How old would you be if you didn’t know how old you were?—Satchel Paige

You know you’re old when you flirt with the pretty young waitress,
and your wife thinks it’s cute—Ralph J. Ferro

When we were teenagers, we often ridiculed our parents and older relatives for seemingly being so out of touch. But as we got older, our parents seemed to get smarter. When we finally became senior citizens, we became the objects of ridicule. Payback time! We were the geezers, the old fogeys.

As we all know, an old fogey is not just an old person, but one considered being hopelessly old-fashioned. Now in the last quarter (sixth? seventh?) of my life, I seem light years away from the teenagers of the world. My daughters are around the half century mark – one slightly under and one slightly over. When they were teenagers, my attitude toward them alternated between pride and frustration. But after my fine young ladies grew up, I started regarding teenagers in a different light. I now view them as being insane creatures who are miraculously cured somewhere in their twenties…if we’re lucky.

But how do so-called old fogeys differ from the rest of the population? A prime example of fogeytude is in technology, especially computers. I was saved from this particular brand of fogeytude by switching my career to the computer world when I was in my early forties. I started out in the world of room-filling mainframe computers, then to personal computers, which evolved into networks. From networks came broadband and the Internet. Although I’ve been retired for years, I’m still active in computer technology. But I have generally drawn the line at Facebook, Twitter, YouTube, etc. I do, however, have a blog, which I optimistically refer to as “literary.” I also have two computers, a color scanner and two printers—one laser with a built-in fax and one photo on which I print photographs from my digital camera.

I should point out that my wife also has a digital camera, and she takes many more pictures than I do. Whenever we have visitors, everyone must stand and pose for her in various relational combinations. So although she won’t come near my computer, except to look at the photos, she does have at least one foot out of fogeytude. With her modern camera she has cautiously dipped that foot into the ocean of technology.

It is true that, when some of us reach a certain age, we stop our education or refuse to adjust our tastes to the current fashions or events. I myself, obviously, am quite happy with my computers, printers and digital cameras. I suppose I’m what people would call a computer nerd. I don’t like the term “geek” partly because in a 1947 movie, Tyrone Power starred as a washed up, drunken carnival performer called “the geek.” His act consisted of biting off the heads of live chickens. Needless to say, he was not a computer geek.

Although my daughters and others seek my assistance with computer problems, I suppose I’m still a certified member of fogeydom. This is probably because my taste in music stopped evolving in the 1950s. I love the old big bands of the thirties, forties and fifties: Artie Shaw, Glen Miller, Harry James and on and on—too numerous to list. My favorite singers are Frank Sinatra, Nat King Cole, Tony Bennett, Ella Fitzgerald—also too numerous to list. I like the old groups and choruses, including The Mills Brothers, The Inkspots, The Ray Conniff Singers, et al.

My wife and I go every year to the Kimmel Center to see the Peter Nero Holiday Show. Three months ago we went to see “A Salute to Vienna,” which featured Strauss waltzes and other music of that era. Also on the program were three couples who were wonderful Russian dancers. We’re also fans of the late Luciano Pavarotti, other tenors and various sopranos. Although my wife likes all of the above, she’s much more up to date than I: she also enjoys some rock and roll, which I detest.

Composers like Cole Porter, Rogers and Hammerstein, Hoagy Carmichael and Stephen Sondheim wrote lovely, lilting lyrics—beautiful poetry with or without music. Compare their works with later lyrics like “yeah, yeah, yeah” or “splish splash, I was takin’ a bath.” But in the interest of tolerance and compassion, I have condescended to listen and, admittedly, enjoy a handful of recordings by the Beatles. Many people (mostly younger than I) would call me a musical snob but, obviously, I prefer to be known as a man with discriminating taste (please don’t gag!). In the interest of full disclosure, my brother says I’m musically handicapped, but what does he know!

