'Am I getting old?' 'Oh, no, not you.'

Preface / Introduction

@~~~>The LAST Time I Made This OFFER I was BURIED in calls so I am limiting this to the
NEXT 5 PEOPLE ONLY CALL ME NOW - don't miss out! CALL ME NOW for your FREE
Internet marketing consultation. $100 value. Let an expert show you RIGHT NOW how to profit
online every single day without leaving home. CALL ME -- Liz English -- NOW, (315) 668-1591.
LIVE 24/7/365.

Table of Contents
1. 'Don't laugh at my jokes too much'. Thoughts on senior nookie, assisted living, love after eighty,
and unexpected bliss at the end of life.
2. 'Am I getting old?' 'Oh, no, not you.' The wonders of the Internet... the stubborn obstinacy of far
too many Senior Citizens. Generations colliding in cyber space. Some thoughts.


'Don't laugh at my jokes too much'. Thoughts on senior
nookie, assisted living, love after eighty, and unexpected
bliss at the end of life.
by Dr. Jeffrey Lant
Author's program note: Suddenly, I burst into a song that made us both laugh. In my croaky voice
celebrated worldwide for its almost incredible ability to hit every single note wrong, there I was
positively warbling one of the most beautiful tunes ever written,
"Don't throw bouquets at me/ Don't please my folks too much/ Don't laugh at my jokes too much/
People will say we're in love!"
And then, as unexpected as I had been when I lurched into song, he responded in kind:
"Don't sigh and gaze at me/ Your sighs are so like mine/ Your eyes mustn't glow like mine/ People
will say we're in love!"
It was my father. It was a recent Saturday during one of our regular "tour d'horizon" briefings on the
state of the known world and the current disposition of all its inhabitants. He was relating the latest
installment of "love among the ruins," the latest red-hot gossip from what he will call "the
institution", the assisted living facility where he and my step-mother Miss Ellie now reside. And, as
usual, nothing, absolutely nothing, was lost in the telling of this sizzling soap opera, an opus with
more twists, turns and unexpected strands than "Desperate Housewives."
Today's "Extra! Extra! Hear all about it!" installment was the latest in the continuing saga of two
pillars of the senior establishment, Mrs. Winterbotham, a slip of a lass at 88, and her "sweet boy"
Ronnie, lithe and plausible at 90. Before continuing, I feel duty bound to tell you what follows is
sensual to a degree, a matter of grand passion, skullduggery, labyrinthine conspiracies, and frequent
naps and bathroom breaks by all concerned as well as gossip, at once malicious, envying, poignant,
unrelenting, and always worth the telling.
But before that happens, you must re-hear "People Will Say We're In Love" (for I suspect you
already know and cherish it as I do). You'll find this loveliest of love songs in any search engine. It
was written in 1943 by Oscar Hammerstein II and composed by Richard Rodgers for the first
modern musical that ever was, "Oklahoma!" Go listen now. It'll make you feel very young and
hopeful all over again... and that is the point of this story... and the song.
What my father told me.
My regular phone conversation had to be postponed a bit because, as he told me, he and Miss Ellie
had a very special and delicate mission to undertake; he was sure I'd understand the necessity to
reschedule. I murmured concurrence, and they went out to gather the latest amatory intelligence
from their dear friend Amanda Winterbotham, there to dispense unstinting empathy, understanding,
and the wisdom that we are all supposed to get when aging, but mostly never do.
We muddle. We age. We muddle some more. We die. Most annoying. That is why as we age we
need good friends more than ever... because we didn't learn quite as much along the way as we need
or as we over confidently thought we had. This is why all known languages feature such pungent
expressions as these: "There's no fool like an old fool." "A man growing old is a child again."
(Sophocles). "Age is a high price to pay for maturity." (Tom Stoppard). And... but you get the drift...

