Excellent essay in today’s New York Times How to Be Old by Roger Rosenblatt. He offers some advice to seniors that I have excerpted a portion below…There are thousands of articles, videos and media offering life advice to those whose vast experience and life lessons should make them invulnerable to unnecessary guidance.
Don’t forget to bestow confidence. It’s the best thing you can give someone you love. Saying “You can do it” to a loved one in a situation in which that person has self-doubt — taking an exam, making a speech, writing a poem — means more than any sweet profession of affection.
Don’t share despair. Not even with your friends. Not that they won’t sympathize. It’s just too much to ask of someone dear to you to bear your burdens.
Look only at the rim. Disregard the impediments to your well-being — a noisy neighbor, a treacherous colleague — and concentrate instead on where you are headed.
Turning 74 next month, here is my philosophy guiding my actions and thinking for the next few years (?) or decade (?)
1. Close the circle. Stay in touch and communicate with family members and friends who reciprocate with their interest. If possible, visit them or call. If your relationship is based on text messages and infrequent e-mails. Close friendships are like marriage, “till death do us part.”
2. Avoid nursing homes, hospitals and doctors in that order. Their focus is not so much on improving your life but treating you as if you are on your way to death.
3. Watchmovies and TV shows produced before 2020. Listen to the music made before the 1990s. Feeling patriotic, read about American history that occurred before 1945.
4. If I watch a sporting event, movie or TV show that lasts more than two hours from my recliner, I should expect to miss half of it.
5. Don’t vote! I have probably voted 55 times or more. Given the state of our country and the lack of leadership nationally and locally, I can’t think of any activity that has produced less desired results. I would also recommend that at a certain point, seniors avoid being involved in politics, or even having a great interest in them. Now, I speak as someone with no heirs or grandchildren, so my opinion is a bit self-serving.
6. Avoid most advice on money, diets, exercise, life insuranceandaging. Including this one..
Aging has a way of humbling even the most optimistic among us.
Next month I turn 74, and for years I quietly congratulated myself on holding up pretty well. I could still move easily, climb stairs without thinking about it, keep my balance, and stay mentally sharp. On the pickleball courts, I was competing three or four times a week with players much younger than I was. More than a few people kindly told me I looked younger than my age, and I was happy to believe them.
It is easy, when things are going well, to assume the good years will simply continue.
But somewhere in your late 60s or 70s, you begin to understand that aging is rarely dramatic at first. It arrives in increments. A little stiffness here. A slower recovery there. An ache that stays longer than it should. Then one day you realize something that once seemed temporary may now be part of the landscape.
People often describe retirement in three stages: go-go, slow-go, and no-go. The transition between them can be subtle. You do not wake up one morning suddenly old. Instead, certain abilities quietly begin negotiating their exit.
Recently, my right knee decided to begin those negotiations.
After weeks of soreness that I stubbornly diagnosed myself as tendonitis, I finally visited a sports doctor. The X-rays showed moderate osteoarthritis. Nothing catastrophic. No immediate talk of knee replacement. But still, it felt like an announcement: the machinery is wearing down.
For someone who depends on pickleball and walking not simply for exercise, but for emotional balance, that diagnosis carried weight.
With unexpected free time from not playing pickleball, I found myself taking inventory of other signs of aging that I usually keep in the background.
Image by ChatGPT
A dental cap came loose and revealed a badly decayed tooth underneath. At my age, even dental decisions begin sounding like financial planning meetings. A root canal, implant, and crown can cost thousands of dollars, and older people inevitably start doing quiet actuarial math in their heads. How much repair makes sense? How long do we plan for? Younger people rarely think this way. Older people almost always do.
Then there is the mirror.
The thick brown curly hair of my youth has surrendered to gray, thinning strands and a growing bald spot my barber diplomatically works around. The vanity of youth fades eventually, partly by wisdom and partly by necessity. Thankfully, age gives us permission to laugh a little more gently at ourselves.
Sleep has also become an unpredictable companion. I may spend eight hours in bed, but much of it is restless. The afternoons often require a long nap that steals time from walks, errands, conversations, and sunlight. Leg cramps arrive without invitation. Energy has become something to manage instead of something to assume.
My hearing is not what it once was either, likely the accumulated result of decades spent playing music too loudly. I know hearing aids are probably in my future, although I keep hoping technology will improve while prices come down. In the meantime, selective hearing has certain advantages, especially during television news broadcasts.
The larger fear, however, is not physical decline. It is cognitive decline.
My mother spent the final years of her life slowly losing her memory, orientation, and independence. Watching someone you love drift away mentally while remaining physically present leaves a permanent impression. Many people my age carry similar memories of parents, spouses, siblings, or friends.
That experience changes how you look at your own aging.
