Joints: Places where things or people get together.
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It’s July. It’s hot. I’m sitting on the porch under the ceiling fan, thinking. Thinking is a euphemism for hard labor. Today I’m thinking about joints and drawing comparisons between arthritis and the wisteria vine creeping up the wall.
Age is expert at thinking. Why? Simple. It’s easier to think than act. One can do a lot of thinking while sitting, but not much acting. Thinking won’t get you very far in life. It leads to naps.
Maybe it’s age, that stealthy ghost of years, chance and change. It creeps on silent feet and rummages through our memory box, tossing out strange recollections. Age has its own set of books to reconcile.
Of course, a lot of things creep up when age rolls around. Things that ‘once were, are now and might be later.’ The ‘were’ things, that’s old history. Just mental clutter. The ‘are’ things, that’s different. Like the insidious wisteria vine. It defies death, mocks all attempts to eradicate. Sooner or later I have to deal with it.
It’s the ‘might-be’ hanging out there that’s troubling. I’m thinking here of certain remaining arthritic joints existing on life support. They depend on BenGay and other temporary palliatives like Dr. Jake’s Liniment Tonic, guaranteed to cure everything, even women’s complaints. Sufficient 100 proof will cure anything.
But my mind moves on to thinking about the ‘old days’ when joints had other meanings…Roadhouses, Saloons, Speakeasies, Taverns, you name it. Some exciting, some intriguing, others downright scary. Like the bar on the Sioux Indian reservation we went in for a cold one. The stools were bolted to the floor and the bar lady twirled a pair of electric cow prods, useful to keep things from getting out of hand late at night. We did a quick to-go.
In High school after Friday night football games, we visited the back door of the Am Vets Club on 27 South. With connections, something cold in a brown paper bag could be handed off as you drove by in your daddy’s pickup. No ID necessary. The pickup did the job.
In our little town, as in most, there was a pool hall on the square. It was a smoky din of n’eer-do-wells who didn’t do much thinking, or working, for that matter. But they shot a lot of bull and 8 Ball. The preacher called it one of the seven deadly sins. We avoided it, but not all of us. With an ear to the window one could pick up a new vocabulary not taught in school.
Every small town had a ‘juke joint.’ Ours was located in what was then called ‘the quarters.’ It was a simple cinder block building across from a mortuary, which was convenient, since knives weren’t checked at the door. Loud music could be heard on Saturday nights. Juke joints made Jerry Lee Lewis famous.
But time moved on, taking us with it. We left behind home-town hamburger joints, those where they’d come to your car and take your order. You could listen to Elvis on the radio, hold hands with your girlfriend till a tray with burgers, fries and cokes showed up. Gone with the wind. Sad.
Joints kept changing and so did we. They became ‘diners,’ those off-the-beaten-path joints with down-home cookin’. Who could beat a meat and three meal with iced tea and dessert? Cost? Less than $5 bucks. Before inflation, of course. What replaced them? Fast food drive-through, that’s what, selling chemical and steroid-laced meats of dubious quality. We all got fat.
Wild days of youth and early adulthood rolled around. We did a lot of acting then and not enough thinking. We encountered other joints, those we rolled and those with bars. The Jail. It takes only one late-night visit there to post bail for a friend sweating it out in the drunk tank to make a lasting impression and a firm resolution.
You’re thinking, hey, this is mostly a man’s viewpoint of joints. Surely women have their own ideas of a joint. Who can speculate on women’s ideas of things? But as for joints, perhaps they come under a kinder nomenclature, like hair and nail salons, spas and maybe piercing and tattoo emporiums. But marriage will open up any new bride’s understanding of what a man’s idea of a joint is.
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Enough thinking. Time for action. Before arthritis shuts down my shoulder joint and someone here gets their nose out of joint, I’m going to attack that wisteria vine, mano a mano.
Oh, the photo above? Why, that’s my right hip joint, a souvenir preserved for posterity and scientific research.
Bud Hearn
July 11, 2023