Compelled to Consult

Upon occasion, I’m asked why I bother to consult post-retirement if I don’t need the money. For one thing, gas prices are crazy lately, and every little bit helps. Mainly, though, it’s a genetic predisposition.

Let me tell you a story. Long ago, in the caveman days, there was a tribe who hunted wooly mammoth. If this tribe couldn’t find and bring down enough mammoth, they’d starve. Among the tribe was an old codger, named Og. Og would yammer on and on about the old days, when cavemen were cavemen. His favorite story was how, when he was young, the rains came early, and the mammoth herds crossed the big river three-days-journey upstream of where they normally do. It was only by chance that the tribe found this out, otherwise they would’ve missed the mammoth migration completely, and starved.

Og loved to tell this story. Especially around the campfire, when he’d had too much fermented berry juice. The rest of the tribe would roll their eyes, because they’d all heard it a thousand times before. Og didn’t care. He’d repeat the tale anyway.

After a while, Og grew too old to climb higher in the tree than the sabre-tooth tiger could reach. Then, the tribe didn’t have to listen to his stories anymore.

Years later, the rains came early. And when they did, the tribe could hear Og’s words in their heads. They looked at each other, and one of them said, “That old Og, he did yammer on, and on, and on. But he knew his mammoth. I guess we better start walking upriver.”

The tribe were in the right place at the right time to catch the mammoth migration, and didn’t starve. The compulsion of old people to pass on what they know to the next generation was passed on to the next generation, and the next, and the next. Thereby boring young people to tears ever since.

So, if I, or some other old codger, is yammering on, and on, and on. And if you happen to hunt the type of mammoth I did. Think about listening. You never know. It might save your tribe someday.