Just sayin'....

A quick Google search of the phrase, “stupid old people” brought up no fewer than 665,000 hits.  While the majority of these were supposedly humorous or wry comments, along with jokes and numerous videos of “funny stupid old people,” there was at least one fairly convincing scientific article that showed older people are, in fact, more prone to making stupid decisions. The gist of it is as follows:

Older people make worse decisions under risk than younger ones...Researchers asked subjects to choose some bets with known payoffs. And they found that whereas 52% of under-40s made the right choice--in terms of maximizing expected payoffs--only 32% of over-60s did so...In particular, older people were more likely to do worse as the number of bets they were asked to choose from increased. They were more bewildered when confronted with greater choice...

Other studies have documented that processing slows down dramatically, meaning that old people work harder to figure out problems that would have taken them far less time in their early adult years. And these are people who aren’t suffering from dementia—just the normal aging process.

Every rule has its exceptions; there are plenty of brilliant, engaged elders who defy the odds. And this group appears to share certain characteristics (staying mentally and physically active, for example) which could imply that cognitive decline isn't inevitable.

I’ve met a fair number of these individuals, some of them quite illustrious. It may be fitting (or just name-dropping) for me to mention my encounter with the historian Will Durant, as this month marks the 30th anniversary of his passing.

At that point I wasn’t even a cub reporter, but a mere high school student with enough moxie to think that Will and Ariel Durant would let me interview them for my class assignment (a fairly straightforward one: just talk to some old people about the way things were.) I looked them up in Who’s Who, sent a note—and in a week or so I got a personal letter back from Dr. Durant inviting me to spend half an hour with them at their home. 

They fit the requisite “old” category—he was 91 and she was 78, but in all other ways they were atypical. My shyness and total lack of experience as an interviewer allowed the couple to engage in a spirited debate on various topics; at one point Ariel took over and started asking Will questions—while I recorded it all. One exchange I remember vividly:

Ariel: What are future hopes and plans and aspirations?

Will: Well, that’s not a question to ask a man who’s 91 years old, darling—I have no future aspirations!

But he was wrong about that.  The two of them were still hard at work on a planned (but never completed) volume of their popular “Story of Civilization” series; they made TV appearances and published a joint memoir a year or so after I met them. And when they died in 1981, just two weeks apart—at 96 and 83—they’d been working productively almost to the end.

So the next time anyone (including myself) makes a dismissive remark about “stupid old people,” let’s all remember the wonderful exceptions—and hope that maybe we’ll be one of them.

Will & Ariel Durant

My father, the un-veteran

We made a point of arriving at 11:11 a.m. on 11/11/11…and the first words I said to my father were “Happy Veteran’s Day.”  He smiled, but only because he was glad to see us; he has no use for most holidays, especially those with a military connection. There’s a common belief that old people are deeply patriotic, but whoever believes that never asked my father his thoughts.

Dad in the Beetle

Gene served honorably in what many people consider the last “good” war. As a technical sergeant he was involved in radio operations and helped build a bridge over the Saar. When asked about combat action, he recalls the sound of bullets whizzing overhead a few times, along with some V-2 rockets in England.  If pressed, my father will also speak of the dead he saw after arriving in Germany, mostly straggling inmates of the concentration camps who were shot by the fleeing Germans; the liberation had taken place recently, so he was spared the most gruesome sights.

I recall as a child reading the letters he’d written home from one post or another; while restricted from specifying his exact location or where he would be going, he’d developed a semi-elaborate code with his parents that allowed him to communicate approximately where he was.

The cards and letters provided a fuzzy snapshot of my dad’s wartime experience—in general, he strived for an upbeat travel-diary tone so as to not cause undue concern, but as his parents’ only child, there could be no other option than worry from the time he was drafted. (Somehow, the packet of letters was either misplaced or thrown out, so it may take years to locate them, if I ever do.)

For all his direct involvement in the war and the contribution he helped make, once it was over he moved on, never wanting to get involved with any veterans groups or patriotic celebrations.  I recall his frequent derision of “the military mind,” and the military in general. He sneered at figures like MacArthur and Eisenhower. And though I pleaded as a kid, he never gave his consent to display an American flag in front of our house. “We’re not flag wavers,” is all he’d say. “I don’t need to prove anything.”

Maybe, as I think about it now, he’d already proven what denotes loyalty and patriotism—not in words or empty symbols, but in action. And all I can do is say thank you.

Gene in post-occupation Germany

Last first...

A few days ago, my father’s last surviving first cousin died.  She was 88, and had suffered a long, slow decline—but the end came quickly. After getting the news, I debated whether I should tell my dad; they were never especially close and hadn’t been in contact for years. But in the end, I decided to let him know, expecting the impact would be minimal.

