Author: richardfleming (Page 4 of 6)

August 2023

By Richard Fleming

Photo courtesy of Jill Sauve

My wife and I are very fortunate to be able to babysit our seven-month old granddaughter several times a week. She is cute and adorable beyond words. But being a grandparent is harder now than the last time we saddled up for this rodeo. (Our two other grandchildren are 13 and 11 years old.) The reasons are two-fold. First, the job requirements have apparently evolved over the past decade. And second, we are undeniably a bit older.

To start with, babies weigh more now than they used to. Carrying our precious granddaughter around takes a toll on my low back. When my two other grandkids were 7 months old, hauling them around was easy. They didn’t weigh much. Picking them up was accomplished without a moment’s hesitation. Nowadays I have to steady myself and stand carefully when lifting my granddaughter. And it’s not only my back. Sometimes my shoulders join the chorus of complaining joints.

It also seems that babies have acquired new skills they never possessed ten years ago. Our granddaughter recently learned the “army crawl,” a maneuver in which she scoots quickly across the floor while on her stomach, pushing herself forward with her arms and legs. I acknowledge my memory isn’t what it used to be, but I have no recall of our previous two grandchildren engaging in army crawling. They simply went from perching on their stomachs to what used to be known as “crawling.”

Our granddaughter’s new mobility skill set requires a new babysitting skill set. When babies set their minds on exploration, they can move pretty quickly. But I never lost a race to our first two grandkids when they decided to crawl towards the stairway. My, have times changed. Our 7-month-old can army crawl almost as fast as I can walk. So when the little darling decides she wants to scoot across the floor to explore a wooden chest, I have to move quickly to make sure she doesn’t dent her forehead on the sharp corner.

Actually the process of watching a baby is much more involved and tiring now than in the past. With the first two grandkids, I could easily babysit each one by myself all day. Now it requires two grandparents on duty simultaneously to do the job well. I must say I am mystified, amazed, and impressed at how mothers are able to take care of their children alone. Hats off.

Another changing part of grandparenting is the emergence of new technology. Tech advances are supposed to make our lives easier and more efficient. But the new tech of child-rearing is a mixed bag, in my opinion. Previously, when we put our grandchildren to sleep, we made sure the crib was nearby so we would know if they started crying and to ensure they stayed on their backs. Well, that simple approach is ancient history. Currently there is a small camera and microphone mounted above our granddaughter’s crib which monitors her every breath, movement, and sound. We had to download an app to our phones which alerts us with a loud alarm if there is any problem with her sleeping or breathing. It’s nice to be able to go to a different part of the house while she sleeps, but the last thing we need is yet another app on our phones.

Milk bottles have also been redesigned. They now have some kind of internal apparatus which supposedly lessens babies’ air swallowing when they are drinking milk. Now I am far from an expert in these matters, but I have yet to notice any reduction in gassiness with these fancy new bottles. When I stand up to gently burp my granddaughter, she produces the same quantity and quality of satisfying belches as my first two grandkids. The new bottle technology has also not affected another aspect of post-feeding activity. My efforts to get my granddaughter to belch invariably lead me to belch once or twice also, just as happened a decade earlier.

But there is one tech development which is a clear step forward. If you are not a recent grandparent, you may not know they are now making indestructible books for babies. These cute volumes look like the paper books of old. I lost count of how many books my first two grandchildren destroyed ten years back. But these new books are truly impossible to rip, tear, chew to pieces, or damage in any of the myriad ways babies can attack books. I cannot tell you what a relief this is.

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I do not mean to sound like I’m complaining about babysitting as a grandparent. It is one of the most treasured and valuable parts of growing old. It is an opportunity that some of my friends have not been able to experience. Yes, it is more challenging now than when I was 60 years old, but it is still rewarding beyond measure. When my granddaughter smiles, the room lights up. When I make a funny face and she giggles, it is an expression of joy and love which transcends the generations. It makes the increasing obstacles of being a 72-year-old grandparent disappear.

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By Richard Fleming

July 2023

Photo courtesy of Allison Saeng

When people are fortunate enough to retire, clocks start acting funny. Time becomes more fluid. 8:00 pm is no longer necessarily 8:00 pm. Before retirement, each hour of every day is tied to our work schedule. Free time is limited and precious. Scheduling of all activities, hobbies, family events, even sleeping, is dictated by timetables imposed by work. But when these schedule restrictions recede into the past, time becomes a bit loosey-goosey.

It’s not that retirees live lives of leisure, free of responsibilities. We are still required to babysit grandchildren, clean the house and yard, shop for groceries, cook, and keep up with current events. Our schedules can also fill up with hobbies, volunteer work, political activities, non-political activities, and non-active activities. But the rigidity previously imposed by the ticking clock dissipates and our hours become more flexible.

Looking at how bedtimes change for older people provides insight into shifting circadian rhythms. Working people often hit the sack around 11:00 pm, maybe 12:00 midnight. But for many retirees, including my wife and myself, bedtime moves a couple of hours earlier. Our energy starts to wane in the early evening, and by 9:00 or 10:00 pm the siren call of the mattress becomes irresistible. No matter whether the day was active or slow, it just seems harder to maintain alertness, stamina, and an upright posture at night. For us, 8:00 pm is the new 10:00 pm.

