We older folk are often portrayed as confused by the present, mumbling over something from the past that bears no relevance to what is being discussed. This can often be true, but not because we are slowly losing our minds as is assumed. It has to do with memory.

My 100-year-old father-in-law commented one day, with a thoughtful look on his face, that he felt no different than he had as a ten-year-old boy. At that point he was on a walker, was being helped with all his daily functions, and was being fed with help from a nursing aide..

We can have old things like old cars, old books, old furniture, old houses and old clothes.  But we avoid the designation of old when referring to people.  In order to avoid this, society has come up with some great euphemisms to dodge that dreaded word when connected to humans.  Here are some of my favorites.

I just read an article in the New Yorker magazine about trauma. As always, the article was dense, literary, and full of references, some of which I knew and some of which I did not. In simplified form it said that the basis of many books, movies and television programs today seems to rest on the past trauma of the lead character, which is given out in snippets as the story unfolds.

My father-in-law lived to be 104.  We moved him to a retirement community near our home when he was a mere 95, and began the business of taking care of someone who was gradually fading.  My husband did most of the heavy lifting in this process as he was a very faithful and devoted son.  On the times I accompanied him to see my father-in-law, I was struck by the fact that except for the residents, there were very few males in evidence.  Although the visitor parking lot was always full, the cars that drove into it were driven almost exclusively by women.

With age comes diminishments of all kinds.  There is the addition of glasses, hearing aids, and walkers.  There is no longer the ability to ski or run a marathon or take long walks or swim laps.  But there is one thing that should not dimmish in our lives--- and that is joy and laughter. 

I spent the summer before my senior year in high school at my grandparents’ retirement home in California. It was a very quiet summer with lots of reading, talking, and puzzles.

Growing up I spent a great deal of time with my grandparents.  My mother and I lived with them for extended periods of time.  In addition, they kept me over summer holidays and vacations, and I had great spend-the-night weekends with them.  In my mind they were neither old nor young ---- they were just my grandparents.

On the road the other day we stopped at one of the ubiquitous MacDonalds for an egg McMuffin.  As we came in the door there was a confused couple our age standing in front of a computer screen where they could order their meal.  It was not going well. 

I am not original in commenting that we are a nation of immigrants.  Even some of those we call Native Americans may have come across the land bridge from Russia to Alaska in the dim mists of history.  Every culture and family have their origin story, some more than one.

This phrase is often an unspoken comment indicated by a sigh or slightly raised eyebrow as I try and figure out whether this time I sign my name on the card machine or not, or if the card slides down at the side or jams in at the bottom, or if now some financial institution wants to know the name of my great-great grandmother before I can access my money. 

I think I have discovered the whole purpose of retirement.  It is not really about stopping work although that is what has certainly happened.  But what leaving the job is really about is the fact that it now takes all of my energy and ability just to run my life. 

We recently spent a holiday with our twelve-year-old granddaughter which so fits this cartoon from The New Yorker that I laughed out loud when I saw it.  Or should I say LOL. 

This last weekend I attended the college graduation of one of my grandchildren.  As the graduates trooped across the stage to collect their hard-earned diplomas the scene blurred a little as I thought back to my graduation 58 years ago, followed by the graduation of my daughters more years ago than I think can be possible. 

One of the most useful things about living more than three-quarters of a century is that you can see the repetition of events. This came home to me as I compared notes with friends on how the FedEx, UPS, and Amazon trucks were wearing a grove in the streets of our neighborhoods.

I am being inundated with reunions. I find it interesting that at this stage of life there seems to be a concerted effort to visit the past.

When I was growing up, Sundays were always a different day of the week from any other. 

Years ago, when I still had young children at home, an older lady moved in across the street who over the years became a good friend.  She had been in World War II as a Red Cross worker, and I enjoyed her stories of her service in India and the meeting of the man who would become her husband.

I have been contemplating the English language and its designations for indicating “old.” Why is ‘old woman’ pejorative and ‘older women’ is not? What a lot of power is given to those two little letters e and r.

This is often listed as one of the major problems of old age.  I would have to agree with this, but from a different angle than is often meant.  Of course, I cannot remember where I put my glasses; and, of course, I rush into a room in a great hurry only to find I cannot remember why I am there; and, of course, I forget the name of someone I have known for 50 years.  But that is not what I think is the real forgetfulness of aging.