A Title Worth Respecting

When you get to be my age - somewhat “older than God´-you think back on your life. It happens with some regularity and often associated with a pile of pills you are about to ingest.

You realize that you have done it. You have managed, despite loftier intentions, to become quite ordinary. You have had your moment. There are no more career moves left. And unless, in an instance of bad judgement, you decide to “streak” the local Target, you have probably had your 15 minutes.

No, I am not considering checking out, but when someone who works on commission offers you the “Senior Discount,” you know its all downhill from here.

So you reflect on all the grand titles of all the interesting careers and wonder: “What if?”

To be a “laureate” either of the poetic or Nobel variety would be nice. To be President, not so, since people really like to openly voice their disapproval and I am sensitive. Senator used to have a ring of respect. Archbishop would probably be confused by the younger set with Ronald at McDonald’s.

By far, the most intriguing would be The Bulibasha. It is exotic, remote, and few people outside Romania even know its significance. Which, of course, would generate lots of discussion but there would be added security checks at the airport because of the proliferation of gold jewelry. Or being called The Metropolitan. (No, not like “The Continental” in the Conrad-Magidson song of the late 30s.) But Metropolitan with full headdress and big medallion in the Greek Orthodox sense of the word. I have always liked that title. To be so designated, however, would probably require much more than the freshman year “Introduction to World Religions” and the ability to shout “Opa!” when you see flaming cheese.

The Bulibasha is as much of a long shot as the Metropolitan. But both have interesting entourages and respect is often closely tied to the size of your entourage. (No double entendre intended.)

About three years ago I had an important career change. I became grandfather to the first of three delightful little ones. I never knew it could be so much fun. Visits with them are hilarious and filled with tons of energy and excitement. However, since I live apart and other grandparents get frequent face time, I have tried to have regular telephone interactions with each one. With this young age, you realize, early on, that you must ask questions to which they have a ready answer to assure yourself you are actually having a conversation. “What does the dog say?” “What does the cat say?” And so forth. You get the drift.

The oldest, now three, has become quite busy in his daily schedule and is often too much so to speak with Grandaddy. Recently, when pressed by his mother to come to the telephone and talk with me, he reluctantly accepted the phone and spoke firmly, “MOO!” then handed the phone back to his mother and resumed whatever he was occupied doing.

How frustrating it is when the old man can’t seem to remember the basic stuff! We have gone over this many times!

Thomas Hardy in an eloquently sad poem, “To Lizbie Brown,” writes of a man who sought to love a woman he never met. He was mesmerized by her and yet, never made a move to know her beyond the distance that separated them. In the end, he realizes when people “speak of me as not,” she will probably say, “and who was he?”

When my second grandchild, a red-tressed beauty of 2 recently gave me the title, “Grandmon,” I must admit that it surpassed all achievements I feared I had missed. When she speaks the greeting, it feels loftier than you could ever imagine. And hey, while not as large as that of the Bulibasha, my entourage of three isn’t so shabby on the playground at the local park.

It’s actually quite extraordinary.