…When you were younger, you used to gird yourself and walk
wherever you wished. But when you grow old, you will stretch
out your hands and someone else will gird you, and bring you
where you do not wish to go.

—John 21:18
____________

It’s been coming at me right along, life has. And it’s been going pretty well. Still, it’s felt a little strange, lately. I’ve been walking, traveling through. And in more ways than one, it feels like I’m walking lame.

I wasn’t looking for anything out of the ordinary when they told me. Well, I wasn’t looking for much of anything at all back when those shell-shocked days were winding down. I was focused on one thing, pretty much. I was getting ready to leave the hospital after ten intense and brutal days. After where I’d just been, it didn’t matter much to me where I was going, just as long as it was out of that place.

And the doctors came at me, all rat-a-tat, in my face. Eat this. Don’t eat that. Watch your diet, take your meds. Walk real careful for a while. Well, walk real careful for the rest of your life. You’re pretty much an invalid now, and you will always be weak. Your heart will never beat strong again, not like it did before. And then they flung it in sideways, just kind of tacked it on as an afterthought. Oh, and go get a colonoscopy. You’re over fifty. It’s time. We’ll schedule it for you. And I just nodded obediently at everything they said. There wasn’t much else to do, looking back. I felt like an old man, beaten and battered and bruised by life. I’d figure out how lame I was walking soon enough.

I got home, and gradually worked my way to a new balance in life. Got to where I didn’t panic or freak out at every little bump that came along. And, in time, I got my heart strength back, too. Back to full strength, a thing they had told me again and again would never come to pass. I wrote that journey as it came at me.

And the doctor’s people got me scheduled to go see a colonoscopy specialist. Like I said, I didn’t think much about it, one way or the other when they yammered at me to do it. You’re supposed to go get your colon checked out when you’re fifty, at least that’s what I vaguely remember hearing. Not that I ever paid much mind to such things. You think you’re invincible until you walk up and peer down the dark deep hole like I did. After you pull back from such a thing, you go and do what they tell you.

I didn’t pay it much mind as the date approached. And it was sometime in late January that I strolled in for my appointment. Dr. Brown, the guy who saw me, was extremely competent and gracious. He looked over my records on his computer. We chatted a bit. “So you had some heart issues?” he asked. Yep, I said, holding my thumb close to my forefinger. More than just issues. I came this close to leaving. He made the proper astounded noises, and then he told me. “You’re on different meds. This is a routine checkup procedure. Let’s wait a few months and see how you get along. Maybe you’ll be off a few of those meds by then.” Works for me, I said. And on the way out, I made another appointment about two months down the road. And I went home and settled back into my daily routine. I didn’t think about the upcoming colonoscopy for a long time. Out of sight, down the road, out of mind.

And the two months shot by, and next thing I knew, I was sitting and talking to Dr. Brown again. Yep, I told him. I got rid of the most toxic drug. I don’t have to take it anymore. And I’m figuring to get rid of a few more, too, down the line a ways. My heart’s been beating good. And he told me. “We’ll schedule you right in, for the procedure. You can come here, to this facility. The whole thing won’t take long at all. You should be in and out of here in less than two hours.” I stopped up front on my way out, and me and the nice lady found a date and time that would work for me. She penciled me in. “And just wait a minute,” she said. “I have some instructions here for you.”

And it was right at the moment she got the instructions laid out on the desk there, right then that I realized this little procedure was a bit more involved than I had ever figured it would be. She went over everything with me. All three pages. She circled a line here with her pencil and highlighted a paragraph there with her marker. And she talked and talked. No solid foods for a full day before the procedure. Go pick up this prescription for a cleanser, and do that right away. And here’s what you do with that. And blah, blah, blah, and instruct, instruct, instruct, and so on and on. I looked at her and nodded, half stunned. And muttered, yes, yes, as if I grasped everything she was saying. One thing was clear. This was way more complicated than I thought, and it wasn’t going to be a picnic. No part of it was.

