Sometimes, old guys (like me) develop a few minor ailments that insist on rearing their ugly heads (like me — the “ugly head” part, especially) on a semi-regular basis. Weakening eyesight, expanding girth, aching joints and slipping sacroiliacs are all too common ailments associated with the gaining of years and wisdom.

Often, the “wisdom” part comes from graduating from the school of hard knocks. I do not like to boast, but in this case I will make an exception. I am an honor student from that particular academic institution, having graduated magna cum laude. I taught my kids to learn from my mistakes — because that would free them up to make plenty more of their own.

Early on in my career, I was a hard charging, nothing could hurt me, absolutely invincible, gonzo carpenter. I was young, healthy and full of spit and vinegar. I was slim, trim and had more than a few muscles to show for it. This isn’t bragging — just the by-product of youthful labor in the construction field.

One day, a brilliant man asked me what I wanted to be doing when I turned 50. Did I really think I would still be able to carry a bundle of roofing shingles over each shoulder as I climbed an extension ladder with no hands (definitely not OSHA approved, but yes, I could actually do that)?

Did I really think I would still be able to hang 16-foot long sheets of drywall? Did I really think I would still be able to frame a complete home in just three days? Did I really think I was invincible and would always stay that way?

Then he said something even more brilliant. “You know, they’ll pay you for your brain.”

At first, I envisioned a scenario where my brain would be removed and placed into the skull of Dr. Frankenstein’s monster — resulting in a not-too-beneficial payday for me.

However, my superior skills at reasoning soon brought me to understanding the true meaning of his comment — instead of breaking my back to earn money, I could use my intelligence.

I took his advice, advanced my knowledge, and I soon found that sitting behind a desk, telling everyone else how to build things was, physically, much easier work — but, not as much fun.

I have never been able to rid myself of the desire to get my hands dirty, blistered and sliver impaled. So far this summer, my friends and I have built a multi-tiered deck at my Shangri-La by the Shore, finished the exterior to my latest addition to my home, hung and finished drywall on two different projects (for two different friends), and almost painted some trim.

I say “almost” painted some trim because that is as far as I got. Decades of sitting behind a desk have made me soft, round and vulnerable to dislocating my lower back (it happens on an all-too-regular basis).

For the past several months, I did all that heavy lifting, grunting and groaning. The results were a loss of weight, the firming of flab and a better-fitting tool belt. I had a spring in my step and a smile on my face. I was returning to the days of being a gonzo carpenter. I was a man again — not just an old man.

Then last Thursday happened.

I had some time before heading over to a friend’s house to hang some more drywall. I decided to touch-up some trim that needed painting. I grabbed a brush (just a tiny, little, two-inch tapered brush — nothing anywhere near the 50-pound limit for a Fed-Ex driver), bent down to dip it in the can of paint, and went right down to my knees.

I had twisted just right and provided a golden opportunity for my favorite lower vertebrae to slip a disc. After months of heavy lifting, I was brought down by a two-ounce paintbrush with no paint on it.

Yes, it was a brilliant man that once asked me what I wanted to be doing when I turned 50. He changed my life.

Perhaps sometime in the last decade-and-a-half I should have stopped to ask myself what I wanted to be doing when I turned 65.

The answer would have been, “I sure as heck don’t want be laying on my back, staring at the ceiling for nearly a week, wondering if I’ll ever be able to walk straight again.”

 

Larry Wilson is a mostly lifelong resident of Niles. His optimistic “glass full to overflowing” view of life shapes his writing. His essays stem from experiences, compilations and recollections from friends and family. Wilson touts himself as “a dubiously licensed teller of tall tales, sworn to uphold the precept of ‘It’s my story; that’s the way I’m telling it.’” He can be reached at wflw@hotmail.com.