My great grand uncle lived in a little house, adjoining the community burial ground, in his small Pennsylvania town. He was the one to cut the grass among the tombs and remove dead flowers left by those who came to remember.
But what I remember most vividly... is that hand-whittled slingshot he kept hidden on his back porch, overlooking the greenery and lawn. With a mischievous grin he'd stretch back the rubber, posing an aim, and gleefully describe how he protected his turf from critters and vermin... Any and all, who dare disturb his peace.
He taught me my first old man lesson. He was the little boy still alive in that wrinkled old carcass. In our end game, we old men need our sling-shot...
Some simple grumpy old-man way to say 'Hey! I'm still alive... there still some elastic left in these old bones.' Don't underestimate the bite under these dentures.
Old men survive as long as they can deliver their sting. It is the spice we are made of. 'Love us or leave us to die'... said with a slightly-sly naughty-boy's grimace and grin. We old men have our opinion... And, god-help-ya, we might just let you have it.