At 74, I occasionally catch myself wondering whether I am forgetting too much, concentrating less effectively, or slowing down mentally. Some slowing is normal, of course. Aging is not a disease; it is simply life continuing forward. Still, the fear of losing oneself mentally remains one of the shadows that follows many older people quietly through their days.
And yet, perspective matters.
I live among many people my age facing challenges far greater than mine — walkers, surgeries, chronic pain, serious illnesses, loss of spouses, and profound limitations. Compared to many, I remain fortunate. I still have mobility, independence, friendships, and moments of joy that arrive unexpectedly and regularly.
That realization tempers self-pity.
Aging, I am learning, is partly about adaptation. Over the years I have already surrendered running, basketball, and tennis. Perhaps more losses will come. But there is still pleasure in movement, conversation, books, music, laughter, and ordinary mornings that begin without catastrophe.
Pickleball and walking remain especially important to me because they provide more than exercise. They create rhythm, structure, companionship, and peace of mind. Losing some ability does not necessarily mean losing oneself entirely, although it can feel that way in moments of frustration.
Perhaps the real challenge of growing older is learning how to hold gratitude and grief in the same hand.
We mourn what the body once did effortlessly. But we also gain perspective, patience, and a sharper awareness that time is precious. The days matter more because we know they are finite.
David Bowie was right. Time changes us all.
The trick, maybe, is not resisting those changes with bitterness, but facing them with as much grace, humor, realism, and appreciation as we can manage.
Of the last fifty books I’ve read, forty came from my local library and ten from Kindle. I didn’t buy a single physical book in 2025. When I do purchase a Kindle title, I rarely pay more than $2.99. That number feels less like thrift and more like a verdict on how I now value books: still important, but no longer precious objects.
I wandered into Barnes & Noble twice this past year. Both times I walked out empty-handed. The books that were heavily discounted held no appeal, and the books I might have been interested in weren’t discounted at all. The store felt less like a literary crossroads and more like a museum gift shop—pleasant to browse, but disconnected from my reading life.
When I’m looking for something new to read, I rely on a small, familiar circle: The New York Times Sunday Book Review, Kirkus Reviews, or Goodreads review.
1929: Inside the Greatest Crash in Wall Street History–and How It Shattered a Nation by Andrew Ross Sorkin is the only current New York Times nonfiction bestseller I’ve read. I have no interest in the other titles on the list. The hardcover fiction list holds even less appeal; I haven’t read—and don’t intend to read—any of those books.
What surprises me most is not my indifference to bestseller lists, but how little conversation books generate anymore. I honestly can’t remember the last time someone recommended a book to me, or when I had a real discussion with another person about something we’d both read. Books seem to have slipped quietly out of our shared conversations.
That feels especially strange when I think back to being ten or eleven years old, roaming the Pennsauken Library in search of the next Hardy Boys, Tom Swift, or Chip Hilton book. I wish I had even a quarter of the excitement I felt then—the sense of urgency, discovery, and possibility that came with finding the next volume in a series. Reading was once a small, private adventure that somehow felt enormous.
At seventy-three, reading is harder in ways that have nothing to do with motivation. My mind doesn’t focus for long stretches. My eyes tire quickly. Cataracts and floaters dull the sharpness of the page. And beyond the physical changes, there’s the persistent feeling that many books now trigger: been there, done that. As one gets older, interest naturally drains from subjects that once felt endlessly compelling—politics, sports, business, self-improvement, psychology, religion. Not because they don’t matter, but because their patterns repeat.
There’s also the sense that books—especially those about current events, politics, or celebrities—have lost some of their gravity. So much of their content is given away in advance through interviews, podcasts, op-eds, and promotional appearances that the book itself feels like an afterthought, a bound summary of things already half-known.
And yet, despite all of this, I keep reading. Maybe not with the hunger of a child or the ambition of a younger adult, but with a quieter persistence. The library card still works. The Kindle still lights up. And every now and then, a book manages to cut through the fatigue and familiarity, reminding me why reading mattered in the first place—and why it still does, even now.
Patient Name: Uncle Sam Age: 249 years Date of Birth: July 4, 1776 Location: United States of America
Chief Complaint:
Progressive systemic decline characterized by political arrhythmia, social inflammation, moral neuropathy, and chronic division.
Medical History:
Patient presents with metastatic ideological cancer, first detected in 2017 following years of untreated inflammation from greed, corruption, and truth decay. A brief remission was noted, but malignancy has since spread to vital organs including the Judicial System, Congress, and National Conscience.
Patient also suffers from acute historical amnesia, with repeated lapses in memory regarding equal rights, freedom of the press, and separation of church and state. Increasing episodes of selective recall noted, often triggered by political self-interest and social media exposure.
