Doug Blough

Can you hear me now? That rhetorical query was from an old commercial, but more and more, I hear it derisively. I hail from a long bloodline of hearing aids, and like every other unflattering family gene, I have not escaped.

All mom’s brothers but one were at least 6 feet, 5 inches with powerful builds; I now exaggerate to claim my previously-modest 5 feet, 7 1/2 inches. Bob, Jess and Martin were striking figures, but I inherit Uncle Jim’s stature ... a couple Shetland ponies among a stable of racehorses.

My dad, a sawed-off woodhick himself, had jet-black, thick hair into his 80s. A good sign, but oh, wait … baldness comes from the mother’s family genes. My barber — OK, I’ll admit it, “stylist” — said during a haircut as if I’d be pleased to hear, “Your hairline is definitely receding.” I resisted the urge to tell her, “And your breath is definitely pungent; what say we make out?”

Now here I am, darn near middle-aged, missing my lifetime, trademark, long hair, while concealing my retro rat-tail comb lest a gust of wind assault me on my way in. Old pal Donnie Beemer said several years ago, as I walked into his family’s Labor Day campsite, “Blough, you’re gonna need a wider headband if you expect to hide that hairline.” Well, hardy-har-har, ye of complete baldness for decades!

But getting back to the handicap at hand, dad used to constantly say, “How’s that?” during nearly every conversation. As with most jargon, the syntax evolves over the many years, and “What’s that?” is the twist I put on it — just before they roll their eyes and bark, “I said ...”

(FYI: the testy “I said” was considered rude in dad’s day and remains so. Bad manners never become trendy with time.)

Another reaction frowned upon by my deaf brethren is, “Huh? What, are your ears painted on?” We much prefer, “I’m sorry; I know I was speaking too softly,” or “Ya know, you’re so pleasant to be around, it’s almost a pleasure getting to spend twice as much time in conversation.” Because we do not hear, do we not still bleed?

I just automatically go into loud-talk mode when I’m conversing with those I know to be “deef.” For most of Pop’s fathering years, I darn near shouted without even consciously thinking about it. Also with brother Jess, I’ve always talked to as if shouting to one standing near a helicopter propeller. I guess if everyone was as compassionate and considerate as me, this old world would be a better place.

Both brothers have these revolutionary, unobtrusive hearing aids, and many of my comparably aged friends sport them — including the giddy-over-my-approaching baldness Don Beemer. I still remember Grandpa Blough when I was growing up and the bar of soap monstrosities jutting from his ears; he looked like a VW bug with both doors hanging open.

Gramps also had a perfectly round bald spot and at a family reunion, I asked, “Grampa, why do you have a hole in the back of your head?” Maybe I wasn’t thoughtful yet, but I sure as hell was cute.

Last week I made my second trip to Ralston’s Heart Mountain Hearing in five years. It came as no surprise my previous “moderately severe” hearing loss graded even lower this time. The test showed it is high-pitched sounds — basically women and children’s voices — that I’m most susceptible to saying “Come again?” At first I thought, “Heck, I’ve done a pretty good job avoiding both for 67 years now; maybe I’ll be fine.”

I know better though; this is a cruel, thieving handicap and I’m missing out on some awfully funny jokes. They lose something when I laugh and then whisper to the guy next to me, “What’d he say?”

Had I simply filled out the paperwork I was given in 2017 to send to the Starkey company, my lifetime of poor financial planning would have secured free hearing aids. Just my luck, Starkey ended that gratuity in 2020, just three years into my application procrastination. Hey, cool; that rhymed.