I’m a blabbermouth! Most old coots are. Tell us a secret and we go public! We love it when someone starts a sentence with, “Don’t let this out, but,” – OR – “You can’t tell anybody this, but,” – OR – “We’re not announcing this yet, but.” That’s a mistake, when you’re talking to a blabbermouth.”
Sometimes I write an article about someone’s embarrassing moment. I tell the story and end it with, “I can’t mention their name. It’s Daren Merrill.” Or whoever made the mistake of telling me something they didn’t want published. I can’t help myself. It’s a sickness, Blabbermouthitis.
Mike Coleman let it slip that he’d turned 50. I wasn’t sure how old he was until he presented me with a cane the other day. Not just a cane, an old coot cane, complete with a bicycle horn, a change purse, a pill box and two warning signs – “A senior moment in progress” and “If found, please return to.” That’s when I learned he was over 50; he said he got the cane at his 50th birthday party. He laughed as he handed it to me, saying he knew I could put it to better use. He was right. Did he want everyone to know he turned 50? I don’t know, but they do now.
I plan to bequeath it back to him. He’ll need it someday. He has no idea how fast you go from 50 to 80. Not that I’m 80 yet. I won’t say how old I am. I’m 77, a 77-year-old blabbermouth. When you’re a kid, it takes forever to go from ten to 20, especially the period just before you’re old enough to get a driver’s license. It’s the longest period of your life. An eternity. But not so with 50 to 80 – those three decades fly by so fast your head spins.
Mike will have to modify the cane; it works fine for me, but I’m six feet tall (or once was); he’s more like six foot seven. I’m not sure if he wanted that publicized, but it’s too late now.
Paul C., another coffee club attendee, confided something to me a week or so ago. I haven’t blabbed it yet, not because I’ve reformed, I just haven’t run into anyone to tell. It’s this darn pandemic. My lips are sealed, against my will.
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