This change in circadian rhythm in the elderly is an interesting phenomenon. Our daily cycles are rooted deeply in biology. Every part of our body runs on a 24-hour clock controlled by a region deep in our brain called the anterior hypothalamus. Through hormonal and neurological signaling, this part of the brain orchestrates a complex daily symphony among our organs, tissues, and metabolism which varies on a 24-hour schedule. The body is pretty cool, right?

This circadian rhythm remains relatively stable for most of our lives, until aging starts to creep in. For reasons not well understood, older people’s 24-hour cycles tend to time-shift, usually moving forward a few hours. As an example, let’s look at an older person living in California like myself. In the evening I may look at our wall clock in Benicia and see it reads 7:00 pm. But my body is winding down and feels as though I was back in my hometown, Topeka, where the clocks read 9:00 pm. (A brief clarifying note for any Gen X or younger folks who have stumbled across this blog – older folks usually have large clocks mounted on our walls at home. We use them to tell time. I understand you probably consider wall clocks anachronistic since you are never separated from your cell phone. But you will come to see the importance of wall clocks, with large numbers, as you grow older.)

When unexplained phenomena occur, such as people’s biological clocks resetting with age, researchers are eager to find answers. It should not be surprising that a group of Swiss scientists decided to study this puzzle. Switzerland, of course, is known for its close attention to watches, clocks, and strict time schedules. A little over ten years ago, researchers at the University of Zurich performed skin biopsies on young and old people and grew the skin cells in culture media. They noted that human skin cells have regular 24-hour cycles for functions like how permeable they are and how fast they grow. Skin cells from young and old people both operate on 24-hour cycles, but the older skin cells’ timer was shifted a few hours earlier. This finding confirmed what we older folks experience in real life. We go to bed early, not because we’re sluggish, but because biology insists we do so.

The researchers discovered another interesting finding. They grew the younger folks’ skin cells in broth containing blood from older people. What happened? The young people’s skin cells shifted their circadian rhythm clocks to match those of older people. Some factor in older folks’ blood forced young people’s skin to reset their daily clock to match that of older folks.

The question of why this phenomenon takes place is not yet answered, but I suspect it is due to evolutionary selection. There just isn’t, and never has been, a lot to keep older folks occupied and busy at night. We don’t party much. We don’t spend a lot of time on late night entertainment options. So why not catch some Z’s? We seniors have no reason to feel guilty about heading towards our bedrooms at 10:00 pm. The Swiss have proven it is due to our biological clocks. We can pin the responsibility on our anterior hypothalamus.

In closing I will note there is a very weird, unexplained phenomenon which characterizes some seniors. For a small proportion of retirees, their clocks reset in the opposite direction. They stay up much later than they did when working. Bedtime no longer comes at 11:00 or 12:00 pm, but instead at 1:00 or 2:00 am. Morning alarms become extinct. For them, awakening at 10:00 am or later is no cause for embarrassment. Actually they view it as a badge of honor. The explanation for this peculiar lifestyle is as yet unknown. If any research turns up answers, I will post the findings.

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July 2023

By Richard Fleming

Photo courtesy of Huy Phan

As I grow older I become more sensitive about comments younger folks occasionally make. One that irks me at the moment is when a young person tells me, “You look good.” I heard this observation quite a bit recently after living through another birthday. Restaurant staff where we had a small family dinner celebration asked how old I was. When I told them 72, they invariably said, “Oh, you look good.” The same thing happened when some young acquaintances recently asked how old I was. While the next three words were not spoken aloud, they were clearly part of the thought process – “You look good… for your age.”

I try not to be a curmudgeonly old grouch. I understand younger folks intend this as a compliment. They are telling me that, in their opinion, I look younger than my age.

So what bugs me about this comment?

First, what are 72 year olds supposed to look like? Common wisdom says people of that age look withered – wrinkled skin, thinning gray hair, a turkey neck, stooped posture – and looking old is considered unsuitable. Society feels looking younger than one’s age is always to be preferred, even for young people. Many folks in their 40s prefer to appear they’re in their 30s. People in their 30s often prefer to look like they’re in their 20s. Or even their teens.

But what is wrong with a 72-year-old looking 72? It is nothing to be embarrassed about. To me, most people in their early 70s look pretty good. They manifest a wide range of appearances, but looking well-seasoned is, to me, inspiring. And the older I get, the more my standards for presentable appearance evolve. Older people look more and more natural and pleasing to the eye.

Also, of course, there is little correlation between physical appearance and how actively our minds work. Or how full our lives can be. Our body may look like we’ve lived for 70 or 80 years or longer, but our brains may function as though we are in our 40s. And our schedules are often busier than when we were in our 30s.

Actually I feel very fortunate to have reached my current age. Too many family members, friends, and acquaintances never had the opportunity to be – or to look – 72 years old.

