Let’s start with a little anecdote that is 100% true. 

 

When I was a kid I went to a Fourth of July parade. While kids were battling for position along the curb in effort to score some Jolly Ranchers, I stood back and stared down an old guy who had a handkerchief around his neck. Was it rude to stare? Sure, but who wears a handkerchief around their neck in July? I had questions.

 

According to my parents, I approached the fella, gave him a head nod, pointed to his handkerchief and asked, “What’s your story?”. He reached underneath his handkerchief, turned on his voice-box and robotically responded, “I have a hole in my throat”.

 

My eyes grew to the size of Dolly Parton’s boozums.

 

I tried to play it cool. I needed proof. I was concerned he was conning me. Adults were liars back then… “Don’t sit too close to the TV you’ll go blind”… “If you keep making that face it will stick”… “The Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny are friends”… “The dog went to go live on a farm where he has lots of room to run and play.”

 

I needed to see this hole for myself. I made him show me.   

 

The man argued with me. He didn’t want to show me. In hindsight, he was trying to protect me. I’m sure he didn’t cherish the thought of being cast as the lead in my future nightmares. We went back and forth for a minute before he finally caved and pulled back his curtain and flashed me his hole.

 

I gagged immediately.

 

Immature and hurtful I know, but a genuine reaction to seeing the innards of one’s gobbler. My mind was blown. Under no circumstances did I ever think a human could survive putzing around town with a hole in the throat. 

 

As kids were shoveling Airheads down their gullets, I was shoving hard-hitting questions down the holey throat of my new friend. Does it hurt? Were you born with it? Do you pour your drinks directly in the hole? How do you eat without it falling out? Can you spit out of that thing?

 

Turns out the old-timer smoked a pack a day which led to throat cancer.

 

And just like that, I went through my childhood assuming that if I were to ever fire up a ciggie there was no way around it, Siri was going to take up residence in my throat and forever tug on my vocal chords.

 

It would take kids my age another 3 years and a D.A.R.E lion named, Daren to discover that smoking was bad.

 

The moral of the story is this: old people are untapped resources. If you’re looking for a cheat sheet to life, talk to old people. They know shit. I love the combination of them knowing SO MUCH while simultaneously being completely out of touch. It’s fascinating, enlightening and often times hilarious.

 

I’ve committed to conversations with old folks in my volunteer work. I recently spent some time at Colonial Heights & Gardens and interviewed a few residents. After hours of conversations reliving their glory days we were able to teach each other something. Enjoy the video.

 

(Video at the top)