And, sure enough, he reacted with his usual blend of rational resignation. “Well, she was sick for so long,” he said. “It wasn’t unexpected.” When I offered my understanding that they weren’t very close, but it was still a loss, he replied, “Yes, first cousins, after all.”

His last direct link to the old family is now gone. As a child, Shirley had spent summers visiting with Gene’s family in their small New Jersey town. Other than that, her life was in New York City—literally. Born there, she got married and lived in the same apartment at the northern tip of Manhattan starting in 1946 until two days before she died. The last time I was in New York, about 3 years ago, she wouldn't let me visit. "I'm sorry. Please forgive me," she begged repeatedly. "I'm not the same person."

Shirley had two daughters. When it became clear that she was going downhill (a series of strokes that slowly eroded her faculties), the elder daughter threw up her hands and gave up without ever trying. She stopped visiting, and after a while, didn’t bother phoning her mother. Meanwhile, the younger, busier daughter was left to arrange everything—caregivers, shopping, bills and medical care.

Thanks to the generous option that New Yorkers enjoy (at least for the moment) she was provided with 24-hour care at home, which her daughter chose instead of a nursing facility, all paid for by the Medicaid program.

California doesn’t offer anything like that. If people here run out of money and need constant supervision, they end up in a nursing home even though there are cheaper options that most people would prefer.  But we aren’t given a choice.

Meanwhile, my parents are here, inching toward the precipice. Their failure to plan will collide messily with the lack of options that their future promises. And I can only wonder who will be around to pick up the pieces…

Mirror, mirror on the wall

When the mirror was my friend

Looking in the mirror was never a favorite pastime for me. (OK, other than for a few years when I was in my 20s.)  Since then, and especially now, my glances at the mirror are purely utilitarian—no unshaven spots, eyebrows in some semblance of order, all right—but there’s no pleasure attached, just the occasional muted sigh of resignation. I recall it used to be mostly women who worried about looking older, but now the concern is universal in our youth-obsessed culture.

Great Aunt Goldie ca. 1906

My great aunt was a woman who broke the rules and normally didn’t care what other people thought—unusual for someone born in the early 1890s. Honest, strongly opinionated, yet warm and accessible, the flashiest thing about her was her name: Goldie Diamond.

Her long gray hair was pinned up into a simple chignon; I never saw her wear any jewelry and no makeup other than deep red lipstick (she always said it was just to keep her lips moist.) She dressed as an old woman “should” (her wild anarchist days long past) but shared opinions that were hardly conventional.

“If I had it to do over again, I’d never marry someone without living together first. It makes so much sense.” (In fact, she did live with a guy for a while, but decided he wasn’t for her and passed him along to her cousin, who married him instead.) Goldie’s own marriage to a more business-minded man was a disaster, but she stuck with it until he died. As my father said, it was their mutual loathing that kept them together.

Once, when she was visiting me at my boarding school, a younger boy there was fascinated by her, asking one question after another. He pointed at the wrinkled wattle hanging below her chin, and without malice, asked, “Why do you have that?” I was mortified, but Goldie didn’t mind at all. “Because I’m OLD, honey!” she said, laughing warmly. The boy laughed with her, happy to learn something about life and people.

Goldie in 1973

She smoked (“like a fish” as my Danish friend says,) and over the decades dealt with a laundry list of health problems: two bouts of colon cancer, gall bladder surgery, a hysterectomy (due to a tubular pregnancy) and a heart attack. Yet when she died, at 82, it was by her own choice: an overdose of heart medication, and a simple note on the night stand stating, “It is enough,” along with my father’s contact information. 

It took me years to acknowledge the fact that she had actually taken her own life; I explained away the note as a precaution, in case she died in her sleep. But once I realized, I accepted without hesitation her choice. She’d lived her life, and had nothing but more pain and sickness to look forward to. Honoring her words, I agree it was enough.

Nowhere to go and all day to get there...

Now and then, I wonder how I’d fill my days if I didn’t work and had to spend most of my time at home. It would be a huge adjustment for me; some people seem to manage free time pretty well, but for my part I thrive on structure and deadlines.  I’m also quite social, and can only spend a few hours a day reading or puttering around the house. 

It’s been interesting for me to see how old people manage their time. My father spends most of his lying down these days, but given his situation that’s understandable.  Jeannie, with more energy and a passion for talking, does quite a bit more—but even so she seems to have barely enough tasks to occupy half her waking hours. 

A few years ago, she would volunteer at the local library, but is long past that point now. Even my father had a couple of regular activities: he’d read the newspaper aloud for a blind neighbor, and served a few terms on the condo association board. At some point, he designated himself as the “public lighting monitor” for their complex, and would make the rounds every evening to be sure the lights were all working. But now he naps, while she reads mysteries and drinks white zinfandel.