Now, I will also acknowledge that when a person in their 70s looks like they’re in their 60s, that is well and good. But it is not virtuous. During three decades serving as the internist for many seniors, it was apparent that whether a person looks their age – or looks younger or older – is often outside their own control. Genetics plays a prominent role. A person’s lifetime of work influences their appearance, with some jobs taking much more of a physical toll. A person’s family and community situation impacts their appearance for better or for worse. Those with higher stress levels tend to look older more quickly than those living in a more secure, comfortable environment. Personal lifestyle choices of course play a role in a person’s appearance, but external factors loom large.

Bottom line, there is nothing wrong with looking one’s age. For those of us fortunate enough to attain older ages, we can celebrate our years of service no matter our appearance.

OK, enough with the sour grapes attitude. I need to learn to politely accept this comment when offered by young people with open hearts. When they say, “You look good,” I should just say, “Thank you.” It’s true I would prefer to hear those words rather than “You look tired” or “You need to take good care of yourself so you can have more birthdays in the future.”

It’s also important to realize that when young people tell a senior “You look good,” they are projecting a measure of anxiety. They know old age is coming for them too. And young folks inevitably wonder how they will look and feel in 30 or 40 years. I get it.

People of all ages share much in common as we journey down the pathway of life. Each generation should honor and learn from those further down the road. And cherish the younger folks who have less experience traveling through time. In this spirit, I’m considering a small change. I want the younger generation to know how much they are valued by older folks. The next time a Gen Z or Millennial tells me I look good, I will respond with a simple, “Thank you. You look good too.” If my reply is met with a look of puzzlement, I will follow up with, “No, really, you look good for your age.” I think this is a positive way to convey appreciation and mutual respect.

What do you think?

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June 2023

By Richard Fleming

Photo courtesy of Bruno Aguirre

There is no single, universally-agreed-upon time when each of us leaves mid-life and enters old age. But there is no denying a qualitative change occurs in those of us fortunate enough to live into the golden years. This transition into old age is marked by profound changes: physical, emotional, social, cultural, and economic, among others. In past articles I have reflected on some of these subjects. And in future posts I will continue examining our journey into and through old age.

But today I want to discuss a different, very concerning phenomenon.

For people living in the U.S., our lifespans are falling. In other developed countries, life expectancy is increasing. But not in these United States. I do not mean to be alarmist, but if this problem continues, consider one of the implications – old age may start earlier here than in other developed countries.

Let me explain. For most of the 20th Century, life expectancy in economically developed countries increased over time. The U.S.’s upward trend closely paralleled our peer countries. But starting in 1980, a gap appeared between us and other developed countries. U.S. life expectancy continued increasing, but at a slower rate than elsewhere. Over the subsequent three decades, the gap continued to widen.

Then something unexpected happened. Beginning in 2010, life expectancy in the U.S. stopped increasing. We plateaued. In 2010 our average life expectancy was 78.7 years. Ten years later we lived only one month longer, on average. Among comparable countries, life expectancy continued increasing. In 2010 it was 81.4 years. A decade later it had improved to 82.6 years.

This trend is worrisome. But what happened next is even more startling.

In 2020, because of Covid-19, life expectancy fell around the world. In the U.S., the average lifespan decreased by almost two years. Among our peer countries, lifespans dropped by six months. In late 2020, vaccines became available and Covid treatment protocols advanced. In 2021, thanks to improving approaches to the pandemic, lifespans in our peer countries recovered dramatically, returning almost to their 2019 levels. What happened in the U.S.? In 2021, life expectancy dropped by another year.

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When I was growing up in the 1950s, common wisdom held children would outlive their parents. As healthcare, nutrition, economic security, and safety net programs improved, increasing longevity for each generation was an expectation. A birthright.

But in our country today, this is no longer the case. If current developments hold, many children born in the 2020s may live shorter lives than their parents. Or even their grandparents. There is little doubt children born in the U.S. will, on average, die earlier than children born in Western Europe or a number of Asian countries.

A country with our resources, knowledge base, and technology should do better. But for the past four decades we have been falling further and further behind comparable countries.

The reasons are not complicated. Good health insurance is unavailable to many people in the U.S. Safety net programs are withering. Economic insecurity is worsening year by year for many swaths of the population, which contributes to deaths of despair. Mortality from drug overdoses, gun deaths, and suicide is climbing.

Life expectancy by county

While the lifespan averages I have cited refer to the country as a whole, longevity in the U.S. varies dramatically depending on where you live. From one state to another, life expectancy differs by up to nine years. From one county to the next, life expectancy varies by as much as 20 years. This should not be surprising. State and local government policies vary on issues like access to health care, availability of safety net programs, nutrition assistance programs, gun safety policies, and access to addiction treatment.

Another mortality difference stems from variability in Covid vaccination rates. On both a county and state level, regions with higher vaccination rates have higher life expectancy.

Mortality rates also vary depending on who you are. There is a significant and longstanding racial disparity in longevity in our country. African Americans tend to die 3-4 years earlier than white Americans. Native Americans have the highest mortality rates, living 7 years less than white Americans.

