Let’s clarify one thing right up front: we are ALL aging, every day, every minute. Doesn’t matter whether you’re seventy-two, or forty-two, or twelve. It’s just that the older we get, the more aware of it we become—and, assuming we’ve gathered some wisdom during all of the preceding decades, we value every single day given to us.

When I was a kid the mantra of the era was, “Never trust anyone over thirty.” Indeed, back then people in their thirties already looked old, and acted old too. These days, men and women in their thirties are just figuring out what they want to do when they grow up, settling down, getting married, having kids of their own—two of my daughters fall into the latter category. And among the new mantras are: “Seventy is the new fifty,” “Sixty is the new forty,” and so on. I love those!

Six years ago Jacqueline and I downsized from our big San Diego house and moved into a fifty-five-plus retirement community north of the city called Ocean Hills Country Club. First off, it is almost an oxymoron to talk about a fifty-five-plus retirement community, since these days few people in their fifties, and even many in their sixties, can afford to retire—or want to. Second, I am always reluctant to say that I live in a “country club.” It just sounds so pretentious. Visions of Doral and Augusta, of gazillion-dollar homes along gleaming fairways come to mind. Sure, we have a golf course in the middle of a 1,600-home community, but these are average to small houses, and quite affordable to many. (I don’t even play golf; batting a little white ball around in the blazing sun is not my idea of a good time.) With 70 million Baby Boomers in the wings, places like this should thrive.

Uncle Ben was nearly ninety when Jacqueline and I visited him and Aunt Pearl.

I had no trouble turning sixty some years ago, since I became the first male member on the Sirota family tree to make it out of his  fifties. I’d always figured, no problem, since my genes all came from my mom’s side of the family, and they mostly lived into their late eighties and nineties. When my wonderful uncle, Ben Vann, passed away not long ago, he was ninety-eight! But no, the heart issues that took my dad and brother in their fifties caught up with me a few years later and nearly sent me to the Writers’ Afterward. Bottom line: family history notwithstanding, there are no guarantees.

A MATTER OF SEMANTICS

Maybe this is vanity, or fear, or whatever. Being a writer I found it necessary to describe my age rather than just say what I was, especially after turning sixty. For example, at sixty and sixty-one I was “sixty-ish,” at sixty-two and sixty-three “in my early sixties.” The next three years after that found me in my “mid-sixties.” Then, last week, when I turned sixty-seven, I realized that I was “nearly seventy.” OH CRAP!!! So I’ve decided that, for one more year at least, I’m still in my “mid-sixties.” After that? Well, for a couple more years my “late sixties” will do just fine. I’ll deal with seventy when it happens, likely repeating the mantra over and over: “Seventy is the new fifty.”

Jacqueline and I, having been through our share of health challenges over the years, enjoy every single day we’re given. We also have our own mantra, paraphrased just slightly from Frequency, one of our favorite movies, and used often in our home: “WE’RE STILL HERE, CHIEF.”

SWORDS & SPECTERS: I revamped the website a bit, so check it out. My latest revision of an old title, The Quest of Tyron (sequel to The Sword of Tyron), is now available in trade paperback. Enjoy!