But I left, then, and didn’t worry about it much. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof, and all that, is what I thought to myself. And soon, very soon, the evil day approached. And I got serious. Dug up the printed instructions and pored over them. Go buy 32 ounces of Gatorade. The day before, you eat no solid food. And after six that night, you eat no food at all. It didn’t sound like fun. But I dutifully followed the instructions, right down to the T. Do what you have to, to get to where you need to go. And it was all going pretty well, I thought, the day before. Until lunch time, at least. I had brought my lunch along to work, a little bottle of apple juice. That would be my lunch. I drank down the cold liquid. I didn’t feel half bad. And a few minutes after that, it hit me. I tried to make like nothing was wrong, but it was just impossible to ignore the sharp and stabbing and absolutely unbearable pain of a rear lower wisdom tooth that wanted out.

There was a cavity in that tooth, I knew. It had been hurting some, off and on, for a few months. And I did what I always do when a tooth starts acting up. I ignored the warnings and hoped the pain would go away on its own. Or at least not hurt so bad. Oh, sure, I figured it would hurt enough eventually that it would have to come out. Some day. But not that particular day. And I gritted hard when the pain came stabbing in. It’s been years since I’ve felt pain like that. There is no pain like a real toothache. And I dug around the medicine cabinet and grabbed a Motrin, or some such thing and swallowed it. That should help. It didn’t. That tooth was hurting bad, and it was gonna keep hurting bad. I could tell. And I thought, good grief. Here I am, half lame and wounded from getting ready for one medical procedure. And now this comes along. I mean, I guess you could figure it would. I shouldn’t be surprised. And the pain kept shooting out in great piercing stabs. And I knew I had to find a dentist. An emergency dentist. It didn’t matter who, as long as he could pull a tooth.

Any yeah, yeah, I know. I don’t have a dentist. I had to go find one. Here’s how that is. I brush and floss my teeth every day. Religiously. I’ve done that for decades and decades. But I don’t have a dentist. I avoid those people like the plague. They always launch into great pious lectures about everything you did wrong in not taking care of your teeth. They look disdainfully down their noses at you. I’ve seen it and heard it all before. And I just don’t feel like hearing it again, ever. I’ll go to see a dentist when I have to, was my motto. Not before.

Well, I was going to have to go now. That I knew right after the tooth started stabbing. It’s been a decade since I’ve had my teeth worked on. Last time was right at ten years ago, when a filling fell out. Ellen knew a dentist over in Lebanon, and I managed to slip in and out with minimal hassles. And that was the last time. So now, I had no idea where to turn.

You do what you gotta do in a time like that. Google emergency tooth extraction. And Google delivered. There was a list, of course. There always is. Lord, let this be a good dentist, I breathed, as I dialed the top number. A man answered. I didn’t hem or haw around, just launched right in. I got a tooth that needs to get yanked, I told him. Can you help me? “We can fit you in as soon as you get here,” he said. “Dr. _____ is here now. He can help you.” And he gave me directions. I thanked him and got ready to head out. Not sure what to think about any dentist who can fit you right in, I thought. Maybe he’s no good. Half an hour later, I pulled into the drive of a small house with a sign out front. Dentist. Looked like a one-man operation. It also looked like a non-scolding operation. Good.

The assistant’s name was Greg, and he and the dentist were the only two souls in the place. I filled out my information sheet and told Greg I had no insurance. I’ll just pay with a check. I need this tooth pulled. Greg took some X Rays of my jaw and then led me to the back room. I settled in the dentist’s chair for the first time in a long, long time. And the man came strolling in, dressed in white scrubs. The dentist. An older guy, tough, hard bitten. Looked like he’d been knocked around a good deal by life. He greeted me curtly. “Looks like we need to get that back lower tooth out of there,” he said. No lectures about anything. That was good. Just yank it out, I said. And then I happened to mention. I’m on a blood thinner, for my heart. The hard-bitten dentist recoiled. “You’re on what?” he snapped. “I’m glad you happened to mention that. I’m not sure I can help you.”

And I groaned. Something always has to crop up, to make things more complicated. Let me call my doctor, I said. I got the number right here. And sitting there in the dentist’s chair, I made the call to Dr. B, my heart doctor. Someone actually answered, a guy. I told him what was going on. I need to know if the dentist can pull my tooth, I said. And after some haggling and dealing back and forth, I was told. Stop taking the blood thinner today and tomorrow. The morning after that, he can pull your tooth. I passed the info on to the hard-bitten dentist. “That’s fine,” he said. I can take you Thursday morning, first thing.” But what am I gonna do with all this pain? I asked. “I’ll drill down and kill the nerve,” he said.

