"It's the shits to get old," says my 95-year-old dad.  I'm not sure he is as grateful for every birthday like I am.  Let me rephrase that, I think he is proud for each birthday he achieves, but after the pride comes the reminder that he can no longer do most of what he has done all his life...........work.  His 100-year-old sister also still lives in her own home and has been widowed longer than she was married.  She cleans her house, cooks her meals, and delights in every moment.  She once told Dad after Mom died that women were better at being alone.  While I don't think that's true now, it does apply to Dad's generation.  When Mom was alive he never cleaned a room, cooked a meal, or bathed a child.  His work was outside the house, and he does still mow his own lawn, but he hasn't done any manual labor for about five years.  Still pretty damn impressive, but not enough for him to dwell on.  

It is the shits to get old and no longer live the life you've lived for nearly a century.  It's also the shits to watch your father slowly shrink before your eyes.  Dad worked on family farms in his preteens; was a block layer in his teens and 20's carrying 100-pound bags of cement two at a time; and a city employee sweeping the main street with a push broom until the town could afford a mechanized street sweeper.  He had muscles that when flexed could repel pocket knives and break twine.  I blamed him for my inability to get a date in high school because all the boys in my class were afraid of his physique.  That physique was maintained until about a decade ago, around the time that Mom passed.  It's the shits to now be stronger and taller than my dad; to be able to lift his 171-pound frame after he has fallen yet again.  This may be one of those times when remembering the past is better than living in the present and hoping for the future.  

I guess I should be thankful for Covid-19 because it has allowed me to continue teaching virtually while caring for Dad.  He is not much of a talker except for making observations about his surroundings.  Occasionally we talk about serious topics like family members and townspeople who have contracted the virus and about the other viruses he has lived through.  Dad is, however, a thinker.  He sits on the four season porch he built and stares at the streets and the sidewalks he maintained for decades, knowing that he must now rely on others to do the heavy lifting. 

It's the shits to get old if all we have are regrets.  Dad only managed a fourth-grade education but can do algebra and trigonometry in the form of building and repairing.  Sitting on that porch, he solves the problems aging presents.  Not able to open his jugs of Sunny D with his hands, he keeps a wrench by the refrigerator.  Not able to hold the catheters he must prepare numerous times a day, he built a wooden holder.  Not able to always control his bowels, he built a wooden, beveled tray to hold between his legs. Fortunately we found a commode to replace that last invention.  I wish I could teach my students to problem-solve the way he does, but that will never happen because most people can't live in the silence that allows the brain to thrive.