The Oldest of the Old

My wife's stepfather called her the other night and informed her of his notion that, with the death recently of a 92-year-old, he, at 88 or 89, is now the oldest Rainbow (or "black") man in his town.   Located in west-central Florida, 25 miles from the Gulf of Mexico, it is a largish town, relatively speaking, because among other felicities that are unknown to any town within decent driving distance from here (25 miles), his has its own Wal-Mart.

Hmm. That said, I could say that I am the oldest Rainbow man on my road, though that is helped along greatly by the fact that I am also the only Rainbow man on this road, and have held that dubious distinction ever since I moved here. That is not my fault. I didn't move here to keep company with the Euros, those curious folk who, setting aside a few small tricks of the light, are basically the same people as the Rainbows that I left behind in D.C.  I moved here to keep company with the trees, the soil, the creek, and the sky.

You should not be surprised to hear that there are several Rainbow women older than my wife's stepfather in his town. This is because when when they are young, women are generally smarter than men of the same age, save only for their propensity to mate with those dummies who, among other things, really believe that whatever they attempt, they will never become severely crippled or die, a state of mind that makes guys of that age easy pickings for every nitwit bumptious scheme that comes along, like doing the warrior bit.

That ensures that the women who do make those otherwise unhelpful couplings will reach the esteemed state of widowhood soon enough, and thereby they have a guarantee that their fondest dreams will come true.  For the data that I have collected, meager though its sources might be, strongly indicates that the very deepest desire of a great many women is to do anything that they damn well please, even though that carries the great danger of being precisely nothing.