And he numbed my jaw and grabbed his drill. That high shrill scream has always made me shiver. That and the hot smoky smell of burning tooth and seared and severed nerves. He had my tooth drilled and dead in twenty minutes. He packed it out and told me to bite down. That will hold until you get back. Greg wrote out a bill, and I wrote a check. Now, on for home, and an evening of fasting and drinking that cleansing crap for my colonoscopy the next day. Walking out and driving home, I felt like an old man, beaten and battered and bruised and lame.

That evening I drank lots of Gatorade, mixed with a lot of that vile white cleansing powder. It cleansed me, all right. It wasn’t all that bad, though, nothing like the horror stories I had heard told. And I slept OK that night, and woke up and drank the remainder of the vile concoction the next morning. And soon after lunch my sister-in-law, Wilma, pulled in. She would drive me to the clinic for the procedure. I got in, and off we went. We chatted. I remember the last time you took me to the doctor for a simple procedure, I told her. Last November. I didn’t get back home for ten days. I hope this trip doesn’t turn out like that.

It didn’t. Everything went more smoothly than I could possibly have hoped for. Right on time, a nurse stepped out and called my name. And she led me back and into a little curtained room. Explained how things would come down. I changed into a gown, and minutes later my stretcher was being pushed over to a side room. A couple of people were waiting. Blood pressure. Heart rate. An attendant stabbed a large needle into my wrist and hooked up a hose. And I was off, for a little nap. A very short time later, I awoke back in the curtained room. I felt rested. The nurse popped in and told me everything had gone great. And then Dr. Brown stopped by. He’d removed one very small polyp, and it wasn’t malignant, he was 100% sure. He would send me a report. We chatted a bit, and I thanked him. I’m sure glad it turned out well, I said. I’m relieved. We shook hands. And he told me. “Come back and see me in ten years.” I think I can do that, I said.

Wilma took me back home, and I wasted no time cooking up a nice little feast of real food. No more fasting for me. I felt relieved that it was all over. But still. One more little barrier remained. Tomorrow morning. My tooth would come out. Oh, well. Tonight I will eat and be merry. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.

A few minutes after nine the next morning, I was sitting all tense in the dentist’s chair again. The hard-bitten dentist numbed my jaw again, and laid out his instruments. And as he got ready to go in and drill, he told me. “A tooth like that, back there like that. It’s either going to pop right out, or it’s going to take an hour to get out.” Oh, God, I prayed. Please let the thing just pop right out. The hard-bitten dentist stuck a pliers back in there and started prying and yanking around. No good. And then, out came the drill. The man knew what he was doing, and he knew what he was talking about. He hacked and sawed and drilled and cut and swore and drilled and hacked and sawed some more. After about fifteen minutes, I figured the Lord wasn’t hearing me, so I quit praying.

And exactly to the minute, one hour in, the tooth came popping out. By this time the hard-bitten dentist was so exhausted and exasperated that he simply laid the tooth on the little table beside me and walked out of the room. Greg the attendant gave me penicillin pills and water and packed the gaping hole with gauze where the tooth had been. “Bite down,” he told me. “Keep the pressure on. Take the gauze out in an hour. If it keeps bleeding, repeat.”

I nodded and muttered incoherently. There wasn’t a whole lot I could say. I followed Greg back up to the front, and he wrote out my bill. I wrote him a check, then hollered into the back room as I turned to leave. Thank you, Dr. ______ . And the hard-bitten old dentist yelled back in a muffled voice. “You are welcome, Ira. You did good. You were a trooper.”

Nursing my frozen jaw, I walked out and got into my truck and drove off. Right about then, I needed some tender loving care. I felt pretty beaten and battered and bruised and lame.
********************************

I’ve been feeling a little bruised and battered and lame in a few other ways, too. It’s strange, how it came to be. Right after I got out of the hospital last fall, the world was a very scary place. The doctors yelled at me. Make sure you take these meds on schedule every day. No salt. Not one drop of alcohol, ever again. You touch one drop, and you will fall over dead. I grumbled at them in my mind and quietly rebelled against them in my heart. But I listened. Not a lot of choice there, I figured.

