Randy Fitzgerald

I never thought a heart condition would work to my advantage, but having to stop and rest halfway up the flight of stairs to our room at the Essex Inn in Tappahannock on Valentine’s Day allowed Barb, who went up ahead of me, plenty of time to toss rose petals all over the four-poster bed.

            The fact that they were clearly rose petals from the expensive floral arrangement I had sent her earlier in the day did not occur to me until I got back home the next day and saw the stalks standing, denuded and forlorn, in the vase on the kitchen table.

            I guess that’s sort of a modern-day twist on the O. Henry story about the wife who cuts off her long, beautiful hair and sells it to buy a watch fob for her husband, who has sold his watch to buy bejeweled combs to adorn his wife’s long, beautiful hair.

            That I’m writing about romance is not bad for a 66-year-old man who probably should be thinking more about retirement and Social Security and AARP.  But folks who have been reading my columns here and there for the past couple of decades always seem to want to know what Barb and I did over Valentine’s each year.  That’s because my wife always plans some surprise overnight stay for us, usually at a historic bed and breakfast or charming old hotel not too far from home—and she’s very good at finding interesting places.

            We’ve been to Tappahannock a number of times over the years; it’s a sweet little town on the banks of the Rappahannock River about 50 miles east of Richmond on the Mechanicsville Turnpike, so I should have guessed immediately my surprise destination as we headed in that direction.

But somehow I had in my head that we were going farther down the road to Reedville. “I’ll freeze by the time we get there, if we can’t figure out what’s wrong with this heater. And I’m never going to be able to get back in time for class tomorrow morning,” I grumbled at Barb as she drove merrily away from town.

            “Oh, pshaw,” she replied, being one of the few people left in the world who actually say pshaw. “I’ll get you back on time, and if you don’t stop fussing, you may get back a lot sooner than you want.” That was immediately before a rock flew back from a truck ahead of us and cracked our windshield. Valentine’s is not off to a great start.

            I was much relieved when Barb made the left turn on 301 that takes you right through the heart of Tappahannock because then I finally knew where we were bound—although I did not know the warmth and comfort that awaited at the Essex Inn. This beautiful old house was the residence of a Confederate cavalry officer during the Civil War and was fired on by Yankee gunboats a few yards from the back door that faces the Rappahannock River. The cavalryman had to go out onto the back porch and wave his white flag of surrender to keep his home from being leveled. Good save.

The bed and breakfast has four, bright-hued bedrooms on the second floor, each with private bath, and there are four suites available in a newer building across the backyard.  The home has lovely antiques and a most peaceful ambiance—and, to our delight—several well mannered cats who will venture into your room and onto your lap if you want to leave your door ajar. The innkeepers have private quarters in the basement, and the ground floor offers a communal music room, parlor, dining room and kitchen with 24-hour beer on tap, a selection of wines, and glass jars full of lovely and tempting snacks.

            We had occasion to chat with just one other guest during our brief stay, a radiologist from the Middleburg area who works part time in Tappahannock. The three of us had great fun discussing our mutual heart conditions—we seniors love to talk health matters, you know. Barb and I got a good laugh when he asked what we had given each other for Valentine’s. “Something close to both our hearts,” said Barb.  “A defibrillator!”

            That was the truth—not very romantic, you might think, but accompanied by porcelain birds and bluegrass songbooks, lots of Valentine’s cards and rose petals, it was a nice celebration.

            The next morning, Barb dropped me off in front of my building with a minute to spare and said she’d pick me up for lunch.

            “We really should have brought home a dozen of those rolls from Lowery’s,” I regretted.

            “Yeah,” she replied. “Now that we own a defibrillator, we can start eating a lot better!”

Those of us who spent too much of our misspent youth in the Sixties listening to Creedence Clearwater, Ten Years After, The Dead and the Stones are now reaping the long-term fruits of our ear-splitting indulgences: we’re not hearing so well anymore.

            My brother-in-law Joel was visiting his son in Portland, Ore., over Christmas, when he had occasion to drive his rental car into a gas station where (get ready for this, Virginians) an attendant came out to pump his gas. 

(A digression here:  I’d truly love not to pump my own gas. Or check my own oil.  Or wash my own windshield.  If you’re old enough to remember when all those things actually were done for you every time you went in to fill ‘er up, you, too, would yearn for the old days with the passion usually reserved for homemade peach ice cream. If you’re not old enough to remember back that far, let me just explain that that’s why they used to call them “service” stations.)

Actually, Oregon is one of those states (New Jersey is another) where it’s against the law to pump your own gas. Now how do you get the legislature to pass good laws like that one? Anyway, Joel pulls up to the gas pump in Portland and forgets to turn the engine off, so this young man who’s about to pump the gas taps on his window and says, “Is the car still on?”

            And Joel goes berserk, yelling at the poor fellow, “Stolen?  What do you mean, stolen?  This is a rental car, and it is certainly not stolen!  Get your boss out here and. …” And the rant goes on.  At some point my nephew Jed leaned over toward his dad and turned off the engine and said, “It’s OK, Dad.  You’re just not hearing too well lately.”

            Tell me about it. Almost everybody I know in my age group—at least the “cool” ones of us who spent many years enjoying The Who best at full volume—are a little bit deaf. Give us some background noise at a party or in a restaurant, and we’ll be pleasantly nodding and agreeing with you, even if you’re telling us we dress funny and deserve a punch in the nose. “Can I count on you for a $100 contribution to Weasel Wellness?” 

            “Yes, yes.”  Nod, nod.

            “Didn’t I see you in a Beano commercial?”

            “Yes, yes.” Nod, nod.

            It’s dangerous not to hear well.

            At least 50 percent of the things that go wrong with you as you age fall into the “you-might-as-well-laugh” category because, unless you’re determined, there’s actually not very much you can do about white eyebrows or liver spots or height shrinkage. And until you are fully ready to commit to a hearing aid, there’s not too much to be done during that period when you’re still denying that your hearing is bad.  Statistics show that the average age at the time of a hearing aid purchase is 68—but the average person probably needed that hearing aid as early as 17 years prior. It probably depends on how much and how often he or she listened to Zed Zeppelin in 1969.

            Barb and I do laugh a lot about the things we mis-hear around the house. I might say “the restaurant is closed,” and Barb will hear “the astronaut is clothed.”  And nobody in my age group would dare say anything that involved the word “spectacles.”

I hope I haven’t told you this joke before (the memory is the second thing to go), but it’s one of my favorites and seems right for this discussion.  A man who is at the doctor’s for a checkup mentions that he fears his wife is losing her hearing. “Doc, she hardly ever answers me anymore when I speak to her, but she won’t admit she has a problem.  How do I find out for sure if her hearing is bad?” 

The doc tells him to get a good distance from his wife and ask her a question, and if she doesn’t hear, to move a little closer and ask it again. “Keep moving closer and closer until you get a response, and if she doesn’t hear you until you get right up to her, tell her I said she has to come in for testing.” 

So the fellow goes home, and finding his wife in the kitchen, sneaks back to the living room and asks in a pretty loud voice, “What’s for dinner, honey?”  No response.

            He moves into the dining room and tries again. “What’s for dinner, honey?”  Silence.

            He steps in the kitchen door and says, “What’s for dinner, honey?”

            And she says, “FOR THE THIRD TIME, CHICKEN!”