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Becoming an Elderfrom Richard Ostrofskyof Second Thoughts Bookstore (now closed)

www.secthoughts.comquill@travel-net.com

July/August, 2010

This is my 68 th summer. I'm definitely growing old before my very eyesand trying to understand what is happening to the man I used to be. By anodd coincidence, all my friends who were born around the same time asme are doing much the same. Accordingly, this column seems timely, inevery sense of the word. If memory still serves, one of Trevanian's books(I think it may be The Summer of Katya ), begins with the hero askinghimself "that most banal of all questions, 'Where did it go?' followed by"that rather less banal question, 'What was it?'" As a suggestion on what todo with one's later years, this may be the best I've ever seen. I don't intendto answer it here, whether for myself or anyone else. Rather, this is acolumn on the problems of adaptation to this time of life, and myexploring of its uses.

One of my father's finest moments was his response when some patronizing functionary referred to him as 'senior citizen.' "I'm not a senior citizen," he replied with anger. "I'm an old man!" I was still a boy when Iheard him say that. Today I think that in rejecting that obnoxiouseuphemism, he was raging at our society's whole way of thinking aboutaging and death. We hide it away. We deny it. We try to look young and

feel young forever. I don't feel my father's rage exactly, but I share his point: Not that people are entitled to any special respect because of their years, but that patronizing the old is stupid and self-defeating. The youngwill be old someday, if they have the luck to survive youth and middleage. And then they will face the issues that my father was facing, and thatI am feeling now: not just their aging bodies, but the loss or retirementfrom life-roles (notably, parenting and work) and the corresponding loss of

status .They will need a new identity for this time of life, because the self-

understanding of earlier years no longer serves. Children grow up andhave children of their own. You retire not just from work, but from your

place and function in society. Your bodily drives and capabilities diminish.You see "the eternal footman hold your coat and snicker," as Eliot put it.And you feel the fear, at least the awareness, of your own mortality.

I'll suggest that their are compensations in all of this, for persons whocan let go of their previous lives – mourn them briefly perhaps, but then

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turn creatively to their present reality. You are an old person now, but also,in a real sense, you are a new one. No longer in the midst of worldyaffairs, you have the privileges of an elder, contemplating life's tumult asnow, fundamentally, the problem of others. But you can still comment asyou see fit. If people pay attention, you have a new and useful role to play.

If they don't, it is (you can see it as) their loss, and you've had the fun of self-expression.If it's true that the prospect of death "wonderfully concentrates the

mind," then you can enjoy the pleasures of concentration: writing, painting, puttering in your garden, playing with your grandchildren – really doing whatever turns you on, with fewer distractions. And you canlearn – at last, at last – to take each day as it comes. There's nothing togain by fear or whining. I've already had a lucky and interesting life. Whatremains of it is still mine to make the most of. I have no cause for complaint.

The basic existential problem in this time of life is that you could

easily live another 20 years or more, or die from a fatal heart attack tomorrow. You have to be prepared for either case, use whatever time andenergy remain to you, and greet death when it comes.

At first, I resented it when young people offered me their seats on the bus. Thankfully, I'm still in pretty good shape, and still able to stand onthese aging legs. "What do you take me for?" I wanted to say. But I'vegotten over this silliness, and learned to appreciate their courtesy. There'slittle enough decency in the world, and we should cherish what there is.

Now I either accept the seat gratefully, or decline with thanks if I feel likestanding – as I often do because I spend so much time sitting – reading,writing, surfing the Web whether for knowledge, or the remaining other interests of a dirty old man.

For what it's worth, I'll repeat a conversation I had in a park inMontreal, just the other day. My 3-year-old grand daughter was with me,

playing happily by herself, and I was sitting on a bench keeping an eye onher. A bit later, a really old man, easily in his eighties, sat down next tome. He had been walking in the park alone – without a cane even – and Ithink he wanted some company. "Enjoying your age?" he said, seeing asmile on my face as I watched the little girl. I shrugged. "It has its ups anddowns," I answered. "How old are you?" he asked next. When I told him,he exclaimed, "Oh, you're still a youngster!" All I could say was that helooked pretty spry himself. And then we just sat, watching the child playand the grass grow. I have no idea what he was thinking, but my ownthought was that I had never gotten such a comment before, nor felt somuch like a codger.

There is a novel by Robert Graves called Seven Days In New Crete ,(also published as Watch the North Wind Rise ), about a utopian,matriarchal society of the future, dominated by its poets. One of its

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conceits is the so-called 'Nonsense House' to which its citizens retire whenthey reach a crtain age. The point of the place was to serve not just as anold folk's home but as a playpen for their eccentricity. These 'seniors' hadearned the privilege of doing as they pleased, and could now be as silly asthey liked, because no one paid any attention to their games. I can tell a

similar story about one of my step- grandmothers , a woman in her ninetiesat that time, who liked to 'hisass' her husband by pinching his bum. She played similar games with almost everyone she liked, including me – atthat time, a mere boy of 45. Whenever someone commented, she wouldexplain solemnly, "I'm getting old you know!"