The months slipped by, and the first thing I knew, I had found a decent rhythm. I felt pretty confident. There was joy, there, in life again. And the next thing I knew, I had been totally dry for four solid months. That’s a long stretch of time. You detox naturally, when that happens. And the thing was, I felt it. And it felt real good, to wake up in the morning, all fresh and ready for the day. I marveled at the difference. And yeah, I still pined in my heart. And grieved, some. A drink. It was never far from my mind, I always wanted a drink. And those first four months came and went, and not once did I consume even so much as a single drop.

And it was around that time, just before my colonoscopy was coming up and my tooth went haywire. About right then, so help me, there came a voice inside my head. Persistent, small and still, but there. You’ve come a long way, my son. You got your head cleared from that fog, that alcoholic haze. Never mind that you got it done because there was no other choice. You got it done. Now I want you to look inside you. Examine your heart. Can’t you see how it’s full of dark, hard things? It’s full of unforgiveness and rage and shame. I want you to do something about that. Now that you know, now that you can see. I want you to go and get yourself cleaned out. I want you to do that so you can walk free, so you can live free.

I recoiled, startled. And I bristled back pretty hard, especially right at first. Ah, come on, Lord. I was just minding my own business, here. Why are you sneaking up on me like that? It’s not nice. Haven’t I been through enough crap, don’t you think? And now you want me to look inside myself? What kind of freedom is that? Of course there’s some rage in there, and of course there’s some unforgiveness and shame. Of course there is. But isn’t that understandable? I mean, look at where I’ve been. Look at what I’ve seen and felt. And it’s not my fault, either. I got a right to hold on to a few little shreds of what I’m holding on to, I claim. So what do you mean, you want me to examine myself? What do you mean, you want me to do something about it? Can’t I have a little peace and rest, here? Why do I have to go looking for more stuff to feel bad about?

That’s how I grumbled at the Lord. With thoughts like that and words like that.

The small, still voice stayed small and still. But it would not stop, would not go away. It stayed. Persistent. I wasn’t losing sleep, and the voice wasn’t incessant, as in always there, twenty-four hours a day. But I could never quite shake it off, the quiet noise of it. Listen to me. I know what’s best for you. You claim you want to be healed, and I believe you. I know you want to be free. Free to live and free to write, and free to speak your voice. Go, then, and get yourself some help. I will show you the way.

And so I finally gave up and shrugged. Out of sheer exhaustion, I suppose. I mean, how long can a guy go walking around arguing with voices in his head? Not for long. You’ll get locked up in some padded room, somewhere. OK, I said. I’ve come this far. I’ve been to the gates of death. I have seen the outer darkness of the wilderness. I looked at it all, right up close, and never flinched. You brought me back from that desolate place, you brought me back to a land where there is life and joy. I will never be afraid again. And yes, I want to be free. If you want me to examine what’s inside me, I’m listening. I’ll do what you want me to. Just show me how.

And the small, still voice was very calm. You need a man to talk to, a friend, someone who will listen and not judge. And you need to tell him what you have kept hidden inside you. The rage and the shame. Especially the shame. It must be someone you can totally trust. And right then, a name and face drifted in and out of my vision like a mirage. Yes. That was the man. Sam. My counselor. The guy who had tried, had labored so tirelessly to keep Ellen and me together, way back. Those were brutal and bitter days. And it didn’t work, then, in the end. I guess we were beyond help. But he was a good man, and my good friend. We had not connected in years. Now, it was time again.

All right, Lord, I said, resigned. I got it. I will reach out to Sam and see if he’ll see me. The small, still voice went quiet, then. And my heart was very calm.

One morning not long after that, Sam smiled in welcome as I walked into his office for my first appointment. And we shook hands and chatted and caught up, two comfortable old friends who hadn’t seen each other in a while. We’re both a lot more worn and battle-scarred than we were years ago when we first met. And then we got down to the reasons I had sought him out after all this time. I didn’t want to come, I told him. But I got my head cleared from the alcohol. And there didn’t seem to be any other way out. So here I am. I have some hard things to tell you. Some things I’ve kept covered up inside, some things I need to work through. I’m not sure how it’s going to go, the telling of it. Or the healing of it. All I know is I just want to be free.