These are the facts.

http://www.LizsWorldprofit.com Copyright Elizabeth English - 2012 4 of 10


Amanda Winterbotham is a woman of education, sense, solid principles, her own teeth and a nice
little nest egg in rock-solid securities which proved their true worth by not collapsing in the recent
economic melt-down. She also bakes often and lavishly and has the ability to tempt compliments out
of even the most jaded and pernickety of world-weary epicureans. She is also a woman and therein
lies the rub... for such a woman, for all that she's barely on the sunny side of 90, still likes a kiss and
a cuddle, though she feels embarrassed at her age to own up to it. Why should she?
After all, her well-heeled, utterly respectable parents, Top Drawer, (for she is a Winterbotham of the
Oyster Bay Winterbothams) christened her "Amanda". This as every student of the Latin language
knows means "She who must be loved". The tense, I remind you, is the hortatory imperative. Make
a note of it. I put it to you: what chance did she have with dapper Ronnie near at hand and desirable,
a hunk at 140 pounds dripping wet, with a penchant for the grape and an eye for the ladies. So long
as she is the lady in question and her "sweet boy" means every sweet thing he has said to her
Amanda is satisfied. Basta.
On this basis, Ronnie and his walker are regularly seen en route to Amanda's nicely appointed
apartment, ensconced in that apartment (with the once ever open door now often closed), or exiting
from that apartment at all hours, a crumb of blueberry scone on his lips -- and a smile.
There this tale should have ended, two people hitherto facing each new dawn as listlessly as the last
-- now enraptured with each other, engrossed, glad to be alive. Yes, it should have ended there... but
it most assuredly did not.
"People will say we're in love."
People talk. That's what we do. We talk when we're happy. We talk when we're sad. We talk when
we're lonely. We talk when we're not. We spend most every waking moment thinking about what
we have just been told... talking... or contemplating the very next thing we intend to say and the
undeniably fortunate individual to whom we intend to say it. Talking is our metier... and each and
every day we pursue it... especially when we have a piece of glorious intelligence we just cannot
bear to keep to ourselves.
No, it must be told... and told at once. Nowhere is this more true than in the senior residences we call
"assisted living" where there is ample time, hawk-like vision, and a desire to know all... and tell all.
Gossip is omnipresent, unending, told with aplomb, laced with wit, shrewdness, exquisite malice and
diabolical humor. This was the price for Ronnie and the pleasure of his company. Was Amanda, dear
Amanda, prepared to pay it?
Dear Amanda was bewitched, bothered and bewildered by... her children (who gave long looks of
despair while bleating endless variations of "Mama, at your age!"). By... old friends who knew her
late husband. They reminded her that Queen Victoria always remained true to Prince Albert... why
couldn't she do as much? The serving staff (composed of young people distinguished by tattoos and
ear rings) weighed in and said "Go for it!") But the minister who came with a message of
brotherhood, redemption and the necessity to tithe gave her stern looks and sterner admonitions to
stay chaste for Jehovah. What had begun as an affaire of the heart was now a burgeoning scandal.
And so she asked my father and Miss Ellie to come for some of her delectable short bread (the
secret was a drop of fine sherry in the dough) and advice.
Clarity amidst cacophony. My father at his best.
My father for close to 90 years has been known as a sympathetic friend, a ready ear, discrete, a man
of strong views but greater empathy; above all fair, someone who would tell you the truth as he
understood it without lording over you, making you feel inadequate, weak, a fool. As such Amanda
Winterbotham wanted his opinion... and Miss Ellie wanted him to give it. Why?



First for the sake of helping dear Amanda, who was by now severely stressed and embarrassed by a
very private matter now anything but. But perhaps more for my father's sake. How's that?
Because since moving into assisted living just a few months ago, my father has felt disoriented,
depressed, despondent, regarding this residence not as a home but a holding tank for the Grim
Reaper... He was in dismay, unhappy, burdened by thoughts of an eternity too fast coming, way too
fast... a man who had spent his life helping others was now too focused on himself.
Did Miss Ellie, perhaps, whisper a timely word in Miss Amanda's ear? If so, I shouldn't be surprised
for women throughout the ages have known just what to do in such situations. This is why I can see
so clearly in my mind's eye my father and Miss Ellie, proceeding slowly down the hall, stately, each
with a cane and consummate dignity. Amanda's door was open... Ellie entered first. Was there at that
moment a special look that passed between the ladies? I cannot say... but my father later told me it
felt good to be helpful again... and how did Mrs. Winterbotham know chocolate chip cookies with
extra chocolate chips were his favorite? How indeed... But I could imagine Miss Ellie singing...
"Don't take my arm too much/Don't keep your hand in mind/ Your hand feels so grand in mine/
People will say we're in love./
And so they are and do not care who knows...



