention. And it is in that brain, and the heart it is somehow connected to, where lies my freedom of choosing my various paths. And while the thoughts and desires within those entities are often flawed, they are what make me, me. That old brain and its partner, my heart, are what have gotten me this far.
So, rather than doing more things from the do list and not doing other things from the don’t list, I think, instead, I’ll go outside and build another bird feeder. I will forget about being other people’s projects for a while, and go back to working on one of my own. That will chase away my fears and I’ll enjoy watching my fat happy birds – and the bunnies and squirrels that feast on the seeds my flying friends kick onto the ground.
Thirty minutes of cheerily sawing and hammering out in the fresh air, to my way of thinking, beats grudgingly flossing, cream smearing, eye dropping and pill popping ten times out of ten, although, I will admit I will do all those things when the spirit moves me. Can a man be foolish without being a total fool?
As we all are, I am doing the best I can with what I have left. But it has never been a goal of mine to cross that finish line in perfect shape. I don’t know exactly what the term “benign neglect” refers to but if I have a choice to brush my tongue daily to reduce the germs living on it and painting a birdhouse I am reconstructing, I will be digging out my painting supplies before I reach for my “tongue brush”, and, yes, there is such a thing.
I am grateful for those professionals who have made a project out of me and I am sure I am not the first old guy they’ve met who would rather slather motor oil on his bald head than sunscreen, but I am one of those fairly common male creatures who is half smartass and half dumbass.
Some days, though not every day, the dumbass is running away with it.
©2025 Jim Hagarty