But I have seriously digressed from my main intention which is to try to understand why we members of fogeydom desperately cling to the old ways. Were things really as great as we say they are? The answer is complex. Perhaps it was simply because we were young—we could run and jump and climb trees: all things which are now beyond our ability. Most of us had 20-20 eyesight and, in conversation, we heard a comment the first time it was said. If we stooped or knelt down, we could jump right up. How could that not be better than now!

We fondly remember our family life with our parents and siblings: holiday dinners together, birthday parties and picnics. But, regretfully, there was a profound shortcoming: we didn’t realize what a wonderful time of life we were experiencing. Would we have enjoyed it more if we did know?

So the question is, “was the world really better?” Or is it just that we, as individuals, had a positive outlook because of our youth and our hopes and our dreams. We looked forward to what seemed like an endless life, only to find out how short it really is.

We conveniently forget the scourges of polio and scarlet fever and the lack of antibiotics. And hidden somewhere in our mind is the pain of dentistry and the fear of rudimentary surgery of days gone by. We are blessed with modern, and sometimes miraculous, medicines which enable us to live longer. But, paradoxically, our longer life makes us susceptible to the many ailments of old age. And sadly, we have lost many loved ones—relatives and friends.

When someone asks me how I feel, I could say that at times I have some arthritic pain and my hearing is not perfect; that I have an incipient cataract; that it takes a little more effort to rise from a seated position. But instead, I tell the questioner that I’m feeling wonderful. And indeed I am: I have a close-knit family with a loving wife and two wonderful daughters. My wife and I do not dwell on the things we cannot do or cannot change; we appreciate the many, many things we can do that some people younger than we cannot.

In 1944 the great composer and lyricist, Johnny Mercer, wrote a novelty song which contained, in part, these most profound lyrics:

You got to ac-cent-tchu-ate the positive
E-lim-i-nate the negative
And latch on to the affirmative
Don’t mess with mister inbetween

You got to spread joy up to the maximum
Bring gloom down to the minimum
And have faith, or pandemonium
Liable to walk upon the scene

Dwelling nostalgically on the past can have a negative effect on our psyche if we only have regrets. Let’s fondly remember the happy events in our lives and forget the unpleasant. We can still continue to enjoy the rest of our lives if we concentrate on the joys of living and let go of “the good ole days.”

One of my earliest memories occurred shortly after I entered the first grade at a Catholic elementary school in southwest Philadelphia. We lived in a dingy third floor apartment owned by my stepfather’s parents. We were poor but, as a five-year-old child, I was not aware of it. A month before I started school, my sister was born. It was just the two of us until ten years later when our brother would be born. Since I have no memory of ever having lived with my biological father, I will hereafter refer to my stepfather as my “father.”

However, I do remember, on one occasion, seeing my biological father at some social gathering. My mother, as might be expected, was not too happy about his being there. I guess I was about six or seven years old at the time, but somehow I knew who he was, even though my mother always tried to hide the facts from me. Actually, I was not concerned one way or the other, so my parents probably overreacted. Anyway, he called me over and tried to make small talk and then handed me a five-dollar bill, which at that time was a sizable amount of money even for an adult, let alone a child of my age. Needless to say, I was overjoyed. My exuberance, however, was short-lived since both my parents insisted that I mail back the money. To try to soften the blow, my father gave me a one-dollar bill and gave me a clumsy lecture on taking money from strangers, even though I knew who the “stranger” was. At a later time, I laughed and wondered if my father really thought that his one-dollar gift would really placate a child who had just lost five. But of course, years later I realized that giving me the dollar at that time was a real sacrifice.

I don’t remember if we didn’t have heat in that apartment, or if it just wasn’t adequate. We had a kerosene space heater in my bedroom and one in my parents’ bedroom where I believe my baby sister slept in her crib. Also, I recall the oven door being open when we spent time in the kitchen during frigid days. Today this practice would be considered dangerous but, back then, what was the alternative.

When my baby sister was little more than a month old, she became seriously ill. Years later I found out it was pneumonia which, at that time, was often fatal. Of course, my mother was worried sick: she would be up and down throughout the night looking after her baby. In retrospect, it seems like she wasn’t much more than a baby herself: 23 years of age when my sister was born.