I think it’s going to take a while to get to where I want to go. And it feels like I’m walking lame to get there. But still, I guess I’ve always figured. It doesn’t matter if you’re walking lame. As long as you’re walking.

I’m a cowboy,
On a steel horse I ride.
I’m wanted, dead or alive.
Wanted, dead or alive.

—Bon Jovi, lyrics
___________________

I didn’t quite know what was going on when I got back home from my little excursion to the hospital, back over a month ago. But I knew there were some changes coming. New stuff, new ventures into scary new places. And I’m a person of routines, stuck in my ways. I liked it the way it was, is my motto. So I wasn’t all that eager to walk forward, to see what all that new stuff might be. But I gotta say, this far out. It’s been rolling right along, life has. And I’ve pretty much been rolling right along with it. And I was right, about those changes coming. Some real strange things have been going on. Real strange things, indeed.

Where to start? Where to start? Right here, I guess. I’m cooking for myself. I mean, actually frying stuff up in a frying pan on the stove. Anyone with even the slightest knowledge of my history will grasp how astonishing is this fact. I got lectured pretty hard, by the grave doctor and his nutritionists. Low sodium only. You’ll really, really have to watch what you eat. And you can’t go out to eat, much. Most restaurant food is gonna set off those fluids in you again. Which means you’re best off fixing your own food at home. Cooking. For yourself. It did no good, and I was too shell-shocked anyway, to make much of any protest. But I don’t cook. I never have. You might as well tell me to learn to speak Latin, or some such senseless thing.

It all was what it was, I figured. And I figured, too, that most of my cooking would be done in my crock pot. That’s the most basic way to cook any food. And I had watched Ellen, way back, when she whipped up a crock pot meal. It was all pretty simple to do on my own, later on. And that’s about the only way I’ve ever cooked, ever since I’ve lived alone, these past nine years. And that’s the first thing I did after I got home, this time. I cooked up a batch of beans and spices and a hunk of organic buffalo meat in the crock pot. It all came out OK, and I ate the mess. But I got to thinking, along about that time. There has to be something more to life than a crock pot, when it comes to fixing food. There has to be a better way. There just has to be.

And there was a better way, all right. I would have to learn to cook, at least the basics. I had the pots and pans, I knew, to fry up what could be fried. My kitchen is quite well-stocked, in fact. Many years ago, my father discovered some special cookware imported all the way from Denmark. It was made of titanium, brand named Pyrolux. I’m not sure why Dad got all excited about this particular brand. But he did, and he became a dealer in short order. There must have been some perceived health benefit or other going on. And as he always did in all his business ventures, my father went all out. He wrote about this new magical cookware in The Budget and possibly in Family Life. And he stocked up on dozens and dozens of pots and pans of every imaginable size and shape. I mean, there were large pans and large pots, all with glass lids. And there were medium and small pans and medium and small pots, all with glass lids as well. And I know the man sold and shipped out hundreds of these pots and pans to customers all across this land and Canada.

All that, to say this. There was a space there of about a decade, maybe from the mid-1990s on, when I picked up a new piece of titanium cookware every time I went home to visit. Dad offered his wares to me quite magnanimously, I must say. And I never shrank from accepting such a gift. Oh, yes, I’d love one, I told him when he offered. And I’d venture into his vast storeroom of inventory and help myself to whatever item caught my fancy on that particular day. And over time, I ended up with just about all there was to get, when it comes to cookware from the Pyrolux Company in Denmark. I had small pots and large pots, I had small pans and large pans and flat square pans and round pans. Even after Ellen and I were married and stopped by home to visit, I always asked Dad. Got any cookware around I can have? By this time, the pot and pan business had long been extinct. But he still had a good bit of inventory kicking around. And much to Ellen’s embarrassment, Dad always told me to help myself, which I did, happily and without any guilt whatsoever. “Stop asking him for free stuff,” Ellen hissed at me every time. Oh, he wants to get rid of it, I said amiably, as I grabbed another two-hundred dollar pot from a large pile that sat there gathering dust.