Gender differences in lifespan are also significant. Women tend to live about five years longer than men in the U.S.

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In the middle of the last century, the average lifespan was about 69 years. In those days, old age began around 60. As decades passed, the onset of old age seemed to be pushed later as lifespans lengthened. Today there is certainly room for debate on when old age starts, but 65 years, give or take, is a fair estimate. By that age, mid-life is definitely in the rearview mirror. We enroll in Medicare. Our vision for the future is becoming murkier and the horizon is drawing closer.

But if current trends continue, we may have to recalibrate our expectations for when old age begins. In the future, I wonder if people will once again feel that old age in the U.S. starts at around age 60. In contrast, Japan and Germany may view old age as starting around age 70.

Will the earlier start to old age in the U.S. be a source of national embarrassment? Will it lead to any policy changes? I hope so. Solutions to our mortality problem are not complicated. Many other countries have systems in place which are proven effective. I fervently wish our kids and grandkids can live longer and healthier lives than us.

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June 2023

By Richard Fleming

Photo courtesy of Ales Krivec

We older folks have a hard time with many activities young and middle-aged people take for granted. I have discussed several previously, like household repairs or driving. With warm weather upon us, now is a good time to examine the challenges gardening presents to folks traversing their golden years.

My wife and I live in a house with a small yard, less than a tenth of an acre. During our 30 years here we have had average success cultivating trees, bushes, shrubs, succulents, and various flowering plants. We kept putting off the concept of vegetable gardening until “next year.” But after so many “next years,” I doubt we will ever venture into that realm. The reasons will be clear shortly.

Three decades is sufficient time to witness many plants growing old and ending up in the yard waste container. Some age more rapidly than others, especially if they are mismanaged. I have learned that plants do not enjoy being over-watered or under-watered. They can succumb when infected with fungi, powdery mildew, aphids, whiteflies, spider mites, and assorted other infections. Over many years my best efforts to treat plant diseases rarely proved successful. I’ve come to the realization that I am not a good plant doctor. Actually I’m not a good plant nurse, physical therapist, pharmacist, or orderly either.

Fortunately we have a landscaping service. They come every two weeks and perform some basic upkeep but much remains to be done. These tasks are becoming more challenging as the years pass by. The bending movement required to pull weeds or trim dead flowers is increasingly taxing. Climbing a tall ladder to clip dead tree branches is becoming a  bit dicey. Two weeks ago, my wife and I undertook our annual ritual of stringing Bhutanese prayer flags between trees in our back yard. Suffice it to say that next year these colorful flags will be strung from lower branches. Though they look peaceful and protective, prayer flags provide no guarantees against trauma from falling off high ladders.

I am coming to learn the key to successful golden years gardening is tempering my expectations. Why should I be bothered by some weeds growing in our artificial turf? Or between paving stones in our backyard? Or other weird places? They are living objects doing their best to survive in a hostile world and I suspect they play a positive role in our yard’s ecosystem. And those dead branches 20 feet up in the sky? Well, birds don’t seem to be bothered by them so why should I?

There is a weed growing out of the gutter on the second floor of our house. How exactly am I supposed to deal with this? Should I even try?

Photo by Richard Fleming

But there is one aspect of yard maintenance where tempering my expectations is difficult. I’m referring to what happens when a dead tree or plant needs replacement. Now that I’m in my 70s, the horizon grows closer every year. The reality is that new plants can take many years before they attain a pleasing size. And most nurseries only sell young plants and trees. Several years ago we had to replace the 25-year-old maple tree in our front yard. It was never large and the poor thing had become very ill. We asked some tree experts about replacing it with a mature tree that already had some height to it. This request was met with some not-so-subtle eye rolling. We were told mature trees are very expensive, hard to find, and they often fail to establish their root systems when transplanted. Such trees are more subject to disease and may not survive. “Besides,” the tree guy said, “trees grow, and in 10 or 15 years it will be starting to look nice and tall. And it’ll be healthy.”

I tend to defer to experts in fields I know little about, but the 10-15 years concept stuck in my craw. It is easy for a 30-year-old tree guy to casually talk about so many years in the future. But for me, that time frame is questionable. I may not be around when the tree is starting to look “nice and tall.” I’m all for planting trees my grandchildren can enjoy when they become adults, but I would not mind enjoying them also. Our ultimate decision was rooted, so to speak, in the lack of mature trees available to buy. So we planted a one-year-old pistache. It is now a six-year-old tree, cute, filling out, and maybe 8 feet high. I hope my grandkids will appreciate this tree as they grow old.

Succulents are supposed to be easy to care for. But I never got that memo. This plant will soon find itself in the yard waste bin.

Photo by Richard Fleming

Shortening time frames come in to play with other plants. Last year we had to take out a hedge that was a hedge in name only. Each plant was seriously infested with some kind of disease that could not be eradicated. At our request, the gardening service replaced the sick plants with ten rose bushes that will allegedly grow into a hedge over the next five years or so. Currently, after a year of growth, the bushes are a bit larger. They look nice, but it will clearly take some time for them to link together into a hedgerow. I keep telling myself to remain patient. And I keep reminding myself that five years is much better than 10-15.

