Photograph by George Sakkestad
In addition to his many community activities and his column in the Los Gatos Weekly-Times, Bob Aldrich writes poetry. Here, Mary Foster congratulates the septuagenarian for winning a poetry contest last summer. The honor bestows on him the title "Poet laureate of Los Gatos."
By Bob Aldrich
'Youth is such a wonderful thing," said George Bernard Shaw; "what a pity to waste it on children!" The Irish playwright, critic and political gadfly lived to be 94. In the preface to his last play he wrote:
"I commit this to print within a few weeks of completing my 92nd year. ... I can hardly walk in my garden without a tumble or two; and it seems out of all reason to believe that a man who cannot do a simple thing like that can practice the craft of Shakespeare. ... Should it warn me that my bolt is shot and my place silent in the chimney corner?
"Well," added Shaw, "I grant all that and yet I cannot hold my tongue nor my pen. I must write. If I stopped writing, I should die for want of something to do." (From Shaw, Man of the Century, by Archibald Henderson.)
How odd we are in our attitudes toward age! We treat youth with frankness and lightheartedness, forgetting that much of being young can be hurtful or tragic. We speak gingerly of age, as if the subject were a source of embarrassment, something we scarcely dare mention. We soften our normal bluntness for vague courtesy, as when we use the less acerbic "older" when "old" is what we mean.
Now that I am in my 70s, I remember my own youth with probably no more inaccuracy than is common. I can recall being excessively polite before my elders while privately thinking thoughts like: "Look at the poor old coot, one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel. It must be awful being old."
As the years go by, Nature attunes one to accept the fact that individual life, at least on this planet, is not forever.
So what are we "older" folk to do with the years left to us? Last New Year's Eve, I sat with friends, and after an hour or so of conversation, we all laughed when we realized almost simultaneously that we had talked about nothing but our medical problems. True, age may bring physical changes, but to make hypochondria the focus of one's days is a pitiful mistake. I lost the sight in one eye last year, after a fairly well publicized detached retina, but I'm not going to moan about it. I have too many uses for the other peeper to make a tragedy of the loss.
We need to take an interest in community, national and world affairs. Do things. Have some work, hobby or project that truly absorbs us. Throw ourselves into something that wants doing, be it to help others or just to satisfy ourselves. We'll do less fussing then about our arteries or arthritis.
Watch your health, of course. If the blood pressure is high, do what the doc says. A persistent pain may need attention. Get a checkup once a year. See your dentist; you need those molars. Might as well keep the old machine running as smoothly as possible. Some people take better care of their cars than their own bodies.
George Burns taught us all something about meeting age with grace and humor. The important thing, said Burns, is to have something to get out of bed for.
Depression? Rise above it. Everyone gets the glooms now and then, usually when we look behind and think, "Oh, if only I had..." You didn't, so the heck with it. Remember Satchel Paige's advice: "Don't look back; something may be gaining on you."
We need to develop an optimistic outlook. If we expect things to turn out badly, they may well do so. If we expect something good, it usually happens, though not always in the way we anticipated.
Timid about venturing into some new experience, or about starting a project never tried before? The best self-help book I ever came across was called Wake Up and Live. Dorothea Brande offered this formula: "Act as if it were impossible to fail." Brande didn't mean you can't fail; we can all fall on our noggins. But if you adopt a positive mental attitude before you start, act as you would if you knew success to be assured, you'll clear away the debris, all the subconscious doubts and fears that hinder you. Don't start (writing, painting, fixing the back porch) until you have that frame of mind.
"Writer's block," I remember hearing when I was turning out magazine fiction by the ton, "is a disease that afflicts amateurs." Paraphrased, the same idea fits any endeavor. Whatever the job, the pro gets at it.
As long as I'm shelling out wisdom practically free of charge, I suggest that we older folk be patient and considerate with the young. Even when they say "you know" with each breath, they are trying to make themselves heard. So listen.
Blessedly, we seniors have forgotten most of the unpleasant trials of our own youth. My worst moment was being hauled out of a basketball game for playing rotten. I was blind as a bat, but that was no excuse to the coach. His words to the effect that I was a blot on the world of sports can still ring in my ears in the dim hours of the night.
Ah, youth. Aren't you glad you aren't there any more?
This article appeared in the Saratoga News, January 22, 1997.
©1997 Metro Publishing, Inc. All rights reserved.