Bill Wolcott Click on photo for larger image

Heading down the road to Curmudgeonland

Wednesday, October 06, 2026

On Nov. 8, I turn 38.

And I’m beginning to dread that day more and more.

Never before was I concerned about my age.

I still pretty much look the same as I did when I was 18. I still pretty much act the same. And my mind is still as sharp as a tact. But I’m starting to show the first signs of guy old age. And what’s worse, I think I’m becoming a grumpy old guy.

Old fart fact No. 1: As I pulled into the parking lot at work last week, I noticed a large group of kids skateboarding at the abandoned building next door.

As I got out of my car, I was left breathless after one of the kids wiped out badly. I thought for sure he had at least broken something, if not managed to have killed himself. But he was fine.

Disturbed by what I saw, I marched into the building and did something I’ve never done before in my life — called the cops.

What’s worse though, is what I said. I didn’t tell the courteous officer that I was worried about one of the boys getting hurt.

Instead, I told the officer I was worried one of kids would get hurt and the parents would sue the city.

Old fart fact No. 2: I recently helped Managing Editor Denise Young and her mom move into their new house in west Italy, I mean the West End.

I groaned, grunted and sweat along with all the other young guys trying to fit heavy furniture first down, then up twisting staircases.

The next day, despite being in pretty good condition, I was wracked with pain. If hospitals had intensive care units for muscle pain, I would have been there.

So when I got to work, I figured we’d commiserate over our aches from doing a man’s work.

But no one else was sore.

Old fart fact No. 3: Finally, the other day reporter Angelica Morrison brought her 4-month-old son, Kaleb, into work for a visit.

After cuddling with Kaleb for a while, a female co-worker handed him off to me.

It’s been a while since I held a baby, so it took me a few minutes to figure which side is up.

By that time, Kaleb — fearing for his safety — started to cry.

Seeing my distress over this, Angelica’s 4-year-old daughter came over to make me feel better.

“Can I have a pop?” she asked in a soft, sweet voice.

My heart melted and my wallet opened.

It wasn’t until she got soda all over her school clothes that I began to think better of buying a 4-year-old a 20-ounce bottle of Pepsi.

Seeing her misfortune, I grabbed a napkin and called her name. She ignored me.

A little louder, I called her name again. And she ignored me again.

Finally shouting, I called her name again and waved the napkin in the air.

Nothing.

So I got up and walked the napkin over to her.

It wasn’t until after Faithlyn left that I figured out why she ignored me.

I was using the wrong name.

Night Editor William H. Wolcott’s column runs Wednesdays in the Lockport Union-Sun & Journal. Contact him at (716) 439-9222, Ext. 6241, or [email protected].
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