So, when it comes to gardening during the golden years, my recommendation is to keep your expectations low. Remember that deferred gratification is a virtue. I am learning that enjoyment can be found in small trees and tiny bushes. When I look at them, they spur my imagination to think of what they will look like in the distant future. And having an active imagination is an important key to graceful aging.

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May 2023

By Richard Fleming

Photo courtesy of Nigel Tadyanehondo

I have decided to spill one of my peer group’s most closely guarded secrets. I do so hesitantly. I am afraid making it public might increase inter-generational conflict. But as a long time advocate for open communication, I think we boomers need to acknowledge one of our truths.

What I confess today is this: when we seniors wake up in the mornings, we often do not know what day of the week it is.

No doubt this idea seems unfathomable to those inhabiting Gen X and younger – the reliable, trustworthy folks who must go to work every day to make a living and contribute to the Social Security trust fund. For working people, each day of the week carries unique significance and high meaning. Each day feels distinct because of the work schedule.

For those working a Monday-through-Friday day job, for example, they wake up Monday morning acutely aware of what day of the week they are entering. Mondays herald a long and tiring work week ahead.

Tuesday mornings are slightly less jarring since only four days remain before the weekend.

On Wednesdays, folks wake up with a small sense of relief, knowing they’ve arrived at Hump Day, halfway through the week.

On Thursday mornings, the coming relief is palpable.

And no working-age person would ever wake up on a Friday morning, wondering what day it is. Not with the weekend ahead.

Saturday and Sunday mornings are celebratory. The alarm clock is less demanding. Breakfast can expand. Though time with kids and completing errands occupy many hours of the weekend, people’s time is usually more flexible than during the week.

Folks with other varieties of work schedules view each day of the week from the context of their own particular labor calendar. But they are never in doubt about what day it is when they awake.

Why is it so different for seniors, especially those of us further into retirement? Our focus upon awakening is not on what day of the week it is. Our attention is directed at trying to get out of bed, empty our bladders, and find our way into the kitchen to put on some coffee. Whether it is Monday or Thursday or even Saturday does not really matter. Each day loses its unique “feel” and significance. Life’s weekly periodicity ebbs.

There are some markers which distinguish one day from the next. Putting recycle and trash bins at the curb always comes on a specific day, so that helps keep us oriented in time and space. Regular weekly volunteer activities and babysitting responsibilities can also serve as identifiers for specific days. Holidays like Mother’s Day and Thanksgiving which take place on specified days of the week are very useful. But there is no denying that for older folks, the week’s seven days grow increasingly homogenized.

If I may be so bold, I will expand my revelation even further. For many of us seniors, not only are we often unaware of what day it is upon awakening, we often don’t know what day we’re living through in the mid-afternoon. Even night time can be kind of dicey. And the older we get, the more the days blend together. I have a harder time recalling what day it is now than I did two years ago, and I doubt the situation will improve two years from now. After all, why is it important to know whether today is Monday or Friday? Or some other day for that matter?

I do not consider my waning awareness of what day it is to be a problem. For seniors, this phenomenon is a feature, not a bug. With no work schedule looming over our heads, we can accurately consider each day to be a Saturday.

Of course young, working-age people would never mistake a Tuesday for a Saturday. These two days have less in common than cod liver oil and ice cream. And it’s cute how working people are so happy when approaching one of those three-day weekends that occur about 10 times per year. I get it. I used to feel the same way. Those long weekends were rare and special.

So the truth is now out. My peers and I have the privilege – and the responsibility – of enjoying recurring seven-day weekends. I understand this may be tough for Gen Xers, Millennials, and Zennials to learn about. But I will not allow myself to feel guilty. Unending weekends are one of the few and diminishing perks of reaching old age.

Since I now detect some rising intergenerational tension, I want to offer up one more reveal which I hope will lower the temperature and perhaps yield an armistice. Most seniors would gladly give up our endless weekends if it meant we could avoid the many and expanding disadvantages of growing old. Younger folks should not envy our seven-day weekends. As enjoyable as they are, they are far from idyllic. A year filled with Saturdays can become ordinary, even dull. Living through work weeks is what makes weekends so enjoyable.

I hope this final reveal is viewed by the laboring generations as an olive branch. Younger folks should be in no rush to live the way we older folks do. Young people need to keep working to maintain their own happiness. We seniors need them to always know what day of the week it is. It helps ensure our retirement benefits remain intact.

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May 2023

By Richard Fleming

We are each accompanied by our personal crew as we travel down the road. By crew, I am not talking about family, friends, and loved ones. These folks are our anchors. By crew, I’m referring to the people who provide expertise and logistical support as we navigate the path ahead. You know who I mean. Our team. Our plumbers and electricians. Our doctors and dentists. Our physical therapists. The photographers we hire for special occasions and the auto mechanics who keep us mobile. The pest control experts we call in when ants survive every elimination method known to Google. These folks make up our crew. We rely on them. None of us can hike this trail alone.

