Special to Saucon Source
In January, if I live that long, I will be 87. That’s a lot of living. It is often said that old age is not for sissies. By that standard, I don’t qualify. Moreover, it is a truism that the golden age is not necessarily golden. The frequent pains I feel draw “ohs” and “ouches.” I often think I am a relic of the history of surgery. Both my knees have been replaced; I have had the ulna nerve moved in both elbows, but for different reasons; I have had extensive back surgery and learned, to my horror, that however much your back hurts before the operation, it will hurt more afterward. In short, if your back hurts, figure out some remedy other than surgery. Then my 5’8″ frame degenerated into a 5’3″ stance suitable for playing Quasimodo in The Hunchback of Notre Dame. More recently, they replaced a valve in my heart, repaired three arteries and gave me a pacemaker. What I hope will be the final outrage came in late October, when I drove my car into a neighbor’s tree, destroying the car, doing little damage to the tree and breaking a shoulder and my nose along with thus far unknown damage. The fact that I have no memory of the accident and woke up the next day leads me to believe that my football career is over due to a concussion which the authorities have so far been unable to document. Since the cause of the accident is unknown, I’ve given up driving.
Despite this sorry record, I must say that there are several advantages to being a senior senior citizen. For example, people are very polite to me. I am encouraged to go first through any door in a public place and they are frequently held open for me, even by women. Most people call me “sir” as an officer in the army of the aged. No longer am I berated for my opinions. The fact is that I can say almost anything to almost anyone. My stale humor, which my wife barely tolerates, seems to go over great with anyone else. Off color jokes and sexual references in mixed company are either ignored or tolerated on the grounds that it is a miracle that I am able to think of such things at all. Trust me, you don’t lose interest in sex at my age even though performance may be lacking. All housekeeping duties that I formally took on are no longer expected of me; we pay someone to cut the lawn and call a plumber or electrician at the first sign of trouble. No dish needs to be washed by me, no dishwasher unloaded, pots are left in the sink and I am permitted to grumble when my wife does not resupply the kibble for the dog. Would you believe I am still expected to feed the dog after dinner? (Actually, I like doing that and the dog is suitably grateful, with cuddles and licks afterwards.)
My father died when he was 92. While he lived in his own apartment in a retirement facility, my saintly wife would drive over to Doylestown once a week to help him shop for food. (He thought his fellow residents were too boring to eat with.) In the market, the moment a woman pushing a baby in a carriage appeared, my wife would disappear to avoid being associated with him and my father would go up to the carriage and say, “What’s your name, darling?” The baby, who was not old enough to reply but was nevertheless somewhat startled, said nothing or cried. The mother would leap into the fray. “His name is Ellsworth,” she might say. “I didn’t ask you,” dad would say, “I asked him.” Then he’d walk off in a pretended huff.
Dad died that year, allegedly of heart problems, but I always thought he died of being a son of a bitch. Needless to say, I was not one of his great admirers, nor was he one of mine. However, he saw the advantages of being old a lot more than I did later when I approached his age, and enjoyed them much more. Moreover, he refused to recognize what a bear he was. Unlike father and the traditional son, I have tried desperately to avoid my father’s example. Perhaps this is because I still think of myself as a college student. I doubt that dad did that because his only advanced education was at Fordham Law night school where he met my mother. She was twice the academic that dad was, but nevertheless when they moved to Florida during the land boom in 1926, she was the secretary in the firm they set up to search titles and dad was the lawyer. I don’t know, and it is very dangerous to say so in these times, but maybe he got it right.
Well, this has taken more effort than I have expended since the accident. Besides, it is seven o’clock and I have to go to sleep.
Arthur Joel Katz is a resident of Lower Saucon Township. He is a former columnist for both the Saucon News and Hellertown-Lower Saucon Patch.
Thanks, Joel, for your words of wisdom, though, not exactly a rosy picture of growing old. The best part is that your sense of humor is still in tact. Thanks for the smiles given at your own expense and may continued deference and honor be yours.
As a contemporary of Arthur Joel Katz, albeit a month older, I appreciate his reflections on aging — especially on some of the limitations we experience. But the sense of humor and the sparkle apparently haven’t diminished and I say, “keep on writing AJK!; you brighten my day!”
I seem to remember Joel Katz from back when Josh Popichak was in charge of the Hellertown Patch website. I love the article. I’ve never feared getting old as much as some, but I’ll fear it even less now. The grain of salt provided by the humor woven into the article really keeps things upbeat.
To quote a famous wizard:
“To the well organized mind, death is but the next great adventure.”
— Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore