Those octogenarians climbing mountain roads at two, three, four, five am in the morning. Where are they headed? What will they find? Who calls them on in the darkness?
They scare me a little with their crotchety old bodies and superhuman will.
Sometimes I wonder if they are not simply phantoms of my own making. Perhaps I should try skittling a few to see if they are real.
Do they carry portable radios with them? I’d say that about half of the old-timers I’ve seen on trails here have been porting around transistor radios blaring away.
I was at the barbers the other day feeling the thrill of the clippers send that magic tingling up my spine as they caressed the nape of my neck with Teresa Deng music crackling out of the radio on the counter and I was transported to the dimly lit back room of a country store in Digby, called Cogger’s, 39 years ago sitting up in the barbers chair and staring into a white enamel ultra violet box that housed all manner of scissors, razors and combs listening to post World War Two tunes about the pants on Roxy ushers.
Morning exercise … they go to sleep with the chickens and rise with the chickens and are reaching high age, as you can witness yourself. So, no more late hours in the pub, rise early and stay healthy and grow old.
A while back I heard that some people harvest bamboo shoots by moonlight - that it made them less bitter or something. Maybe that’s what they’re doing? Dang it, now I’m curious too.
I say you and Scooby go follow them - see what they’re up to.