A peculiar facet of aging is that as we grow older, our crew grows younger. I don’t intend this statement to be humorous or metaphorical. It is simple mathematics. There is an inverse relationship between our upward trajectory in age and the downward trajectory of our crew members’ ages. It can be plotted on a graph.

When I was young, my crew consisted of folks much older than me. I still remember my pediatrician, Dr. Greene, who had graying hair, appeared to be very smart, and smelled like cologne. Dr. Welch, my dentist, did the best he could, considering he had arthritic fingers and I rarely brushed my teeth. My school teachers were knowledgeable, many decades my senior, and taught me well. My crew’s advanced years were reassuring virtues.

As I journeyed onward, my crew seemed to grow a little younger. In retrospect I now realize this was an optical illusion created because I was growing a little older. I still needed my crew. My wizened college advisors and medical school faculty did their best to help me chart a course forward. After I graduated, my senior work mentors distilled lessons that saved me years of effort.

My crew provided invaluable help in other areas of daily living as well. When my land line was on the fritz, I called in a telephone repair person. When my car’s warning light turned on, I relied on an auto mechanic. Backed-up toilets which resisted my fraught attempts at plunging and snaking required a plumber. Whenever I needed my crew, they would show up. Most of them were older men. A frequent phenomenon was that after completing the work, the repair person would end the visit by cracking a joke about old codgers or referencing some cultural quirks from two decades before I was born. I did not find their jokes funny. Apparently I was too young to understand them. Even though I was in my 30s.

It was when I reached my 40s and 50s that I discovered my crew had mysteriously become about the same age I was. My personal physician and dentist were both around my age. When I needed a plumber or electrician, the person who showed up usually looked to be similar to me in age. The upslope of my aging line appeared to cross the downslope of my crew’s aging line. And I now began to understand the jokes that crew members liked to tell after finishing their work. Their sense of humor was generationally concordant with my stage of life.

During those years I was occasionally surprised when a crew member looking a couple of decades younger than me showed up. These folks made me nervous. I was skeptical about their expertise and knowledge. How could a gastroenterologist that youthful possibly perform a competent colonoscopy on me? When I had to see an oral surgeon to remove a lesion, he was clearly too young to have completed dental school, much less specialty training. It was disorienting. Where were the crew members around my own age? The ones with the right balance of education and experience.

But life is filled with twists and turns. As I grew even older, my crew continued dropping in age. Simple mathematics, remember. Addition and subtraction. And this is where things get strange – in my 60s I began to feel more confident and secure with younger crew members than with the older ones. I became mistrustful of auto mechanics, window cleaners, and other crew members who looked to be as old as me. I was worried not only about their stamina and skill, but their cognitive abilities as well. If a dentist had as much gray hair as I did, how competent could they be, after all? Surely that older plumber’s agility was questionable, so how would they be able to fix my garbage disposal? (My older brother, a psychiatrist, would label my mistrust a form of projection.)

Now that I’m in my 70s, I no longer encounter any crew members who are around my age. To a person, they are younger. Some much younger. But I have confidence in them. My prior skepticism of young crew members has disappeared. My youthful team has the requisite vigor. Their cognitive abilities are intact and likely better than mine. I am happy to engage with these youngsters. They help me navigate as I move forward.

My about-face in who I most trust to support my journey reflects my maturation as the years tick by, one after the other.

But there is a downside to this evolution. I find that once again I do not understand my crew’s end-of-visit jokes. Apparently I am now too old. It is hard to find memes comical when I don’t even know what a meme is. How can I understand humor directed at celebrities or musicians I’ve never heard of? And how I can be expected to laugh about funny trends on TikTok that apparently everyone has heard of except me?

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April 2023

By Richard Fleming

Growing old is confusing and confounding. And it can be peculiar.

For me, an odd part of the journey is how my curiosity has evolved in a morbid direction. The further I travel down the road, the more interest I have in obituaries. I want to know who is dying, how old they were when they passed, and what led to their demise. Don’t get me wrong, I do not spend oodles of time perusing death announcements. A wide array of other subjects – social, political, medical, cultural, and others – intrigue me more. But I must acknowledge my curiosity about who is dying is expanding.

There are many opportunities to indulge this interest. I receive a quarterly newsletter for retired physicians of The Permanente Medical Group, where I worked for three decades. It offers many interesting articles but I first look to the back of each issue to review who has died. I want to see if I recognize any names. I look at their year of retirement to see how long they lived after hanging up their stethoscope. Only after reviewing the death announcements do I delve into the newsletter’s other pieces.

I also receive a quarterly newsletter from the Topeka High School Historical Society. My approach is the same. I first turn to the “In Memorium” list which is thankfully arranged by year of graduation. I look at who died from my class and from the classes a few years ahead and behind. I usually know some of the names. Only later do I digest the newsletter’s other articles.

Friends contact me on occasion to let me know of a mutual acquaintance who died. And newspapers are always a rich source of obituaries for well-known people – politicians, celebrities, or other notables.  

Each time a colleague, classmate, or friend dies, it feels like a chapter of my life has ended. When public figures I grew up with pass on, it feels like part of my past has slipped away.