With little sister ill, and my mother exhausted from lack of sleep, there was an unwelcome knock at the door. It turned out to be a door-to-door saleswoman who (“miraculously”, my mother would say) tried to sell her a statue of Mother Cabrini for 50 cents. Mom was very upset and told her she couldn’t deal with her now, that her baby was very sick. The woman insisted that that made it imperative that she take the statue. Indeed, she offered it to my mother free of charge, urging her to take it to pray for her baby. Hearing this, my mother took it, but insisted on paying for it. .

She prayed to Mother Cabrini constantly that her infant baby get well, and she always credited her with curing her child. Some would call that superstition, and that it was my mother’s sleepless nights and loving and tender care that made her baby well. Whatever your opinion, little sister is alive and well and has seven grandchildren. Until this day the statue sits on her dresser, a gift from our mother when little sister married.

Mother Cabrini was eventually canonized a saint in the Catholic Church. Under Canon Law, in order to be named a saint, it had to be proven that the candidate performed three miracles. My mother would tell you that the recovery of her daughter – my little sister – was the fourth miracle.

I get up from the kitchen table to get a pencil to do the daily crossword puzzle. But first I pour myself a second cup of coffee.

That done, I walk into my office and stand in the middle of the room, trying to think of why I went in there. After a few seconds I remember that I came for a pencil. Or maybe I don’t remember. So I head back to the kitchen to read the newspaper, scratching my head. Then I see the page open to the crossword puzzle, and I remember: The pencil, idiot!

Everyone my age, and even younger, says they have the same kinds of experiences. Is it brain disease? Is it brain deterioration? Or can we just call it forgetfulness? Psychologists have all kinds of theories about forgetfulness.

One theory calls the problem “retrieval failure” which usually happens because of a missing cue: With the proper stimulation that evokes the same or similar cues that occurred at the time of the event, we are more apt to remember. Anyway, that’s what the theory states. Then there are the “interference theories” which state that forgetfulness could stem from an overactive environment: recent, high-activity memories interfere with old memories. But the converse could also occur, that is, old memories could interfere with recent memories. Of course, there are also physiological causes of forgetfulness, such as Alzheimer’s or Dementia. In these cases there is actual damage to the brain itself.

There are other theories and causes, but I like to think that as long as I remember to shower and shave and eat dinner, I do not have a deteriorating brain – maybe later, but not now. I have a degree in mathematics, and I can still set up algebraic equations (but don’t make them too difficult!). I even remember what the calculus is, but please don’t ask me to solve a problem.

The point I’m trying to make is that my brain is still functioning enough to deal with my present environment. I like to think that my forgetfulness is partly due to the lack of urgency in my life. I don’t have to go to a job and solve pressing problems, and my daughters have long ago left the nest and are doing well. As long as I remember to pay my bills and keep my doctor’s appointments, etc., etc., I can forget about most other things. Then too, as soon as the calendar comes out for the new year, my wife transfers all the birthdays and other events from the old calendar into the appropriate blocks of the new. So I like to think that I forget mainly because I don’t need to remember. Perhaps that lack of concern makes forgetting a habit.

Another reason I like to give for my forgetfulness is differences in life spans. A 20-year old has perhaps 18 years worth of memories, while a 75-year old may have 73 years of memories –- a lot more to remember. The stored information of all those years must definitely interfere with short-term memory.

In this essay I’ve been trying to decide whether I’m trying to convince the reader or myself about the reasons for my forgetfulness. After many hours I have finally figured out the answer….

….I forgot what it was!

My guess is that it was the summer of ’41, probably August. I went outside right after breakfast – earlier than usual. I sat on the steps just staring into space when I heard the squealing brakes of the bread truck. The bread man jumped out of his truck and, going from house to house, delivered the bread he was carrying in the basket. After emptying it, he would go back to the truck, refill it and drive a little farther down the block, repeating the process.

