When we lived down by the creekside
I knew all the dark places there were to hide
and they could not find me if they tried
if I just had some Skedaddle Cream Pie.
Mama was making it the day she died
Aunt Bess thought it might have been suicide
but I tell you now what they all denied
she had herself a piece of Skedaddle Cream Pie.
With Mama gone, it turned the tide
for me, I got all stupefied
and dumbstruck, my tongue was so tied
I could hardly eat my Skedaddle Cream Pie.
At some odd hour, not sure when, I’d
found myself down at the creek and cried,
Hey Mama, I still need you by my side,
How come you ate Skedaddle Cream Pie?
I looked up when my tears had dried
and there was a cop! The Man had spied
me leaving home — did he decide
that I fed Mama that Skedaddle Cream Pie?
Hey son, he said, I got to wondering why’d
you run off like that? And I replied,
Who’s asking? I was wishing deep inside
he’d go eat some Skedaddle Cream Pie.
But he brought out the cuffs, and I complied
cause fate told me I should take that ride
downtown. What choice was there, I sighed,
once you had tasted Skedaddle Cream Pie.
The cop questioned me as if I had lied
Now, son, you and I need to see eye to
eye, he said, reckoning that I would confide
to him some kind of coup de Skedaddle Cream Pie.
Not likely, I snarled to him with the kind of pride
that only Mama (or Aunt Bess) could provide.
So he made me spend that night in jail beside
some drunk who smelled like Skedaddle Cream Pie.
When morning came, the cop later testified,
my cell was empty and the drunk still red-eyed.
The cop should have known I would slip outside
cause I always skip breakfast for Skedaddle Cream Pie.
A memory from my 3os and 40s: driving home to Western Pennsylvania, visiting the folks, and dinners together where Dad would say something like, “I’m getting older, and I don’t know how many more chances I will get to see your sister in California.” Dad would never share a specific reason for his (what I viewed as fatalistic) outlook, and I would either argue with him about the need for such a morbid mindset or, as I learned to do later, ignore it and change the subject.
In any event, as a relatively young guy lacking in sage and season, I was arrogant enough to think that anyone concerned with the number of times he would be able to do x, y or z was someone who had stopped living and had started counting the days. I was unable to muster any sympathy for his stance. It seemed negative and manipulative, and I did not want to feed into it.
So now I arrive at the doorstep of my 60s, and I find myself wondering: how many more years do I have? What, if anything, do I need to do before my time is up to assure myself that I have lived life to the fullest? I try very hard not to adopt the fatalistic stance of my father, but there are times I fear heading down the same road in my private thoughts.
The last thing I want to do is give up on life’s adventure, as I judged (unfairly) that my father had done. I don’t want to start counting. On the other hand, when one thinks of the rich possibilities of life, when one recalls September 11, 2001, and when one considers his or her own age and life expectancy, it is hard not to think about priorities.
These are the Wonder Years, Centrum Silver version. I wonder how many years remain for me. I wonder whether this is all I was intended to do with my life. I wonder, if I were to check out tomorrow, what I might regret not having done or tried.
Rejecting the pessimism of my father, I intend for these wonders to guide my decisions in this last quarter of my life, which hopefully will last a good while, answer a few questions, and give me abundant time with my loved ones.