And so there was not a problem finding the tools to cook with. My kitchen is a gold mine of all one might need. I can hold my head high, there. (I’m thinking titanium has fallen out of favor and might now be considered poisonous. Maybe that’s why Dad had so many of the pots and pans available.) The problem was, what can I cook? I mean, I could not have been less skilled than I was.

I asked around a bit. Did some checking, on low sodium foods. And I found a couple of things I figured would be pretty simple. Eggs. And potatoes. And yes, I know. Potatoes are loaded with carbs. But that didn’t concern me much. I wanted something that passed my new low sodium test. And raw potatoes and raw eggs have no sodium, naturally. Or it’s so miniscule it might as well be nonexistent. I could eat anything I fried up, as long as I kept the salt off. Or at least kept it to a minimum. And so I ventured out to the grocery store one day. And there I found what I was looking for. Some red potatoes. And a dozen large free-range eggs. I bravely trudged home with my victuals. Now, to see if I could fry up this stuff.

And I gotta say, it all turned out. Sure, there was a learning curve, especially in frying the eggs. I busted the yolk every time, the first dozen tries or so. Eventually I figured it out. Just don’t flip them. Crack’em open into the pan, cover with the lid, and let the eggs cook. Over easy is how I like them anyway. The taters were easy. I sliced and diced and chopped them up, cut up part of an onion, greased up the pan with olive oil, and cooked the whole mess up. And lately I’ve took to adding some bits of hamburger or thin steak slices, chopped up. That all makes some tasty goulash. And it all makes for a delicious mess when you top it with a couple of farm-fresh, organic, over-easy eggs. I’ve been dining real fine. One of these days, I’ll be confident enough to cook for company, even. And for me, that’s saying something.

And no, not every night do I fry up eggs and potatoes. Maybe every other night. I beg whatever I can from friends wherever I can, and I have a good supply of frozen, low-sodium foods in my freezer. Soups and such. And I dine out at least twice a week. I’m pushing that line on salt, seeing how far I can take it. Still careful, of course. But not paranoid. And so far, it’s all been going good. Including my cooking. Which is a very strange thing. But it’s not the strangest thing.

And moving right on down the list, then, to the next odd thing. And that is the extraordinary fact that I have grown a beard. Yep, whiskers. And a mustache, even. Such a thing is probably just about the last thing I would ever have imagined you would hear me tell, a few months back. But now it’s now. Things aren’t the same as they were yesterday. I’ve been very leery of beards for decades. Never dreamed of having one, with one exception. The wheat harvest, back in 1986. I grew a beard out there in the wild lands of Montana and Alberta, because somehow that seemed fitting. Mostly, though, I was a lost soul back then. And that beard lasted only a few months. Once I got back to civilization in Daviess, off it came. And that’s been my only experience, ever, with a beard, at least that I can remember. Until now.

I’ve never liked beards, because in the world where I grew up, beards were mandatory for men. At least after you got married. In Aylmer, you had to grow whatever beard you could when you joined church. I mean, their youth have beards. Or did, years ago. I can’t speak for today. I’d guess that’s still the rule up there. And that’s fine, if it is. I’m just saying, I’ve never liked beards, and never seriously considered growing one in the normal course of things. You get burned out, when something is mandatory like that. You shy away from the hard and fast rules. And it gets to be a pretty powerful motivator, not to fall in line, when you got that kind of baggage on your back.

I’ve seen it many times, over the years, and I always recoiled from it. Some guy will break away from the Amish, married or single. And next thing you know, he’s showing up, not with a beard, but with a huge old bushy walrus mustache. Because the Amish can’t have mustaches. And for some guys, it’s just too much to shake off, when freedom suddenly comes. I mean, I understand it. But I’ve always recoiled from it. You see an old friend, or just some guy you know came from the Amish. Beardless, he strolls about. But between his nose and mouth, there grows a great bushy mass of hair so huge that you know it has to interfere with his food when he’s eating. I’ve never been able to grasp why anyone would want to do such a thing. But it’s OK. I’m over my revulsion now. I’ve come to realize it’s none of my business, the personal choices others make. And I’ve remained pretty much free of beard and mustache over the course of my entire lifetime. And happily so. Until now.