My father’s cousin in Miami leads a much more productive life. At 87, she still drives to her volunteer job at the local performance center, and takes in occasional shows. She shops and cooks, emails and talks to people on the phone and enjoys watching videos most evenings.  She even finds time to read. Interested and engaged, she’s the ideal older person we should all aspire to be.

Another woman I know stays busy, but not in a way I can imagine doing.  Over the years, she has compiled an enormous collection of musical performances, both audio and video. Thousands of tapes line her walls, and she’s catalogued every one of them (along with her books.) She then loans things out to friends while keeping a careful record of who has what. Between taping and watching videos, reading, organizing her meals and exercise routine, I’m sure she’s rarely bored. But fulfilled? I wonder…

Then again, she may be just fine. I of all people should embrace the fact that there’s no one way to live, and however strange it may seem to others, if nobody’s health and safety are compromised, practically anything goes.

Mushroom Madness

“What are chanterelles?” It was a simple enough question, but speaks volumes about Jeannie’s awareness of food, given that I’d just been telling her about mushroom ragout. Good thing I didn’t mention the cremini and porcini which also played a role in my dinner party’s piece de resistance.  For that matter, she wasn’t quite sure what polenta was (“Now isn’t that some kind of pasta?”) Even my father, impaired though he is, spoke up to correct her.

No one has ever been better suited than Jeannie to the era of 1950s convenience cooking.  While feeling obligated to cook for the family, she always made it as easy for herself as possible. Even when not working, she never saw the point of getting creative in the kitchen.  A special dinner for company might consist of her famous sherry beef: chunks of stewing meat thrown together with two cans of Campbell’s cream of mushroom soup, dry onion soup mix, and a cup of sherry—just serve over rice and there you are.

My teen years found me for the first time eating canned mushrooms (stems and pieces, no less) in many forms: over watery turbot filets, mixed with frozen peas, folded into meat loaf. Another specialty of the house was honey chicken: equal amounts of honey and soy sauce, with minced dehydrated onions all poured over chicken, then covered tightly with foil and steamed in the oven for nearly two hours.

Anything that went into the oven had to be covered in foil; the goal was always to minimize “cooking smells” and avoid the possibility of spattering. The oven truly was as clean as on the day it was delivered. As added insurance, the exhaust fan was always running no matter what was on the stove—even boiling eggs.

One time my stepbrother decided to fry a couple of hot dogs while Jeannie was out; she came home to find a few spots of grease on the stove, a telltale frankfurter aroma lingering in the kitchen—and quickly went into Medea mode, racing through the house while shrieking imprecations, turning on fans and throwing windows open.  For once, I didn’t envy my stepbrother.

Now, of course, the convenience factor trumps everything. As I mentioned in an earlier entry, just the thought of scrubbing a potato overwhelms her. Instant rice, canned mushrooms and, as always, dehydrated minced onion are Jeannie’s loyal friends. And while she usually shuns frozen dinners, I think when she gets to the point of relying on them, everyone will be much better off.

Picasso on my mind

Quick trip to San Francisco this weekend: dinner with friends, followed by a play (including for no extra charge the world’s most annoying usher, who nagged patrons nonstop about a series of offenses that nobody was even committing) and then next day, a fine Picasso exhibit.

Picasso doesn't rank as my personal favorite, but I can appreciate a lot of what he did to define 20^th century art. That he lived to be 91 and was still active, growing in new creative directions, amazes me as much as the passion for life and art that burned brightly to his final days. A brief description of his love life, as detailed in Wikipedia, is exhausting to imagine, even at my comparatively young age:


In 1944, after the liberation of Paris, Picasso began a romantic relationship with a young art student named Francoise Gilot.  She was 40 years younger than he was.  Picasso grew tired of his mistress Dora Maar; Picasso and Gilot began to live together.  Eventually they had two children: Claude, born in 1947 and Paloma, born in 1949. In her 1964 book “Life with Picasso, (Gilot) describes his abusive treatment and myriad infidelities which led her to leave him, taking the children with her….

Picasso had affairs with women of an even greater age disparity than his and Gilot’s. While still involved with Gilot, in 1951, Picasso had a six-week affair with Genevieve Laporte, who was four years younger than Gilot.

Oh—and for the record, he was married during the time all these adventures took place. But this was a man who lived by his own rules, both artistic and personal. I’m torn between admiration and disgust at such a free spirit, knowing I could never live as he did, and yet wondering if maybe, at least to some extent, being a true artist means rebelling against all conventions.

Eventually, according to the experts, Picasso accepted the limitations of age. His later art apparently reflected a waning interest in young women, yet his love of life remained. His last words, spoken over dinner while entertaining friends in 1973 were nothing if not inspiring: "Drink to me, drink to my health, you know I can't drink any more."  


Here's to you, Pablo.