Deaths of others lead me to ponder the brevity of my stay on planet Earth.

I feel fairly confident I’m not the only senior whose interest in peeking at obituaries is peaking. It is an understandable phenomenon. We older folks live in uncertain times. The Grim Reaper might move into the neighborhood anytime. Once he does, we know he will come knocking on our door some day. This is inevitable. For me, scanning death lists feels like a useful way to audit the Reaper’s activities. It helps me anticipate what lies ahead. I become a one-person Neighborhood Watch program focused on threats to my own mortality.

Deaths carry different implications, depending on the person’s age. When I learn of people in their 90s or older dying, it offers a small measure of comfort. Every death is sad. But when a person succeeded in traveling far down the road, their passing feels less threatening. It offers hope the knock on my door may be decades away. And when people in this age group die, I’m not as curious about the cause of death. “Old age” suffices.

But when I learn of people dying in their 60s, 50s, or even younger, it gives me pause. It makes me nervous. Am I am living on borrowed time? I need to know the cause of death, to understand why the person died at such a young age. If their death was due to an accident, it feels less threatening somehow. But when someone younger than me dies from a medical problem, like cancer or a heart attack, it generates concern. On a strictly rational level, I know the death of a young person has no bearing on when the Grim Reaper will come for me. But it makes me wonder if my odds are worsening. I do a quick review of any symptoms I have recently experienced, just in case.

A few days ago, I was startled by a sharp knock on the front door. Who could it be? Why didn’t they ring the doorbell? But after a moment’s reflection, my anxiety dissipated. I had just read about Al Jaffee, the lead cartoonist for Mad Magazine, dying at age 102. I loved that magazine when I was a teenager. Since Al Jaffee had lived that long, I had no reason to worry about who was knocking. Sure enough, when I opened the door there was a FedEx package lying on the porch, and I breathed a small sigh of relief. Events like this confirm my curiosity about obituaries is not that weird after all.

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April 2023

By Richard Fleming

One of the keys to successful aging is maintaining a positive attitude. A sunny disposition. We need to seek any rays of light piercing the darkening clouds, even if they are few and far between. Thankfully, at least one sunbeam shines brighter for older folks than for the young. We should value it. We should cherish it. I am referring, of course, to the ease of decluttering.

Many activities of daily living become harder as we age. Cooking. Cleaning. Fixing broken items. Maintaining our health. Driving. Exercising. But getting rid of unused, unneeded items becomes much easier.

Clutter is the bane of everyday existence. High-quality medical studies confirm living in a cluttered environment creates mental stress. For example a study in the Journal of Neuroscience in 2011 found: “Multiple stimuli present in the visual field at the same time compete for neural representation by mutually suppressing their evoked activity throughout the visual cortex, providing a neural correlate for the limited processing capacity of the visual system.” Translated into English, clutter causes anxiety.

Clutter also adversely affects physical health. An untidy home disrupts sleep patterns and lowers energy levels. While no study has examined a messy environment’s effect on life expectancy, clutter increases stress hormone release. This leads to increased blood pressure and worse immune function. We can reasonably conclude that more clutter today means fewer tomorrows.

But for young and middle-aged people, getting rid of rarely-used items can be difficult and stressful. What if they give away something they may need one day? Like those sneakers they bought 15 years ago. The last time their feet occupied those shoes might have been 12 years ago, but it is always possible the urge to jog may arise. What about the pressure cooker languishing at the back of a kitchen shelf for the last two decades? It might be needed to whip up a pot of beef stew a few years from now. And that can of caulk that has lived on a garage shelf since the Bush Administration. Bush the senior, that is. The caulk may be useful some day, even though it’s probably hardened into a rock.

I feel sympathy for the non-elderly living among us. For them decluttering is so challenging books are written about it. TV shows explore techniques to tidy up and dispose of unneeded items. Experts offer advice on how to get rid of useless stuff occupying space in cabinets, closets, garages, attics, under staircases, and on random table tops. Most importantly for the younger generation, decluttering techniques are offered by respected influencers on TikTok and Instagram.

Thankfully decluttering is – or should be – a cinch for us Boomers. We can simply and safely ignore the various “rules” experts proclaim should guide the decluttering process. Many of these recommendations use time-based criteria for deciding what to eliminate from one’s home. For example, there is the popular “5 By 5 Rule” which says if you don’t anticipate using something in the next five years, don’t spend more than five minutes thinking about whether to get rid of it. Maybe this rule is helpful for Millennials and Gen X’ers. (Gen Z has not had enough time to build up their clutter inventory.) But when it comes to us older folks, five years is overly optimistic. For me at age 71, if I don’t anticipate using something in the next two years, it is time to say goodbye. And the older I get, the shorter the time window will become. If I make it to my early 80s, one year will be more than adequate as a cutoff. If I see 85, a six-month horizon will be generous.

But I understand that future usability is not the only factor in decluttering. There are items you may want to keep despite knowing you will never need them. Like your high school diploma. Or an old but familiar sweater. That ancient yellowed newspaper clipping where you were mentioned as a participant in some civic event. Emotional ties to such things run deep. I get it. But these things are cluttering up our lives.

