IMAGE: Self-portrait. Pen and ink drawing.
Wednesday, July 19, 2023. Frisco, Texas
Today is my birthday. Just turned 77. It’s a special day. You can call me an old goat if you want, and I won’t be offended. Because it’s true. I’m up there in age. But there’s some fire left in me, and in many ways, I still got it. Some stuff doesn’t work the same, but other stuff does. I’ll tell you more about it later. Down the road, on a different occasion.
I inherited a little dog that’s now also old. His name is Oreo. He’s fifteen in human years. When he’s having a problem going up the stairs, I tell him he’s “an ol’ guy.” I do it to tease him. But in a way, to imply that I’m also old. He’s my buddy. Buddies, I believe, don’t mind being teased. That’s why I do it. He’s a smart dog, a mix of poodle and shih tzu.
I was born in Mexicali, a small town then. It’s huge now. And hot. The temperature hovers at around 120 degrees Fahrenheit during this time of the year. It’s on the Mexican side of the border, right across from Calexico.
I’m not crazy about celebrating birthdays, but I welcome the once-a-year special day for a couple of reasons. To begin with, it’s an occasion for trumpeting gratitude, for saying thanks. After all, every extra year under the belt means a lot. Especially when you get up in age and you wonder when the fun’s gonna end.
There’s a second reason for my welcoming a birthday. It provides me an excuse to reflect on times past and on the future to come. True, I do plenty pondering throughout the year. But on this special day, based on musings done on past occasions, the reflective mood becomes more personal, more demanding. I’m usually kind of mean, too. Mean and demanding to myself. It won’t be any different this time around. I’m sure I will again repeat the same question I’ve been asking for years: “When are you going to finish the freaking dream?”
Or the dreams. I still have plenty of them. Some of my objectives have been tough to reach, but I continue to go after them. And will continue to do so as long as my mind works, my body is able to get around, and the inner fire in me still lingers.
Pardon the poetic words, please, but there’s a need for them when you’re trying to tell yourself that you “just might make it after all.” Sorry, Mary Tyler Moore, had to steal that line from one of the best ever TV shows.
Besides, I usually become poetic as I approach another birthday. Okay, okay, I’m always kind of poetic. After all, poetry is my rock. I’ve read plenty of it, but I’ve also written much of it. Mainly to say something with a few, well selected words. But sometimes, too, to try to help myself get through the pickles that I’ve gotten into. Here’s something I wrote more than twenty-five years ago. It was medicine for my soul then, when I came up with it to cheer me up, to keep me going. I hope you like the poem.
WE MUST GO ON
It’s not a sin to trip, to suffer sudden slip, to
fall, to lose it all, though falling takes its toll.
It’s not a sin to start again, and standing tall, to
try to grip the things we seek to reach our goal.
It’s not a sin to find within the faith to feed
our drive, to revive the weary soul. To hold
onto a limb, to keep alive our dream, to
persevere, to try again. And again. To not
give up. And if we lose the game, to cry. It’s
not a sin at all. But it’s a sin if we don’t try.
AUTHOR: Pedro Chávez