'Am I getting old?' 'Oh, no, not you.' The wonders of the
Internet... the stubborn obstinacy of far too many Senior
Citizens. Generations colliding in cyber space. Some
thoughts.
by Dr. Jeffrey Lant.
Author's program note. Did you ever see "Gigi" the 1958 musical by Alan Jay Lerner and Frederick
Loewe? You should. It burned through a fortune to recreate lush, opulent Third Republic Paris and
besides the music is lovely. One song in particular touches my heart -- "I Remember It Well".
It's a duet between Honore (Maurice Chevalier) and Mamita (Hermione Gingold), long ago lovers
who meet up in the twilight of their lives and reminisce about what happened way back when... and
what they remember; definitely not the same thing.
Honore gets his every reminiscence slightly wrong; Mamita is spot on with hers. Honore is
embarrassed, chagrined at his errors... but the lady doesn't mind. She retains an abiding affection for
him... and even in his errors she sees he retains an abiding affection for her. Yes, it's a lovely,
beautiful, bittersweet tune... go now to any search engine. Listen well. Tenacious memories are just
one touch away and waiting now for you to release them. Bring an extra handkerchief.
Another missed phone call... another missed opportunity. Another irritating moment for each.
It just happened again. The Missed Call Syndrome. This time he called me.... and missed
connecting. So I called him back... and missed connecting. So now both of us, my 88 year old father
and I (aged 65), remain disconnected, and irritated with each other. "Why can't the boy be there at
just the moment I want to talk to him?", he mutters. In return I say with pronounced pique, "Why
won't he use a webcam? It would make life so much easier for both of us."
Welcome to the clash of the titans, where one old goat continues to cause unnecessary
communications problems.... and his know-it-all IT son fails (yet again) to show Dad the error of his
ways. Thus the Mexican stand-off continues... with both parties irked, irritated, and more than a little
exasperated with each other. What's going on here? Just this. Two obstinate generations, each used to
getting its way, are battling to make their communications with the other easier... for we do, I think,
truly want to communicate with each other, so long as the other party is dictated to, not dictating.
"Get an email address that works."
Technology to be effective must be simple and easy to use and must not create more problems than
it solves. By this test the email program used by my technically clueless dad is useless, for it causes
nothing but problems, not least the fundamental problem that it actually blocks all my email to him.
As you may imagine this causes a ton of problems of the "Did you get my email the other day?"
variety.
Why does he keep this completely ineffectual program? Not because it's "easy", because it most
assuredly is not; not because it delivers his mail promptly without hassle because it fails that test too.
I'll tell you why he does it... because he feels (though he has never given me the satisfaction of
putting his unconvincing case in my unscrupulous hands) that he, having worked a long lifetime for
others, is entitled, the end approaching, to have those others (chief amongst them me) work for him...
never mind that a completely fast, thorough and easy email system is at hand.
Rigor Mortis before death.



We all know that rigor mortis comes with death; is in fact an undeniable symptom of that death.
Sadly, for many, especially in regard to tech skills and proficiency, rigor mortis comes well before
the end. Common sense dictates that if you want the substantial and undeniable benefits of
technology, you must keep up-to-date. But obstinate seniors, like dear old dad, won't keep
up-to-date. They have done much for others; they have little time remaining. They don't want
continuing education and the "joys of learning". They insist upon being catered to, waited on,
kow-tow desired but not required.
Thus if they fail to listen, fail to learn the necessary steps to put technology to work for them and so
create a heap of unnecessary problems, this is unfortunate, but so what? And so they approach the
ultimate arrogance and deep-seated selfishness of the "Let them eat cake" lady herself, the late,
unlamented, backward looking Marie Antoinette, sovereign queen of unthinking, unrepentant,
adamant ossification. (If he ever discovers I've written this, Dad will kill me, especially as the
comparison is true and apt! One can, after all, forgive anything but the unanswerable truth.
Fortunately he doesn't know how to access my articles at jeffreylantarticles.com He's tried; no can
do; and that's that.)
"Get a webcam! Get a webcam at once!"
Writing emails, particularly if you are of the "bread-and-butter", copperplate hand generation like
dad, takes time and careful attention. Words matter; finding just the right word is a courtesy they
never neglect. And they all honor Mark Twain's trenchant line, "If I had more time, I'd write you a
shorter letter." As a result their emails are not just written but edited, corrected, refined, no text
messaging allowed; a real letter sent but never responded to in kind by anyone less than 70 or so.
And so another failure-to-communicate incident is born, to smolder and explode without warning.
How different things would be if he'd use a webcam -- a webcam I'm wiling to GIVE him!
Consider the following: I have a webcam; my brother has a webcam; my sister has a webcam; her
son and daughter each have webcams. Only my father does not have a webcam, considers the
vexatious unsettling matter settled and considers all attempts to get him hooked up and active a grave
imposition; unjust; an affront; the very idea lese majeste'.
He has for just such moments of offense and insolence and outrage his certain response: "I'm old, I'm
tired, I can't do it, I'm falling apart; it's hard; it's difficult; it's...", but you get the picture. How can
anyone transgress against such a paladin, now ancient, frail, venerable... and absolutely determined
not to change anything, not by a jot, much less a tittle?
And so the matter unsatisfactorily continues day after day. We are both of us getting older, which is
just another way of saying we are getting more and more obstinate by the minute. He frets because
his time is dwindling with anxious celerity and so each day the little he still wants becomes more
urgent. Why can't I see that?
... But I do see that. That is why I want him to be on a webcam, easily accessible to me and his other
wired progeny, not least the only two grandchildren he will never know as well as he ought because
he is ludicrously behind in what it takes to touch them, share, learn as they hobnob everywhere on
Earth and never care to think or understand what he wants, much less help him get it.
His failure to master even the rudiments of the communication techniques and services that exist
reinforces the very thing he fears most; disconnection from family and friends, alienation, a feeling
that worsens daily that he is not merely aged but irrelevant, obsolete, passed it, already not merely
moribund but actually dead by inches.
He sees a webcam as a threat, exposing all that he does not know. I see it as my only and best chance
to connect with him easily and always before that chance is gone forever and I am forced to lament