A milk wagon came rolling – driverless – down the street. The horse would stop or go at every yell of the milkman who, along with a young boy, was going back and forth between the wagon and the neat row of houses. I laughed when I realized that the bread man could not do the same with his truck. The wagon reached the end of the block, rounded the corner and disappeared from sight. Back in those days bread and milk were delivered daily directly to residences; most people did not own cars and walked to the nearest grocery store, which was usually a small Mom and Pop business on the corner of most neighborhoods. Eventually, deliveries were reduced to every other day to conserve fuel and other resources because of the war.

Coming down the street was another milk wagon. As it drew nearer, I noticed that the driver did not have a helper. I watched for a while and as the wagon was about to turn the corner, I ran down the street and asked the milkman if he needed help. I cautiously moved closer to the horse, wondering if it was safe to pet it. It seemed like the milkman was about to refuse my request, but I guess when he saw how excited I was and how pathetic I must have looked in anticipation of his negative answer, he said, “Jump in. I’ll give you 50 cents to Woodland Ave.”

Excitedly, I leaped into the wagon. We had to drive over a railroad bridge to reach the next row of houses. When we got to the first house, he pointed and told me to deliver three quarts of milk to the house. At that time the milk was in glass bottles: it would still be several years before waxed cardboard cartons would be used. However, by then, there would be no more milk wagons, although there would still be milk deliveries for a while longer, but only by truck.

In any case, I grabbed three bottles of milk, tucking one under my left arm and one in each hand. This was my first job! I ran across the sidewalk and started up the steps. On the second step I tripped. I fell forward, the bottle in my right hand hitting the concrete step, and my forearm falling on a fragment of broken glass. The blood spurted from my arm and covered the steps with a bright red, except where it mixed with the spilled milk and made pinkish shades with fine white curving lines, resembling the whorl of a fingerprint as the flowing milk was deflected by the cracks and pores in the concrete. I got up quickly without uttering a sound –- still holding, somehow, the other two bottles. Inexplicably, I remained very calm as I stared at the deep red gash, blood gushing out of my extended arm.

The milkman yelled and ran to the steps. At the same time the door of the house opened briefly and then closed, as a man darted back inside. In a moment the door opened again, and the same man, carrying a piece of white cloth and a clothespin, ran out. From these he fashioned a tourniquet on the upper part of my arm while I just stared, marveling at how quickly the bleeding had stopped. So far, I had still not said a word, but remained perfectly calm. I think I felt like I was watching the climax of a western movie. The man was about to take my uninjured arm and lead me to his car when he realized I was still holding two bottles of milk. He looked at the milkman, who took the bottles, then he looked at me, and we all looked at each other and grinned. Because it was the closest one, he drove to Mercy Douglass Hospital which had an all-Negro staff. Colored doctors and nurses, at that time, were only allowed in the rare Negro hospital. (In those days, Blacks were called colored people or, in educated circles, Negroes.)

As the doctor applied the sutures, I clenched my teeth tightly, but still remained silent. The doctor smiled at me and told me I was brave enough to be an airplane pilot when I grew up. Years later, I thought how ironic it was that I, a white boy, was treated by this gentle, black doctor, but he was not allowed in a “white” hospital.

The car pulled in front of my house, and I got out with the two men. My mother was standing on the steps anxiously staring at my bandaged arm. But when I ran up to her quite energetically and hugged her, she regained her composure.

The next day, my father gave me a dollar and said it was from the milkman.

His first name is Roy, and my wife and I are proud to have him as our good friend and neighbor. Like most people, he has an interesting, often fascinating story, to tell.

Roy was born in Sunningdale, a small village of less than 5000 people about 25 miles west of London. Although raised in a family of modest means and living in a time of scarcity and rationing through a disastrous war, his was a happy childhood. He played in the nearby woods, sometimes a truant absentee from school with the boyhood passion for climbing trees. It was a pleasant village with one main street, lined with fruit and vegetable stores, garages, a knitting shop, a post office, the ever-present pubs and a railway station.

