As Jerry Garcia and Bob Hunter wrote in the good old Grateful Dead song, "The wheel is turning and you can't slow down, you can't let go and you can't hold on, you can't go back and you can't stand still, if the thunder don't get you, then the lightning will."
Well, you can only try to adapt to whatever conditions life presents. Since it appears the gradual erosions of old age -- I'm 84, hope to hit 85 in July -- seem to be increasingly constricting what and how much I can do, I've decided to try to make this blog a bit bigger part of my life, hoping perhaps I'll gain a few readers and provide some entertainment, if not wisdom. It'll be less strenuous than some other pursuits that are now out of bounds.
I'll post my ruminations and some poetry here, plus any new episodes in my autobiography-endlessly-in-progress, Memoirs of a Music Addict. And any new songs, as I've done in the past. I'll start now with a poem in the style of a tanka, the classic Japanese poetry form:
Like everything else,
even this back pain
is only temporary.
Unable to sleep,
Ah, but this sunrise!
That gives an idea what I've been experiencing lately: lower back pain. Pretty bad a week ago, then it let up and I carefully began walking again. I was about to bump the mileage up to my usual every-other-day level when it kicked in again yesterday, less painful than the earlier spasms, but enough this morning to wake me up earlier than usual. This is not suffering of the magnitude millions of folks in dire global political or environmental straits are experiencing, but it's more than I want to have to endure. According to a Google search, four out of five people have it at some time or other. The positive: it adds to my empathy for other seniors whom I see hobbling painfully at the supermarket, in crosswalks and elsewhere.
Before you suggest it, I should mention that because of age and existing medical conditions, I'm not supposed to take Ibuprofen or similar medications. The recommended alternative, Tylenol, has never been effective for me. The pain was so bad one day last week that I just went on ahead and gulped down two Ibuprofen. It helped a lot. But I need to avoid regularly using it.
I find that avoiding soft cushions like those on our couch -- it was a mistake to spend 3 hours sitting there for the 49ers game yesterday -- and doing a couple simple back exercises, even just standing and flexing those lower back muscles, helps. As do a very limited amount of walking (no uphill stuff, mind you) and a hand acupressure assist now and then from my spouse Beverly. Next I'll try some form of CBD ointment or capsules, at least at night.
These bad back episodes aren't just a product of aging. They started when I was about 16 and had a Los Angeles Times newspaper route to help pay for my car. It paid $110 monthly, a princely sum for a teenager in those days, circa 1957. I had 250 customers. This was back when newspapers were still a big deal, culturally and literally. The Sunday papers were so big that the rubber bands the advisor provided often broke when you tried to put them on, especially on Sundays, when page count was massive. This could be painful in winter's cold and the broken ends hit bare skin. When you threw one of those bricks out the car window, the band often snapped, scattering the paper's sections like playing cards across a lawn or driveway.
It was a 7-days-a-week job. Get up at 3 a.m. and go to a small department store on South Central Avenue where bundles were delivered by truck and several of us sleep-deprived carriers folded and rubber-banded papers. One morning when I was running late and rushing to catch up, I lifted three bundles of papers at a time instead of the usual two. I felt something pop in my back but it didn't really hurt till the next day. I could barely move.
My stepfather, Dr. H. Brinton Allison, provided the antidote. As an osteopath, he was trained in what they called manipulation, what others call chiropracty. MDs don't get that training and used to scoff at it, but I am here to tell you, it was a miracle cure for me.
Brint took me to his office, had me lay down on a treatment table. He stood at the foot, held each ankle and foot in turn, and pulled hard several times on each of my legs.
Then he got me up and put me in a half-nelson, lifted me off my feet several times and shook me.
Presto! Almost all pain gone, and by next day, totally gone! Alas, Brint's not around now. Until now, though I've had other episodes over the decades, some triggered by as simple a thing as twisting to reach for a teaspoon, I've never sought chiropractic help. Usually, episodes have departed within a day or three. For some, I've used hot pads and ice. I have no idea how I tweaked my back this time, but this is the second week of it and I'm on the verge of seeking chiropractic help if other, simpler steps don't work. It doesn't hurt today as much as the first time, nor as last week.
But it's caused me to once again interrupt and delay my return to performing music. I'd hoped to play at a couple recent open mics but had to drop those plans. I've also missed one of the monthly performances by the Irish Newsboys, in which I play penny whistle and flute. We'd already had a long layoff during the pandemic so this adds to my frustrations.
I'd hoped to write something more humorous as the first post of the New Year, not an old man's complaining. Forgive me, and thanks for reading. If you enjoyed it, hit the Follow button near the top right of this page. I'll hope to return with some laughs next time. Meanwhile, I'll try to stay ready for the next turn of the wheel.
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