…the best ending would be a sudden heart stoppage when a trio of rooster pheasants or a covey of prairie grouse explodes at my feet as I step in front of my dog Abbey who is locked on point, frozen and on fire at the same time, a brisk wind blowing and a dome of blue sky streaked with cirrus clouds stretching to the distant horizons.
Without tubes and wires
The Over the Hill Gang have reached that “certain age,” a time when we take note of the high mileage on our life odometers and ruminate about our preferred exit ramp from this highway that has taken us on a winding journey through the wilderness of sunlight and shadow, the city of tears and laughter. Our campfire conversations about a fitting and appropriate end to the 70-year ragtag adventure story we each made up as we went along (with occasional chapters that were neither fitting nor appropriate) are never maudlin and grim, but they are shaded by dark humor and a touch of noir pragmatism.
No man gets out of this lifelong vision quest alive. As we near the mountaintop we accept, in fact we welcome, our end of days. But grant us the grace to go out in style, or at least in a manner that is apropos to our character.