Because of their fortuitous distance from London, he and his family were spared the horror of incessant bombing that lasted for 76 consecutive nights beginning in 1941 when Roy was about nine years old. During that time more than 43,000 civilians had been killed with over a million homes destroyed or damaged. The only indications of a war to the townspeople of Sunningdale was the glow seen in the sky above London, and U.S. and British planes flying regularly above the town, briefly blocking out the sunlight. Once there was a German fighter shooting near the village but, thankfully, no one was injured. Then there was the incident of a German paratrooper found dead hanging in a tree.

As was mandatory, his father was in the army for four years and apparently, because of his lengthy time in the service, he was not able to cope with civilian life, and the family split up. By choice the two girls went with their mother, while the two boys chose their father. However, since Roy was 14 years old and thus finished school (there was no secondary school at that time) he had to live with an aunt in Luton which was about 35 miles north of London. It was not possible to join his mother and sisters because his mother worked for the Tennants, who were cousins of the royal family. She was a live-in housekeeper who was fortunate enough to be able to keep her two daughters with her. Another child, especially a boy, was out of the question.

Although the town of Luton was known primarily for its hat-making industry, there was also the General Motors-owned plant, Vauxhall Motors, which manufactured various auto parts. However, during the war, they made what were known as Churchill tanks. It was there, at the age of 14, that young Roy started working in the mailroom. At the age of 16 he became eligible for a position in the production plant. He entered a training program and became a die maker, making press tools used in manufacturing body parts. When he was 19 years old, Roy left Vauxhall Motors to fulfill his obligation for national service by entering the Royal Air Force. He was there for three years, and received three months training as a mechanic. After completing his service, Roy returned to his employment at Vauxhall Motors.

Roy married Joyce in 1958 and moved to a twin house in Dunstable where they resided for two years, after which they bought a new chalet bungalow (similar to a cape cod in the U.S.) in Barton-le-Clay. Their first daughter, Tina, was born in 1963. Roy tells an amazing story of an incident regarding this extraordinary little girl when she was only two and a half years old.

He was painting a fence in his backyard with creosote (a wood preservative) while daughter Tina looked on. To her toddler eyes the woodgrain wallpaper in their kitchen was real wood so, of course, it needed to be painted. She coated one of the walls–the largest–with the creosote as high as she could reach. The only solution to this mess, after the shock (laughter?) wore off, was to pull all the wallpaper off the wall. About three years after Tina was born , their second daughter, Annie arrived. Although she has Down’s syndrome, Roy and Joyce were determined to love and treat her as a normal child. They took her shopping, to amusement parks and to all the places that children love to go.

Not long after Annie was born Roy heard about an opportunity for employment in America. He had an interview in a London hotel with a representative from Eastern Tool & Engineering in Philadelphia. He was hired within a week and went to the U.S. in 1967. His plan was to stay two or three years, make “a barrel of money” and come back home. While taking care of paperwork at the American embassy in London, he was told that the Philadelphia area was one of the best places to live when one had a handicapped child because of the excellent care and benefits which were available. His wife and children had to temporarily stay behind until Joyce sold their property and settled their affairs.

Roy was unhappy at Eastern Tool and, after only three months, went to Boeing as a toolmaker. Unfortunately, he was laid off after two years with the end of the Vietnam war. After only one day off, he obtained employment at Morton Tool, making precision parts mostly for the GE space program. He worked at Morton for 10 years and then, unexpectedly, was called back by Boeing, his former employer.

Even though he had previously worked as a tool and die maker, he was hired as a cost estimator in the finance department. Fortunately, while still in England, he had acquired a solid education through the good graces of Vauxhall  Motors who not only paid his way, but gave him a half day off every week to attend classes in basic math, algebra and trigonometry for three years. This was followed by another three years of more intensive study at Luton & Bedfordshire College of Further Education for another three years in English and Math. This time Vauxhall Motors allowed him a full day each week to pursue his studies. This free education and much hard work enabled him to work at Boeing until his retirement in 1995.