The way to reduce anxiety about getting rid of keepsakes is to think of our poor children and grandchildren. If we’re being honest, we know they have absolutely no interest in holding onto our mementos. They will remember and love us after we’re gone, but not because they inherited a bunch of junk they have no use for. They will remember and love us for the lives we shared and the love we provided. Actually, our kids and grandkids will probably love us a little more after we die if they don’t have to spend weeks cleaning stuff out of our homes. This is why my wife keeps telling me to start clearing the garage. So our kids and grandkids don’t have to.

Photographs fall into a special category. Our heirs may want to hold onto them. But they are not interested in inheriting boxes of print photos. They have no enthusiasm for photo albums. They only want digital images on a thumb drive. So my recommendation is to digitize all those family photographs from the past century. If doing this is too challenging, your kids will be happy to explain the process. Or they can use social media to identify someone nearby who can do it for you.

To wrap up, decluttering is the key to a healthy, happy, long retirement. We don’t need books to explain why. We don’t need influencers to explain how. We just need to get started, and fairly soon. While we still can. At least that’s what I keep telling myself when I think about our garage. There are times I even start walking towards it, but then I recall the 30-year accumulation of clutter in there. At that point I usually find several good reasons to veer off in another direction. My personal experience is forcing me to accept one other crucial fact about aging. Growing old has little impact on the eminently human trait known as procrastination.

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March 2023

By Richard Fleming

I am captivated by porch lights. At twilight their soft glow is magical. As night deepens their radiance enchants. They offer a peaceful symbol of serenity. A quiet welcome to the night traveler.

It may seem strange for an old guy to be enamored with porch lights, but hear me out.

My fascination started when growing up in Potwin, one of Topeka’s oldest neighborhoods. Potwin encompassed a dozen blocks of Victorian and Queen Anne homes built in the late 1800s. From my earliest days I remember my parents turning on our porch light at dusk. They said it kept the house secure and the neighborhood welcoming. Around age eight, I took over flipping the porch light switch when the sun set. It felt like I was taking responsibility for insuring a peaceful night for my family. I would look out the front door to see the glow embracing the porch and steps. As evening darkened, the light seemed to brighten, spilling into our front yard.

In summer my friends and I played outside after the sun dropped below the prairie west of town. In the gloaming, Potwin’s porch lights illumined the neighborhood, setting the perfect stage for hide and seek. Some nights we ventured out to catch fireflies in glass jars, seeking darkened areas free of porch lights’ shine. Other times we sat on one of our porches and talked, looking beyond the warm patches of light and gazing into the night. We parked ourselves on a front porch swing, reminiscing about our recently-concluded fourth grade class and speculating on what the upcoming fifth grade year would bring. Sometimes we walked down Greenwood Ave., moving through alternating pools of dark and light, house by house, and we wished that summer would never end.

Each season yielded a different glow from the porch lights of Potwin. In autumn the puddles of light revealed leaves of red and orange shed by maple and elm, blowing to and fro. In winter nightfall came earlier. Porch lights blinked on in the late afternoons, their glow transformed from warm into cool. But they still offered calm comfort. Spring time saw porch lights grow slowly warmer, encouraging flower buds and the newly-awakened insects of the night to continue their pursuits.

As my years in Potwin went by, I continued my role as the designated light switchman. Even after we moved across the street to live in an older, bigger house.

Eventually I left Topeka for college. My journey took me to Chicago, then to California’s Bay Area where I still live today. There were times I lived in dorms or apartment buildings. While these structures possessed their own character, they shared a fundamental flaw. Their front lights were on auto-timers and required no human intervention. Some of the places I lived had no porches, but this was OK as long as they had front door lights which someone needed to turn on. At each stop in my journey, I always made sure the front light turned on at the necessary time.

It may seem quirky or quaint, but I have always felt the act of a simple human touch turning on the front light turns a house into a home. It is a gesture of welcome and an affirmation of community.

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As my journey through life proceeded, evenings continued to be times of wonder. The most enjoyable parts of my days frequently occurred during my nights. Movies. Parties. Reading in a comfortable chair. Spending time with family. Dinners with friends. Community meetings working toward creating a more just society.

But after living through seven decades of nightfall, evenings now seem more subdued. Quieter. They are still pleasant, though in a gentler way. I no longer sit on a porch swing – our current porch is quite small – but night times now echo my nights in Potwin. The darkness once again prompts me to reflect on life. To consider what will happen with however much time is still allotted. Today, as I think back and think ahead, my field of view is far more expansive, and far more limited. I have far more experience with life to draw from, and far less time to apply the lessons.

Thankfully, as I grow older porch lights continue to resonate warmly. They imbue me with a sense of comfort and home. They are small beacons, calmly illuminating our paths through the darkness. At some point we each become a night traveler. When that good time comes, our journey will be eased by the magic of porch lights. This is why, when each evening arrives, I must always ensure the front light is warmly aglow.

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