what might have been... a state of affairs that chills me now and will haunt me until I, too, am dust
and an inadequate memory to those I have loved.
"This too shall pass."
This is one of my father's favorite expressions. He has used it with me over and over again as a
means of lessoning life's plethora of pains and even some moments of exuberance and euphoria, as
too much of a good thing. Now I shall render these words in quite a different way, as an admonition,
a warning, an already far too late wake- up call, a clarion to action before even the little I can do
now becomes far more than the days ahead will leave me.
And so, I shall again do what I have tried to do so often... I shall say, out of a love which must never
be forgotten, what needs to be said and which was never said better than this: "Do not go gentle into
that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light". Dylan Thomas (1914-1953) insisted on
this to his father. I cannot do less to mine and so I shall tell him this...
Aristides de Sousa Mendes
Do you know this man? You should. Born in 1885 in the Centro region of Portugal, he became a
diplomat in the days when Dictator Antonio Salazar ruled. He was stationed in Bordeaux in 1940
when the Nazis invaded France. Bordeaux was a prime exit port, a city engulfed in war and chaos; a
place to which refugees, many of them Jews, fled, looking for any way to escape. Mendes was
ordered by his government to provide no aid, no escape. That was a decree of death. But Mendes was
a man of life.
Thus, between June 17-July 8, 1940 he issued over 30,000 exit visas to refugees and displaced
persons, some 12,000 to Jews. One man, just a few days, thousands saved. Needless to say, his
government disowned him, stripping him of diplomatic status, his legal profession, of everything in
fact except the certain knowledge that he had done the right thing, the righteous thing, the life
affirming thing.
And you must do the life affirming thing, too. Thus understand that it is out of our love that we
insist upon your advancing, focused on whatever span is left; still opening windows, however
daunting, not closing them. If you will not do this for yourself; then do it for us, as yet another gift of
the father. For in such a way, you choose life and hope, something we will surely address and
celebrate when we have our first joyous meeting online by webcam. May it come soon.



Resource
About the Author Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is CEO of Worldprofit, Inc., providing a wide
range of online services for small and-home based businesses. Services include home business
training, affiliate marketing training, earn-at-home programs, traffic tools, advertising, webcasting,
hosting, design, WordPress Blogs and more. Find out why Worldprofit is considered the # 1 online
Home Business Training program by getting a free Associate Membership today.
Republished with author's permission by Elizabeth English http://LizsWorldprofit.com.


'Am I getting old?' 'Oh, no, not you.'

Recommended

Recommended

More Related Content

What's hot

What's hot (19)

Similar to 'Am I getting old?' 'Oh, no, not you.'

Similar to 'Am I getting old?' 'Oh, no, not you.' (14)

More from Elizabeth English

More from Elizabeth English (8)

'Am I getting old?' 'Oh, no, not you.'