BY THE TIME this message gets into print the writer will have arrived at that age which the psalmist said is "man's allotted span," three score years and ten, and I thought I ought to write and tell you about it, for the experience is new to me. If you are like most of us you will have to be reminded of the occasion by your wife, your secretary, your daughter who bought you a necktie, or a son who bought you after-shave lotion. Actually, it doesn't hurt— there is no crossing a sound barrier, no sonic boom, no bells ring, no whistles blow—you just wake up and there you are. In fact, you are glad you did wake up and are there, for the alternative seems to be so final.
There are three things about men in this age group: One, that your memory plays tricks on you; I forget the other two. . . .
Andre Maurois said once that growing old is no more than a bad habit that a busy man has no time to form, and there is some thing to what he says. I have told all of my friends several times that I retired at 65 when I read in the eleventh chapter of Hebrews that Jacob died leaning on his staff, and that was what I was doing, so I stepped out. This is a bit of wistful byplay, however; I was ready to disengage, but then I found there was no fun in reading obituaries in the New York Times and waiting for my own, so I took on three other jobs.
One gets occasional messages that he is no longer a youth both from inside and from outside. The outside ones indicate that you had better "act your age." The inside ones come when the old chassis begins to sputter. That is bad enough but not as serious as when the psyche begins to act up. That shouldn't happen for some time yet. There is danger of becoming "foxy grandpa," of getting crabbed and opinionated as one notes and marvels at the skill of undergraduates to resist the intrusion of worthwhile knowledge. One is reassured, however, when he realizes that the omniscience, which is an accompaniment of the twenties, will eventually give way, and those in their thirties will start to worry about the younger generation.
Mind you, the oldsters are not without fault and you can't blame the kids altogether. I sat next to a senior citizen at a dinner recently and he prattled through the soup and nuts. What it was all about he did not say. Strangely, some men who could not direct you to the corner drug store when they were thirty seem to demand and get a respectful hearing when age has further enfeebled their minds.
By the time we have moved into what are laughingly called the "Golden Years" we have formed a good many hard and fast opinions, most of which are wrong. We have given up building castles in the air—they just seem to attract more pigeons. There is no use of us getting piqued, however, because people don't seem to be interested in the fascinating stories we have to tell. For the most part people will be studiously courteous and kindly about listening, but they often get a far away look as you warm up and their gaze wanders, and more often than not they remember a pressing engagement somewhere else. Later, your wife tells you that you told that same story to the same person three times that evening.
At about this time of life one's narrow waist and broad mind have completed their change of places. You'll remember that in Alice in Wonderland, Alice complained that her memory only worked one way, she could not remember things before they happened. The White Queen observed that it is a poor memory that only works backward. It is when it doesn't work either way that things get annoying. I don't forget people's names anymore; I just forget who they belong to. Most people make allowances for this and in general are thoughtful about old folks. . . . [A man] was at a famous clinic recently and when he asked them what was the matter with him, they said they did not know, but if he was a building he'd be condemned. . . .
We are warned by geriatricians that we should have a hobby, and the saying has come down to us that there are very few men who have only one interest. Of course the hobby you choose should be a seemly one and in keeping with your age and station. . . .
Personally, I became interested in collecting clocks—a harmless way of dealing with time. For a while I tried to repair them, but one day after I repaired a cuckoo clock the bird backed out and asked "What time is it?" Th.at put an end to my clock repairing.
One does get quite mellow, really, at this stage of the game and does not feel quite so strongly about things. Hopefully he has made a number of fast friendships and rarely thinks of enemies. . . .
Well, I forget what I started out to tell you or why I am writing to you, but anyhow just go quietly about your business. It is safe for you to look around, for nothing wants to catch up to you now. If you hear the cells dropping out of your cortex during the night, let them—you at least have enough left to hear what is going on. Happy "man's allotted span" to you when it comes your turn!
