76 trips around the sun

—“Agga-bur-yay yoo-yoo, agga-bur-yay yoo-yoo; agaa-bur-yay, agga-bur-yay; agga-bur-yay YOO YOO!”
That was my mentally-retarded kid brother Timmo (Timmy), 10 years younger than me, died at age-14 in 1968.
He had Down syndrome, and the classiest thing my parents did was to bring him home, not institutionalize him.
This was middle ‘50s, when the mentally-retarded were usually institutionalized.
My mother would not do it: “He’s my flesh and blood.”
Timmo was supposed to replace another brother who died of leukemia at age-4.
But Timmo had Down syndrome. “I’m mentally-retarded. Nyuk-nyuk-nyuk!”
As of today, Wednesday February 5th, Yr Fthfl Srvnt is 76 years old.
“We’re still here,” I say to my dog every morning.
I expect to be. No heart problems, good circulation; the only thing questionable is my balance.
26 years ago I had a stroke. But that was caused by a heart-defect long ago repaired.
I have neuropathy: poor nerve communication to my feet. But I do Physical Therapy to counter that — mainly increase my awareness of what could throw me down, and increase my strength to catch imbalance.
My wobbliness is self-frightening, but usually I catch wobbliness. And I don’t try anything that might cause a fall.
I hardly fall any more, and when I do it’s because of stumbling or tripping, not imbalance.
And usually I can catch the stumbles. Go back five years and I couldn’t.
My Physical Therapist advises a cane, but I don’t know. A cane would be in the way, and doesn’t catch stumbles.
I talked to a pretty girl yesterday. A lot has changed since my wife died almost eight years ago.
We were both 68 when she died. And now, thanks to my dog and numerous pretty ladies, I find my hyper-religious Sunday-School Superintendent neighbor, and my parents, who were also hyper-religious, were WRONG.
I’m not the despicable scumbag they convinced me I was. “NO PRETTY GIRL WILL TALK TO/SMILE AT/BE INTERESTED IN YOU!” versus “Oh what a pretty dog.” (Oh what a pretty girl.)
I’m at my local pet-supply. Cutie-pie, the best-looking female store-employee, recognized me: “Where’s Killian?”
Someone told me dogs and babies are chick-magnets.
“And you may be the only store-employee whose name I know.”
“And why is that?” Cutie-pie asked, lighting up the store with her smile.
“I happened to see your name-tag. Your name is ********.”
“Yada-yada-yada.” Call it flirting if you wish, something I couldna done 10 years ago.
And now, thanks to my four-legged chick magnet, I no longer am scared of pretty girls. I have struck up so many conversations with pretty girls, I got so I can do it without my dog.
And women love talking, especially laughing.
76 trips around the sun, and for 70 of those trips I pretty much kept to myself. “No one will talk to you!”
My counselor congratulates me on leaving my sordid childhood behind.
“Yeah,” I add. “70 years late!”