I don’t want sympathy, but need your empathy if you have any. How would you know how I truly feel unless walking in my moccasins? I’ve tried empathizing with other people, but many walk in sandals, flip-flops or crocs, which I refuse to wear. In Biblical times, they washed each other’s feet. We should readopt that custom, which might cut down on human conflict. If having an obnoxious neighbor, take soap and a pan over to his house.
What I’m getting at is the young cannot or do not empathize with the old. The young don’t even want to be bothered with anyone too old to be on Facebook. Let me say this to the young: Someday a probate lawyer will call you in to read my will and you’ll be surprised where my money went.
To describe something or effectively explain one’s thoughts and feelings, a great writer uses metaphors. For instance, if I said, “My life is a bowl of cherries,” you would understand that my life is beautiful, sweet and juicy.
However, if swallowing any pits along the way, your life could become a bowl of lemons or green persimmons. But if I said, “My life is a dump truck full of rocks falling off and breaking windshields while going down life’s rough and tough road,” you would realize my life is the pits. If asked, “How’s life?” and I said, “OK,” you wouldn’t fully understand. But if I responded with a metaphor using descriptive terms like peaches or gravel, you’d get a much clearer picture.
In reality, my life is now a 1973 Chevrolet Impala with 363,000 miles on it. As we know, this type of bankrupted GM car is an endangered species and nearly extinct. Do you see my point metaphorically? I’m endangered and approaching extinction. Tow him to a junkyard landfill and watch the daisies grow.
Let’s further examine and probe how the components of one’s body are like a car. Look at your skin, or don’t. Is it lusterless with rust and dents? And how about your frame? Most 1973 model cars have been wrecked, and some of the bones are bent, causing you and the car to wobble and shimmy.
And the tires on a clunker will eventually dry rot as will your feet. Your toenails, the hubcaps, are dingy and cracked, and the headlights stuck on dim. There’s little you can do except call a wrecker, turn on the flashing lights and roll into a body shop.
It gets worse when we lift the hood and look inside. The heart is a leaking fuel pump with a defective valve or two. The fuel line aorta stuffed with gunk needs reaming. The plugs have lost the spark and the dipstick is bent. The windshield wiper motor skips and you’re looking through a fog. The ashtray is full, the gears screech and the horn won’t blow.
Crawl underneath. The exhaust system is your colon coated with polyps. Your muffler makes noises like firecrackers popping in heavy traffic. The ball joints have arthritis and the carburetor indigestion. And the brake pads are worn, but don’t worry because you’ll never be going fast enough to require a sudden stop.
Is it time to jack up your ’73 Impala and set it on blocks? No, do not cover it with a cloth and lock the door, which is a casket lid.
Restore it. Have you ever been to one of those antique car shows? They’re all lined up in bright colors with chrome parts glistening like melted silver dollars. Crank up the old Betsy and it’s like angels singing. But you can’t sand and spray paint your body. I suppose you could keep it younger looking by tattooing over the wrinkles. Decorate it like rivers flowing through valleys, or obscure the crevices with fire-breathing dragons.
Back in the old days, we kept the Model T in the barn and kept a cover on it as protection from hay dust and birds. When it got contrary, we bridled a horse. A couple ears of corn and a manger full of hay cost less than a thimble full of gas. Those were the days when there was no need to do 75. You miss so much going too fast. Hurrying from one rest stop to another wears you down.
Old age is a new age. Get it? It’s a metaphor, I think.
Send a metaphor or a simile to tlctlc@AOL.com.
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CUMMINS: My life is a 1973 Chevrolet Impala
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