Meanwhile, even though they sometimes longed to be home in England, they lived the typical American life. When Annie, their handicapped daughter, was 11 years old, they went to Disney World while Tina traveled to England to visit family. In subsequent years and to Annie’s delight, they often went to New England to enjoy the fall foliage. They also visited Niagara Falls, Ontario and Toronto. One year they drove the beautiful scenic Route 6 across northern Pennsylvania. But the highlight of their travels came after he retired when Roy, Joyce and Annie undertook a 10,000-mile, seven-week tour of the United States, visiting 26 states.

The lovely Annie was always included in their plans. From the beginning they had devotedly and joyfully resolved to treat her as a perfectly normal child. The results are obvious: she is still a loving and loved, innocent adult. Joyce, Annie’s mother, died five years ago and, of course, Annie still asks about her. Roy honored his wife’s request and scattered her ashes at Dunstable Downs near their old home.

Obviously, Roy loves his older daughter, Tina, but there has to be a special place for Annie and a special kind of love for one so innocent. Of course, no one could anticipate caring for a handicapped child. But when one sees the loving interaction between this father and his daughter, one may be envious of one thing: Roy will always have his little girl.

More and more I’ve been hearing the exclamation, absolutely! used mostly when a simple yes would do. (For example: “Did you enjoy your walk?” “Absolutely!”) I used to hear TV and radio pundits use it to emphasize their strong belief in a policy or proposition or even a politician. Actually, it was more than a belief: it was a conviction, a certainty that they were right.

But now I also hear the same exclamation from friends and acquaintances. Oh yes, the pundits still use it, but not necessarily out of certainty. Like many people, they use it to simulate certainty. They think if they simply say the word, absolutely, the topic at hand is incontrovertible. Theirs is not an opinion – it’s a certainty: absolutely! And you believe it – or not.

However, they fail to realize that its overuse renders the word almost meaningless. Which reminds me of the film industry: consider that four-letter words, used once or twice in a film, once achieved the shock value desired by the movie director. Now the words are so commonplace that they have lost their ability to shock, except for the most innocent among us and those who are from an earlier generation.

Now it seems almost laughable when we older folks recall the hush that came over the audience when Clark Gable uttered that extraordinary phrase: “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn!” Did he say damn? Or didn’t you notice? I know that you did.

Recently, we had some friends over for coffee and cake.  Somehow, groups of animals came up in our conversation, and this triggered in my mind a long-forgotten incident. So, naturally, I thought I would showoff and ask if anyone knew what a group of crows was called. As I suspected, no one knew.

It happened almost 30 years ago at the Philadelphia Naval Shipyard. I was having lunch at my desk reading The Philadelphia Inquirer, and I came across an article referring to a “murder of crows.” No, the writer was not speaking about the elimination of the birds. He was referring to the official name of an assemblage of crows, as in a “herd of cattle” or a “flock of sheep.”

No one in the office had heard the expression before and, since it was the first of April, we thought the writer was playing an April Fool’s joke. But a colleague found the information in an encyclopedia (no Google back then) along with some other curiosities, such as a “parliament of owls” (my favorite) and a “pod of whales.”

It turns out that there are dozens of these group nomenclatures, each of which refers to a specific animal.

One particularly peculiar term is the murmuration of starlings, which one assumes is derived from the soft, continuous murmur of scores, or even hundreds, of these birds flying overhead.

I suppose the nomenclatures for a “clowder of cats,” a “leap of leopards,” a “cowardice of curs” or a “shiver of sharks” were inspired by the appeal of alliteration, while a tower of giraffes and a prickle of porcupines make perfect sense.

And if you thought a “barrel of monkeys” was just an old saying or joke, you were wrong: that’s the correct nomenclature! Or, if you can picture a rhinoceros in a china shop, then a “crash of rhinoceroses” seems eminently appropriate. And, surely, an “intrusion of cockroaches” needs no explanation.

Furthermore, why an army of frogs, but a knot of toads?

Finally, what is the meaning of life?