There’s one thing that happens when you stay in the hospital for ten days. You don’t shave. Mostly, because you’re laid up, and you can’t. At least, that’s how it was for me. My first Monday there, I had Steve stop by my house and pick up a few things. Including my battery shaver. He dutifully lugged it in. And there it sat, in a bag, until the day I left. You don’t shave, because you don’t feel like it. And half the time I was there, I couldn’t get out of bed whenever I felt like it, anyway. And so, by day ten, I looked at myself in the mirror with some interest. I sure had a scruffy face. I wasn’t sure how I was gonna get all that hair off with my shaver, or a razor. And it hit me, about the last day I was there. It’s grown, now, for ten days. Trim it up, and it won’t look half bad. And by the time my nephew, Andrew, arrived to escort me out of that place, I had it figured out. I would go and buy a trimmer. Because I would need one in the future, to trim my new beard.

And so far in, I actually kind of like it. It took some getting used to, I gotta say. I shudder to confess, though. I have a mustache. Gahhh. One never knows, when one is judging others. Some day, you’ll walk that same path yourself. Anyway, at my age, I got a lot of gray hair. So my beard is partially gray, too. I keep it trimmed way down, and neat. It’s a salt and pepper look. It all gives me a little more gravitas than I naturally have, I would claim. And it definitely makes me look at least slightly distinguished. Especially during conversations when I reach up and slowly stroke or scratch my beard with a wise and knowing look. With a beard like that, I think, you can fool a lot of people a lot of the time.

All that said, I’m not making any prognostications about walking about majestically bearded for the rest of my life. As fast as the notion struck me, it could well leave. To me, it’s nothing religious or moral or amoral, growing a beard. It’s just that I knew I’d be facing a new world, when I got home from the hospital. And for that new world, I’m sporting a new look. And that’s all there is to that.

OK, then. So I’m cooking for myself in my own kitchen, with my very own cutting-edge cookware. Bearded. Had you told me such a thing would be, six months ago, I would have expelled you from my presence. I would have told you to come back when your head’s feeling right again. And I would have done all this with a totally clean conscience. But things get stranger still.

I’m not even quite sure how it happened, just last week. I was strolling about in a department store one day, not really looking for anything in particular. Maybe some shirts off the clearance rack. I always buy my winter shirts around this time of year, when the spring clothes are getting stocked, and the old inventory gets way reduced.

I walked about, lollygagging. Looking at this and that. And then I walked right into a small section with several nice racks and shelves. On those racks and shelves were hats. Dozens and dozens of hats of every type. Spiffy little fedoras. Bowlers. English caps. I checked out a few with some interest. I hadn’t known hats were “in” again. They must be, for a store to stock a selection like this. And then I saw them, off to one end. Not really cowboy hats. Maybe you’d call them Aussie hats. Something like Crocodile Dundee wore, way back. Or Harrison Ford. A medium wide brim, turned down in front and back. And I couldn’t help myself. I took one that looked to be about my size and tried it on. It fit perfectly. But nah, I thought. I don’t do hats. I don’t wear hats. I just don’t.

And once again, my aversion to hats is something that can be traced straight back to my ex-Amish roots. From where I come from, in the Midwest, you don’t wear a hat if you came from the Amish. At least, that’s how it was, years ago. And since that time, wearing a hat of any kind has been just about the last thing I could ever imagine doing.

We always, always had to wear a hat outside, growing up. That’s the underlying issue. And when it gets drilled in you like that, you get burned out. And you shy away from it if you ever break free. I can remember many times, playing outside at home, gloriously grimy and hatless. And Dad would come strolling around, on his way to somewhere, maybe town. And if it was your turn to go with him, it was a big deal. And always, always, he said. “Go get your hat, so we can go.” And we did. Did we ever. A trip to town was way too big to miss, just because you didn’t have your hat on.

One of the most accurate scenes in the movie “Witness” involved a hat. The Amish mother and son sat there in the train station in Philly, waiting. The little boy asked to go to the restroom (where he would witness the murder that set things off). His pretty young mother smiled and told him he could go. The boy turned and was two steps gone, when she spoke his name, and he halted in his tracks. “Samuel,” she said. “Dye Hoot” (Samuel. Your hat). The boy turned back with an “ah, shucks” grin, and put on his hat. That’s exactly how it would have happened in real life. I’ve always marveled at the scriptwriters, that they got such a small detail so right on.

