From the Crow’s Nest
by CLINT YOUNTS
A few weeks ago, I was suddenly transformed from a vibrant, mature man into an apparently old geezer. A month ago, I was still catching a glimpse from the ladies, some without cataracts. Back in August, I was body-surfing at South Padre, not waddling up to the waterline just to cool off my feet like some of the old guys on the beach.Three weeks ago, I was still climbing, not yet over the hill. Today, I’m being addressed as “Old man” and other archaic names. Somewhere around 6:30 on the night of September 29, I was inducted into the Hall of Geezerdom by becoming a grandfather.
I know, I know! I don’t look old enough to be a grandfather. I still have a full head of hair with just a touch of gray. Maw says I look “distinguished”, or did she say “extinguished”? I’m still standing tall and walking without a cane. I don’t have to check my drawers every time I sneeze. I’m too young to be a grandpa, right? Or did some mystical power transform me overnight from a younger-looking, middle-aged guy into a seasoned old fogey once his kid brought a beautiful baby boy into the world?
A few nights after becoming a grandfather, I attended a wedding. I thought I cleaned up pretty good, even bathed for the occasion. I wore a jacket that the young female salesclerk at Men’s Warehouse claimed would never go out of style. I wore the same cowboy boots that I’ve worn to every formal shindig for the past 20 years. Once the sun dipped below the oak trees at Texas Old Town, you couldn’t even see the gray in my hair. So how in the world did folks know I had turned into a grandpa?
One twentyish young buck walked up to me, thinking we knew each other, and struck up a conversation. I found the young cowboy rather friendly until he called me “Sir.” Not once but twice! “Sir!” The nerve of the guy! I wasn’t his drill sergeant or his grandpappy. Why did he address me as “sir”? Perhaps he noticed my firm, calloused handshake or got a whiff of my cologne, Eau de Angus, that revealed he was standing in front of an older cowboy who’d roped more heifers, castrated more calves, and drank more Lone Star than most men he knew. Maybe he called me “sir” in honor of my vast ranching experience and not because his momma told him to respect his elders.
Later that night, as I was rubbing Ben-Gay on my sore shoulder, sipping on a bourbon and prune juice, I became curious, wondering at what age was I first addressed as “sir”. I know it wasn’t in my early 20s when I still looked like a teenager. I even grew a mustache to make me look older, but I just looked like an 18-year-old cowboy with a fake mustache. I recall working part-time at a college bookstore when I was 26 or 27, and a cute young co-ed approached me and flirtatiously asked, “Sir, where’s the philosophy section?” Dang, that hurt worse than an intimate encounter with a saddlehorn, compliments of a bucking bronc.
I don’t mind being called “sir” by a waiter or bartender. They say nice stuff to anyone with an overstuffed wallet, no matter how old you are. Healthcare providers will call you “sir” if you visit an emergency room suffering from a horrendous bout of gout. I’ve noticed funeral directors will call you “sir”, which I don’t mind. What does bother me is his pulling out a measuring tape to size me up. “I’m sorry, sir. I thought you came in for a fitting.”
I suppose I should get used to being called “Sir,” “Mister” and “Old-timer.” Days of getting called “Young man” and “Bubba” are long gone. I have to accept that I am a grandfather. My youth is so far behind me that I can no longer see it in my rearview mirror. In a matter of minutes on a clear September night, I drove over the hill and am now cruising downhill with worn brake pads. I was hoping to stop at the summit and look around, but little Aidan said, “Grandpa, stop standing around and get your butt over here!”
I don’t look much older than I did on September 28. I actually have less gray hair, thanks to the fine fellas at Mike’s Barbershop. I still ache most mornings, but heck, I’ve been hurting since learning that wrestling steers that outweigh you by 200 pounds is tough on the body. I’m proud as a peacock in a parade to be a grandfather, but you don’t need to call me “Old Man” or “Methuselah.” There’s no need to ask to carry my groceries out to the car. You greeters at WalMart had better not call me “sir” or I’ll pluck out your nose hairs with my fence pliers. And if I go to HEB looking for diapers and a helpful stockboy walks me over to the aisle with Depends, you can chalk up one more castration on my tab.
Clint Younts doesn’t even like being call “sir” by the dogs as he works at a local veterinary clinic, much less by the cows on his ranch.
