There are some things that amaze me.

Like yesterday, Maureen went to the Naval Hospital we used to call Balboa, but they got uppity and renamed it a whole bunch of times. For now., they call it Naval Medical Center San Diego. i still call it Balboa.

We both go to Balboa to see several specialists there. Preventive Maintenance, something i learned on ships in the Navy that is worth its weight in gold .

Regardless, we were there. There were several things i noticed about which i will refrain my comments. They would sound like a rant. They would be. But three things could not be overlooked.

In the middle of the complex courtyard, someone decided to place a cannon that appears to predate World War I. They painted it gold. i’m wondering what the hell are they telling their patients with an age-old gold cannon in the middle of a medical center.

In the bowels of Building One, the medical center boasts a McDonald’s. Healthy. Right?

And finally, i went to the men’s head on the second deck of that building. As i looked down at the urinal, i noticed a silver plaque beside the handle to the flush mechanism, which itself had a green arrow pointing upward and a red arrow pointing downward. Well, if a man is standing next to a urinal, he doesn’t have a lot to do but his business, so i, with time to spend, read the plaque.

It bragged about how Sloan, the manufacturer of the urinal and the Navy Medical Center were being environmentally conscious and conserving water.

Then it gave operating instructions. It said if there was liquid waste, i should push the handle up. If it was solid waste, i should push the handle down (All i could think about was Young Frankenstein when Gene Wilder as Young Frankenstein, kept telling Marty Feldman as Igor, and Terry Garr as Von Frankenstein’s assistant to “PUT THE CANDLE BACK!”).

First, i wondered what brilliant mind thought solid waste would be in a urinal. Then, being inquisitive, i flushed twice, once up and once down. i couldn’t tell any difference in the flushes.

Go figure.

This is the kind of thing old men think about.

i revel in being old. But i don’t feel old, other than the aches, pains, stiffness, and waking up in the middle of the night because i have to pee.

i’m sitting here wondering why the hell i beat myself up for not doing more, not having more, not being all i expected to be or all others expected to me.

Then, sitting alone with one lone reading lamp on in the dark of night, i laugh. Out loud.

Next door, the daughters of the wonderful neighbors from Ciudad de México are playing with their friends around their pool. The sounds of young people laughing is music.

Maureen has gone to bed. It is quiet other than the laughter next door. Polaris in Ursa Minor hangs brightly about two points to port of Mount Miguel’s peak to the east, silhouetted by the lights of the city.

We went down the hill for dinner to a tapas bar and had short rib tacos and green style enchiladas with a delightful albariño.  They even had Jimmy Smith’s organ jazz for background music. We came home, sat down, and read our books to Andrea Bocelli’s “Toscana” album. i stopped reading, leaned my head back, closed my eyes and just listened in the quiet.

The young folks next door have gone inside. In the quiet, it occurred to me i really am old. However, this is nothing to complain about. i have many friends. i have two wonderful daughters. i have a wife who understands me, puts up with me, and still loves me. i have my night.

And i am at peace.

i hear and read the ravings of friends and a whole bunch of others who seem to need to hate, who need to throw rocks over the wall, who seem to fear others, who fight change. i don’t understand and, consequently, will not find fault for they are my friends. i hope they can have the peace i have tonight.

Does that peace come with age? i don’t know. Tonight, it does not matter to me. Bocelli’s album has run its course. i have put my book aside and before picking this laptop up, i read Wordsworth. It is good to read Wordsworth. It seems he understood the world.

And peace.

Actually, it wasn’t an old man “oops.” It was a poor editor’s “oops.”

in my post about David Maraniss’ book, A Good American Family, i admitted i was no longer a “vociferous” reader. Oh, i hope i never was. What i meant to write and now have corrected in that post is “voracious.”

i was once a voracious reader. i don’t think it’s possible to be a vociferous” reader.