The Old Man and His Umbrella

As I’ve gotten older, my habits have changed. Some of my New Ways are pure Old-Guy cliche.  I take naps. I go to bed early. I find myself using this introductory adverbial clause: When I was young ... Or I find various ways to complete this incomplete sentence: My parents never would have put up with ...

You know ...

I also worry about things I never worried about before. When I wake up, will I remember who I am? Should I buy a new sweater? (I mean, what if I’m not even here when next fall rolls around?!) Should I really try to go upstairs with both hands occupied? Shouldn’t I make sure I have one hand free to grip the banister? Where did I put my glasses? (Oh, I’m wearing them!) Didn’t we already stream this episode?

But perhaps the most patent sign of my galloping senescence is this: No rain catches me sans umbrella.

My dad called an umbrella a “bumbershoot”—an expression that goes back to 1876, the year Custer died on the Little Big Horn--and according to the OED, it’s principally an Americanism formed by combining a version of umbrella with parachute.

I never carried one as a young man. Bumbershoots were for, you know, Old Guys. When it rained, I ran. Held something over my head. (Did you see that video the other day on FB of a woman holding her baby over her head as she hurried through the rain?)

Years passed. I slowed down. I began to see the wisdom of the bumbershoot. I now have one in each of our two cars. We have several stuffed in a stand near our back door. And—as I type right now at the coffee shop—there is one hanging on the chair on the other side of my little table. (Oh, and I always have a little collapsible one in my backpack.)

Why?

There’s a chance of rain this morning.

I check my Weather Channel app every day, and if there’s a 20% chance (or more) of rain, then I’ve got my bumbershoot with me. No exceptions.

And, of course, most of the time (from 80% on down) I don’t need it. I kid myself that my preparation is why the rain has not come. I sometimes even tell puzzled (younger) people the same thing—people who wonder why I’ve got an umbrella with me—the sun is out, for Pete’s sake!

When I pass by, they probably nod knowingly at each other (if there are two) or one another (three or more) and think (or say): Old Guys are weird!

And so we are--weird, it's true. But also dry.