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he lived on a hill that looked two ways with one looking down below on the black sand beach and the other up the side of a steep high cliff on this icelandic coast so famous and where tourist droves flock to stare and wonder and take their selfies and eat their snacks and some even wading

out there in that roaring north atlantic surf which first thing he warned us about since two of those idiots were swept in and disappeared by sneaker waves they call them just last monday he said sternly eyes leveled as a man used to newcomers like us arriving to rent his small airbnb cabin right down the road there he pointed

and when you get down there look up above you on that cliff and see my rope still hanging down that i used to climb up with my long spear to stab puffins and bag them for dinner fixed right there in this kitchen and so good they were and silly laws are against it now but by god i still could climb that rope up there if I wanted to and here’s the house key which should be all you need because our place is ready ready as always now take care and enjoy your stay

we drove down and parked in front looked out along the black sand at the waves that grabbed and swallowed those people looked up at the cliff and the old rope hanging down sort of proud looking then slipped the key in the lock and turned it it it what no back again no try again try try try and damn that sorry thing and okay you try it if you’re so smart but nothing either now what next call help

the call brings him fast out in his yard seeming almost mad and looking down toward us then walking fast his long arms swinging and head up straight and down the hill he came as if saying what the devil is wrong with these pathetic tourists who can’t even open a door but okay okay now do not say that to them or anything else no no don’t now the poor things just let them in and back you go up quick your big mouth shut

arriving on the scene his hand impatient held out ahead of him to grab that unsuccessful key he wordless took it slammed it in the lock and turned it it it what no back again no try again try try try and damn that sorry thing he swore

and puffins gathered up there over us on the cliff might have laughed seeing him him especially him helpless huffing at that lock his own lock and saying damn that sorry thing that lock which finally somehow did have a mercy he never showed those puffins and let us in

i guess i may need to replace that lock he mumbled muttered eyes lowered down and his head too before back up the hill he went and

i imagined this I did I imagined i could hear those puffins up there above us

ha ha they said ha ha

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The death of actor Donald Sutherland caused me to think and reflect for a number of reasons.

I will always remember his role in the movie “Ordinary People.” I will always consider him a principled man and remember how he protested the Vietnam war alongside Jane Fonda. And I have appreciated him for the fact that he never played the “movie star” role and despite his 6’4” height was always modest and not self-promoting. Of the 4 lead actors in “Ordinary People,” three were nominated for Academy Awards, not including him. And he deserved it most of all, but never complained.

But there is another reason I found myself reflecting on this news. Donald Sutherland died at age 88, and I myself am age 88. And I am still alive.

In fact, I feel very much alive. So far this week I have swum 5 miles, ridden my bicycle 86 miles, and walked a lot. I have swum across the Chesapeake Bay 10 times, all since the age of 70. I read over 100 books a year. I still write stories and poems and things for edbriggs.com.  I still have . . . (oops, no, someone would say “too much information.”)

My doctor suggested a checkup with a cardiologist a few months back. The cardiologist did an EKG and a stress test and basically told me not to bother him anymore because he has unhealthy people to care for, and I am not one of them.

I was born in 1936 so I cannot deny being 88. But I do not feel old or think old, and I try not to act old. I think of myself as a normal person and not In some special category. Some others of us 88s that you know of include Julie Andrews, Woody Allen, Alan Alda, Johnny Mathis, and Phil Donahue. Pope Francis will join us in December. He and most of this list are still doing well in the world.

Still, Brother Sutherland has reminded me that my exit is not only possible, not only probable, but clearly inevitable. Thank you, Sir. One day I will remind someone else the very same way you have.

This being so, I do resent the sentiment I sometimes encounter, that an 88 person is on his way out and in a different category of living persons. Living, but barely, in some people’s view. Last year I made an appointment to see a urologist at a famous hospital in Baltimore. I won’t call the name but if you Google “famous hospital in Baltimore” it will come up in big bold letters. Nearly laughing, the young doctor told me that “we don’t treat people your age.” We. I left shaking my 88-year-old head. I have since found a fine urologist who does treat people “my age.”

When I was a young boy in Tennessee, there were doctors who would say to some potential patients, “we don’t treat people your color.” Today I assume that isn’t acceptable. But somewhere in Baltimore your age can still disqualify you.

I admit to wishing for an age beyond 88. I have a loving wife and family and many friends. I am as happy as I have ever been, especially remembering those years of middle age. But I have already had a good life, as did Brother Sutherland. All is well . . . and will be well.

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