The first time I knew I was an Old Fogey, I was thirteen. We'd moved from my homeplace in the hills where my mother grew up and where her mother came as a young bride and where I knew and adored every tree and flower and slant of the sun over hilltops to a flat, busy city that smelled like dirty socks and diesel. I was in the second row, fourth seat, in math class -- absolutely not getting the concept that you could add letters to come up with other letters.
In English class that morning, the Teacher who was older than Moses' wife screeched at me for not knowing the governor's name. I was still seething, had a jumble of things I wanted to say and was not about to say them. I knew the Governor's name -- it was Hulete C. Smith, and before that was Baron and before that was Underwood and before that was Marland, and before that was Patteson and before that was Meadows. I had been waiting for eight grade and the West Virginia Horseshoe test, practising West Virginia and singing "oh those hill..." while I played in the West Virginia dirt and planted my first garden and climbed those West Virginia trees. I didn't know, and furthurmore didn't care to know the gol-damn Governor of Ogol-damHIO.
I was frowning into my notebook at the picture I'd drawn of Mrs. Foster and making up rhymes about her in my head when the math teacher strayed from the subject of math and climbed on one of his many soapboxes. This one was about people clinging to the past, not wanting things to change. I started paying attention, especially since we weren't talking about math. He said, "Bunch of Old Fogies." And a boy, 5th row, second seat said, "Bunch of what?" And Mr. James (he got a few points for his name) said, "Fogies. People who want things to stay the same all the time. Or even worse. Go backward."
It was like a breath of fresh air. I mean, yeah, his opinion of Old Fogies was not a good one, but that hardly mattered ( the man added letters and expected them to add to up to other letters), I had a GROUP. I was one of the Old Fogeys.
2 comments:
Love your words. I haven't heard the word old "fogey" for a very long time.
I miss people who use words I know, it's a sadness deep down, that a salve won't touch.
I think it's a hurting for home and that would be for a home no longer there, Kate.
I'm very sad today. Do not know why but I need to buck up.
Blessings to you an your words. B
Barb, I believe you are in my group of old fogies too. Sometimes though, the way to the past is through the future.
In the meantime, honeysuckle flower essence helps the feeling of nostalgia by unwinding the tendrils -- just enough -- so that we can breathe in all of today, while still recalling the wonderful times of yesterday.
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