The approximate moment when grumpiness kicks in for men, according to a published March 2014 report, is around age 70. When you take my current age of 74 and deduct four years (about the length of time my wife has been calling me a "grump" or "grouch"), you come up with 70, which means I arrived right on time.
That's when, according to the report, others better stay off your lawn, or as in my case, you'd better stay off the road if you don't have a current license tag on your vehicle. Saw one just yesterday, as a matter of fact, that had expired in June, but the idiot still was driving. I was dying for a cop to come alongside, so I could tip him/her off to the lawbreaker, but as usual, there wasn't one anywhere in sight.
The March 2014 report referenced here involved 1,315 men--mostly military veterans who participated in a 15-year survey--between the ages of 53 and 85. Some 80 percent of them said that at age 50, life became easier. About 20 percent said they were happier after they retired. Both groups, however, agreed that good feelings about life began to decline at age 70. They cited various reasons, including health problems, cognitive slide, and the losses of loved ones.
According to Carolyn Aldwyn, however, a gerontology professor at Oregon State University and lead author of this study, "Some older people continue to find sources of happiness late in life, despite dealing with family losses, declining health, or a lack of resources."
Maybe you personally know an irascible old coot, codger or curmudgeon, or perhaps you saw geriatrics Jack Lemmon and Walter Matthau in the 1993 movie,
Grumpy Old Men, or its sequel,
Grumpier Old Men, which came out in 1995. If so, you know that elderly guys can be pains in the neck...as well as other parts of the anatomy.
So maybe about now you're beginning to wonder what, if anything, all this has to do with fishing. The simple answer is that some of these very same grumpy old men also turn out to be grumpy old anglers, as revealed in the sidebar that follows. It came from an online blog (
http://www.glennbusch.com), where the author writes about various topics, including religion and values, humor, politics, or as he puts it, "whatever suits me at the time I sit down to write. One of the great benefits of being retired has been the freedom to be opinionated and...well, a grumpy old whatever." He graciously granted me permission to reprint the item here.
Grumpy Old Fishermen
By Glenn Busch
Last week, my old fishing group got together for its semi-annual trip. We've been doing these five-day recidivist journeys into adolescence since 1980--every April and October.
Let's see, that's 74 trips. One of the guys figured that if you add up all the days, we've spent a solid year together, which is pretty impressive, or something you don't want to think about, depending on how you look at it.
You may have noticed the seemingly needless redundancy of the modifier "old" when referring to our group (which has an official name, by the way, but not one I can mention on a family-friendly blog). Well, by golly, we are old, a condition that was so apparent this trip that it became a general topic of discussion. Ah, and to think back on what we used to talk about when we sat around the campfire in the evening with a drink in hand...better not go into that, either. We were younger and oversexed then, you understand.
The pharmaceutical industry certainly was well represented at our breakfast table. That's when the pill boxes showed up alongside the coffee cups. I've never seen so many pills in one place. It's a wonder we weren't raided by the DEA.
Then there were the accompanying ailments for which all those pharmaceuticals were prescribed. But before I say more, some factual info about the group is necessary to establish context.
We were seven in number when we began our group in 1980; now we are five. So the reality of mortality hangs over our gatherings these days, having already buried two of our friends. Of those of us who remain, the youngest is 67, and the oldest is 84. But with "better living through chemistry," we press on.
Of the five of us who remain, three still fish, while the other two have resorted to playing golf. It was considered an act of heresy when the two miscreants first showed up with clubs instead of rods, but unlike Congress, we have mastered the art of compromise. I mean, what the heck, at the end of the day, we all get back together for happy hour...speaking of better living through chemistry.
Each of us has one chronic malady or another--or two, or three. But who wants to listen to a bunch of old farts gripe about their ailments, so I won't. Suffice it to say that most of the anatomy was covered during one conversation or another. So how's the back? Prostate been giving you any trouble? Seen the doctor about that hip? How's the new cholesterol med working out? Then there was the electronic blood-pressure monitor that showed up this time. That was a first.
The truth is, we're a little slower these days--well, maybe a little more than little--but we're still doing what we've always done, except for the golfers, of course. The bigger problem, it seems to me, is adjusting to the limitations that these latter years invoke.
On the first day of the trip, the three fishermen decided that we would fish the Jackson River just below the Gathright Dam. When we arrived, a release was in process, and the flow was higher than expected--fishable but not ideal, especially for older guys with creaky joints.
I've got this arthritic hip that my orthopedist told me five years ago needs to be replaced. At the end of a hard day of fishing, I walk like Marshal Dillon's sidekick, Chester (remember
Gunsmoke?). So keep that in mind, as I should have, as you picture an antique angler creeping along the rock-strewn bank as heavy water pushes against his pudgy legs. Yes, it was nuts, which eventually sunk in. "Youre 72 years old," I thought; "one misstep and you're in for a Pentecostal full-body immersion." So, wisely, I reeled in and called it a day. But as I stood there on the river bank, gazing fondly at the river from which I just had retreated, I couldn't help but think of the days when I would not have given such conditions a second thought. Ahhh...memories.
This time, I sensed a bit of nostalgia intruding on our corporate mood as the boys and I packed our gear for the long drive home. Before we left, we set the April date, then went our separate ways.
About the author. Due entirely to his father's military service, Glenn Busch was born in Kissimmee, FL, just months before his dad mustered out, and the family returned to their Pittsburgh home. After graduating from Penn State University, Glenn headed south for training and a couple more degrees--which added some additional letters behind his name and "Rev. Dr." to the front. He began a career as an Episcopal priest in 1971, serving churches in Virginia and North Carolina before retiring in 2008, as rector emeritus of St. Mary's Church in High Point, NC, after a pastorate of more than 27 years. While serving as rector of the High Point parish, he also became an adjunct faculty member at High Point University, where he taught the department of religion and philosophy for 18 years. Glenn, in his own words, has "written a few books, won some awards, been mayor of a city, made mistakes, compiled some regrets, developed a passion for fishing with a fly, and received more recognition than I deserve. It's been a good life, and I hope to live what's left as fully and productively as I can." He and his wife, Kathleen, make their home in Lynchburg, VA. They have two children and two grandchildren.
