Like virtually every other American octogenarian, I’m only alive because of modern medicine. I was a fragile and often sickly child, and I probably would have succumbed to some sort of nasty infection that antibiotics quickly cured. And before the Salk and Sabin vaccines, polio was not uncommon, infecting several of my friends at Steele School in the late 1940s.
Lifespans were shorter back then, particularly for men. My biological father died at 53, the father who raised me at 62, and my maternal grandfather died of TB at 41. My mother made it to 94, my sister to 93, and my maternal grandmother to 91. Had I been born in any previous generation, I would’ve croaked 30 or 40 years ago – but here I am at 84.5, still in reasonable health and hoping to cling to life for another few years, when our by-then octogenarian president finally creeps out of the White House.
This geezer takeover of our country’s highest office started with Trump in 2016, continued with Biden in 2020, and I expect that there are vigorous septuagenarians from both parties who are making plans for 2028.
Alas, these geezer hopefuls may look good, may seem as alert and capable as they were in their 40s and 50s, and may have sparkling resumes, but so what? After the mid-60s, your mind starts to slow down and decay, and you may not even notice.
Here’s an example from yesterday, when it was finally warm enough to peruse the overflow bookshelves in the garage. One seemed particularly interesting: “Speak, Memory,” by Vladimir Nabokov. Who was he? And why did I have the book?
A quick Googling, and memory spoke. He was the author of “Pale Fire,” “Lolita,” and many other books. He was also a lepidopterist, as was I as a young teenager, and a friend of my Fountain Valley School mentor F. Martin Brown. And the memories flowed in, meeting Nabokov and collecting butterflies with him and Brownie a few months before “Lolita” was published.
Such are the joys of old age. The memories are there, but sometimes difficult to unearth. If you’re too ditsy to remember what you’re trying to find, it’s best to be pleased with whatever comes. And although I sometimes think that I’m as mentally fit as ever, I soon realize that I’m not.
Old age is no blessing.
Looking at the president’s antics and whatever looney tune he may be singing, it seems evident that old age is no blessing. Let’s try tariffs! What the hell – the DJIA is down 20%? Let’s do something else! He’s like an old man, limping down the street because he forgot his cane. Yet old as he may be, he’s still the president.
We need a Constitutional amendment that would establish maximum ages for Presidents. It’d make sense to forbid anyone to serve after 65, but such is the difficulty in amending our ancient document that we’ll likely be stuck with geezers for decades to come.
But here’s a lesson from old age: if something bothers you that you can’t do anything about, stop worrying about it. It’s getting warmer, and I can’t wait to jump in my 2004 T-Bird and head top-down for Cripple Creek. I’m sure I’ll win.
I must have stashed away a few hundred from my last big win, but I don’t remember where I put those crisp new bills. That’s ok – I’ll just raid the bank account and tell my wife later.
