Silver Care Be Damned

Growing Old Gracelessly

By Joan Opyr, 3-02-06

It’s finally happened. I am officially old. I found this out in a Portland, Oregon hotel room. I was watching a Steven Seagal movie on late night television (and anything that happened as a consequence is a just punishment, some might say). I’d just finished polishing my reading glasses and putting them back on my (relatively) wrinkle-free face when the commercial flashed across the screen:

If you were born between 1921 and 1966, you may qualify for Silver Care Life Insurance.

1966, the year of my birth, and the words “silver care” should not appear in the same sentence. Not yet. I’m only 39, for god’s sake – a very recent, freshly-minted 39. I have been savoring the final year of my fourth decade since the end of November, three measly months. I’m not waiting for the bomb to drop, but I am preparing for the big one. I’m taking a Zen approach, by which I mean I’m choosing not to think about it.

Did you know that the average cost of a funeral has risen to nearly six thousand dollars? Do you want to burden your loved ones with your final expenses?

Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. I want to burden my 41-year old wife and my eleven and six-year old children with the full cost of a Viking funeral. First, I don’t want a coffin; I want a “drekar,” a dragon-headed longship. (My family should feel free to copy the Oseberg ship.) I want my drekar filled with gold and silver grave goods, and I want to be buried in it with a team of horses, several dogs, and a flattering complement of would-be Valkyries, all of whom should be willing – due to their extreme grief – to hop into the burial chamber with me. I want my sword and my shield. I want my spear and magic helmet.

Your spear and magic helmet?

Yes, Bugs Bunny, my spear and magic helmet. I want the works, and I want it all placed in a burial mound so big that it’s visible from outer space. It’ll be Joan Opyr’s href=http://www.nationaltrust.org.uk/places/suttonhoo>Sutton Hoo, Moscow, Idaho’s newest tourist attraction. Forget Silver Care. My family (remember them? the folks Silver Care doesn’t want me to burden?) can put the whole thing out in the front yard and charge all comers ten bucks a ticket. We’ve got ten acres; let’s use ten acres. There. My family’s financial security and my own immortality are ensured rather than insured. Bugger Silver Care and their damned depressing late-night ads.

In 1969, the incomparable Sandy Denny sang, “Who Knows Where the Time Goes?” God knows I don’t. I was only three when Sandy Denny began recording with Fairport Convention, but she lives on forever thanks to compact discs and Apple's iTunes. My grandparents, three of whom are still alive and well, were born in 1920, 1921, and 1922, respectively. One grandfather died a few years ago, just shy of his 81st birthday. Ours is a long-lived family, but I’m not a damned Tolkien elf. Someday, I will kick the bucket. In fact, it might be sooner than I think. I’m eating dinner tonight at the worst restaurant in Moscow. Why? To gather writing material, that’s why. I’d eat French fried road kill if I thought it would make for a good story. But do I really qualify for the same rip-off burial insurance as my grandparents?

Apparently so. Ah, well. I take comfort in the fact that my younger sister, born in 1968, will be watching these same ads in just under two years’ time. That’s something worth living for, isn’t it? Perhaps I’ll just drink water tonight. Bottled water.

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