Perils of Age

Someone near and dear to me is matching the most famous German field gun in eighty-eight ways of sullen splendor. I avoid maudlin sentiment rigorously but now I send this tribute through tears. He struggles each day now in so many ways- once he stood like a tree, sturdy and intrepid, now his broken form bends like a reed, wavering with the wind but never his spirit or ideals which remain unbowed. As a child, he earned the bread and milk for six others without hint of complaint by dint of sweat of the brow. He worked his deft little hands on acid-filled automobile batteries while a family business was stolen and prosperity was sucked away by the winds of depression. He answered his nation's call in her time of crisis and learned to use his mind more than his hands to prosper. He explored continents and now fights incontinence. As his body declined, so too did his taste change. He went from loving Frank Sinatra music and western action movies to now, drifting off to Babette's Feast and Whales of August, listening to Liberace and Lawrence Welk. He used to drink whiskey like water and eat a porterhouse at a sitting. Now, he chokes on water saying it is too strong and says his butter soft fillet is too tough. The other morning at two, there was a mighty thud and he who volunteered as a glider pilot is prostrate with half severed ear and broken rib(s). I scoop him up as a babe in arms as he once lifted me. Please keep Simcha ben Jacob in your prayers.