I watch the expressions on our kids' faces as they try to follow our conversations. They are amused at the nonsequitors, alarmed at the possibilities of outcomes of misunderstandings, may be wondering if it's time to look for openings in a nursing home for the old fools.
I just read The Kite by W.O. Mitchell, the story of a crotchety old man approaching his 111th birthday. Daddy Sherry had his good days and his bad days. When you are half deaf it's hard to tell whether your wild answers are signs of dementia or just simply having not heard the question properly. Seems like every day is a bad day.

Lots of our friends have hearing aids. Most of them say they are a nuisance, but they do help. We know from observing Mom Bowes that the technology has come a long way in helping one hear.

Mom's audiologist once told her he'd reached the point where he couldn't do any more to improve her hearing. She took him at his word. For several years we took her for regular checkups. The last time she went under protest. "Just a waste of time and money."

When she was fitted with a pair of state-of-the-art aids she was astounded. "Oh," she said, "I couldn't get along at the lodge like this, why, I'm shouting! They wouldn't put up with it."

"You're not shouting, Mom, " I told her. "You're just hearing yourself for a change."

She wouldn't be convinced. She wanted her old hearing aid back. As I watched her trying to figure out which one of the three it was, I decided to forget about it. There was no sense in putting that kind of stress on a woman of her age. She was about 95.

Luckily for all of us, Mom's vision was good. We could write her a note and she'd respond at length, right on topic unless she was having a bad day.

Oddly, a few days before she left us she asked, "Where's my hearing aid?"

A nurse said quietly, "It's at the nursing station. It was making her ear sore."

"My ear's not sore," said Mom.

Hearing can be selective. At the cottage Martha will say, "Listen to that little bird singing away!"

I don't hear any bird at those times, but I can hear ducks quacking, geese bugling, crows and ravens conversing.

In the spring, I'll say "Listen to that toad singing."
Martha doesn't hear a toad singing as sweetly as any bird, but she can hear frogs croaking away on the far side of the lake.

I can hear crickets, but I never know whether it's a real cricket or just the constant twittering of my tinnitus, unless it's right in the room with me.

My impairment is the result of driving a tractor for hours, sometimes with the muffler off, of firing thousands of rounds of .22 rifle ammunition without ear muffs, of driving a car with a Hollywood muffle when I was young, of 17 years in an industrial arts shop.
Martha's may be from a genetic inheritance. She's never liked loud music, although we've both heard lots of it at dances.

Our grandchildren are likely to have hearing problems. Our generation had boom boxes that rattled windows, but kids today have ear phones mainlining music right into their brains.

I think they'll learn that technology giveth, and technology taketh away. We can warn them, but did we listen to our elders at that age?

Huh?