So it was from such a foundation of experiences that I stood there at that hat rack that day. Fingering that Aussie hat. Trying it on, and trying it on again. It fit perfectly. It’s hard to find a real hat that fits perfectly, I thought to myself. And it was a Stetson, a real honorable brand. And best of all, it was 50% off. Well, that’s what the signs claimed, anyway.

In my old world, it would have ended right there. With me toying with that hat, then setting it back on the shelf, and walking out of there. But the old world I knew for decades is gone, now. In this new world, I cook for myself. And I thought, what the heck? The new me don’t drink, and I’ve got a new beard. So why not a manly hat, for a whole new look? Those are the thoughts that flashed through me as I stood there, turning that hat in my hands by its brim.

Well, you can guess the rest. I took that hat right up to the nearest cashier. Shelled out my $23.00, which was half the listed price. And I walked out of that store with that hat. In my truck, I shaped the brim just right.

I wore my new hat out and about the rest of that day. And I gotta say. People look at you a little different, when you come around. Eye you up a little different, give you a little wider berth. And everyone is, oh, so respectful and polite. I’m not saying that’s the way it should be. But that’s the way it is.

That evening, I strolled into Vinola’s, proudly wearing my new hat. I’d like to say I clanked in, but I haven’t worn spurs since my ranching days in Valentine, Nebraska. A few regulars lounged at the far end of the bar. I greeted them and took a seat. Pour me something exotic in a tall glass, I told the barmaid. Whatever you mix up with be fine. Just leave out the alcohol. That’s how it’s been, in my new world. I still stop at my favorite bar, to eat and chat. Not as often as I used to, just now and then. And I am very much welcomed. My friends at Vinola’s had heard about my stint in the hospital, and they all rushed around and hugged and welcomed me, my first time back. I can’t drink, I told them. At least, not for now. And they were totally fine with that. I harvested a lot of welcome hugs from a host of very lovely ladies. “Welcome back,” they told me. “And, oh, I like your beard.” I smiled and felt right at home, like I always do there.

And that night, my friends commented about my hat. Yeah, I said. I just wanted something different. Plus, it’s winter. You gotta have protection on your head. And I sat there, watching football with my buddies and swapping lies. And I ordered some food. A cheeseburger. They make everything from scratch, there at Vinola’s. And I tell them. I can’t drink. I can’t eat salt. They serve up the food, as salt-free as they can make it. And all of it is just beyond delicious.

After eating, I soon made noises to leave. My exotic, juicy drink was gone. My hamburger wolfed down. Time to head on home, I told my friends. And one of them asked me. “I want to buy you one for the road. Will you drink a cup of hot tea?”

Well. What do you say to that, sitting at any bar? You take what’s offered from a sincere heart, I figured. Sure, I said. I don’t know much about hot tea, but I’d love some. I called over the barmaid, and we had a little conference about what it is to make hot tea. Then, by magic, a cup of hot water appeared. And a selection of tea bags. I picked one and plopped it in. And waited while the hot water turned all murky. And then I sat there, hunched over the bar at Vinola’s in my “bad” new hat, sipping a hot cup of Earl Grey.

I shuddered to think of what Max Brand or Louis L’Amour would have written about such a scene. A couple of young toughs would walk up and insult me. That’s the formula. There would be words. Ha, ha, look at that wuss. He’s not man enough to drink real whiskey. He’s drinking hot tea. Shouldn’t you be sticking out your pinky finger when you lift that cup? Ha, ha, ha. I would stare them down, and they’d go for their guns. And I’d have to draw, lightning-quick, and shoot them both. All to prove I’m a man, and that a man can drink hot tea anywhere he’s darn well got a mind to.

I finished my drink, and slapped my friends on the back. So long, guys. And thanks for the tea. And walked out of the place. It sure is a strange thing, I thought later. My old routines got all busted. And here I am, cooking my own food at home. I got a new beard. I’m wearing a tough new hat to the bar, and drinking hot tea. And it’s been less than two months since I got back home from the hospital. I sure wonder what other borders are out there to cross. Or if I’ll have the nerve to cross them when I reach them.

I think I’ll have the nerve. Heck, the way it’s going, one of these days I’ll be rumbling down distant roads on my custom Harley.