In 2020, the patient contracted COVID-19, complicated by political co-infection. Though vaccinated, his recovery was hampered by widespread disinformation and refusal among many cells to follow treatment protocols. Residual scarring remains in the respiratory and trust systems.
Patient also exhibits chronic income disparity, hypertension of hostility, and arteriosclerosis of empathy, limiting blood flow to compassion and understanding.
Psychiatric History:
Patient demonstrates paranoid delusions, convinced that enemies lurk within rather than abroad. Displays mood instability, alternating between manic displays of nationalism and depressive bouts of self-loathing.
Once socially active, the patient is now increasingly isolated from former allies and global partners. Exhibits projection, blaming others for self-inflicted wounds.
Recent assessments reveal addiction to misinformation and dopamine dependency on outrage-based media. Sleep cycle disrupted due to 24-hour news exposure and endless campaigning.
Family History:
Descended from immigrants, now expresses hostility toward relatives of similar lineage. Strained relationship with younger generations due to generational and cultural disconnect.
Current Medications:
Denial (high dosage)
Partisan rhetoric (administered hourly)
Corporate lobbying (self-prescribed)
Occasional dose of hope and activism, though compliance inconsistent
Vital Signs:
Pulse: Erratic (divided between left and right chambers)
Blood Pressure: Elevated due to constant internal conflict
Temperature: Rising globally
Vision: Impaired by polarization
Hearing: Selective—responds mainly to echo chambers
Heart: Enlarged historically, now showing signs of hardening
Prognosis:
Guarded to poor. Survival depends on:
Aggressive treatment of ideological malignancy
Coronary transplant (restore compassion and moral circulation)
Rehabilitation therapy to strengthen backbone and restore balance
Cognitive behavioral therapy to reverse chronic denial and historical amnesia
Detoxification from greed, fear, and misinformation
Long-term infusion of education, empathy, and critical thinking
Summary:
Patient remains in critical but not terminal condition. Though his immune system of democracy is weakened, the antibodies of truth, courage, and civic duty still circulate—albeit faintly. Immediate intervention is required to prevent full organ failure of the Republic.
At 73, this Labor Day weekend makes me wonder: How many summers do I have left?
I don’t miss the heat or humidity of summer. I miss the sunlight—the early sunrises, the lingering evenings. A metaphor, perhaps, for life’s stages.
Leisure reading is fading. Only 16% of Americans read regularly for pleasure—down from 28% in 2003. In the UK, just 41% of parents read daily to toddlers, compared with 64% in 2012.
I wandered into a Barnes & Noble last week, my first visit in over a year. Chairs and cozy nooks were gone—B&N is all business now. I left without a book. Even their sale couldn’t entice me; I balk at paying more than $20 for a hardcover.
On my nightstand:
King of Kings: The Iranian Revolution—A Story of Hubris, Delusion and Catastrophic Miscalculation by Scott Anderson
Miracles and Wonder: The Historical Mystery of Jesus by Elaine Pagels
Haruki Murakami once wrote:
“If you only read the books that everyone else is reading, you can only think what everyone else is thinking.”
Mortality hovers. I don’t fear death, but I do fear dying. Sometimes I feel like a man with his head beneath a guillotine, staring at the blade. I’ve been fortunate with health, but around me I see friends whose luck has run out. The blade will fall on me too.
Meanwhile, the U.S. falters. Ineptitude, cowardice, hubris—displayed daily. A recent New York Times photo showed India’s Modi with Putin and Xi, a tableau of shifting power. It captured the failure of American diplomacy and leadership. One man bears much of the blame: Donald Trump. As summer declines, so does America as it retreats further into the darkness.
I read, collect and on occasion try to write pithy and wise aphorisms. Like a gold miner from the American West, I sifted through the contents of this book and found these gems. Author is listed before his aphorisms.
By La Rochefoucauld
We promise according to our hopes; we perform according to our fears.
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To establish ourselves in the world we do everything to appear as if we were established.
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Everyone blames his memory, no one blames his judgment.
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Old men delight in giving good advice as a consolation for the fact that they can no longer set bad examples.
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We become so accustomed to disguising ourselves to others that at last we are disguised to ourselves.
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The refusal of praise is only the wish to be praised twice.
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Those who apply themselves too closely to little things often become incapable of great things.
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By Nicolas De Chamfort
What makes the success of many books consists in the affinity there is between the mediocrity of the author’s ideas and those of the public.
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A WITTY woman told me one day what may well be the secret of her sex: it is that every woman in choosing a lover takes more account of the way in which other women regard the man than of her own.
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By Charles Caleb Colton
With books, as with companions, it is of more consequence to know which to avoid, than which to choose; for good books are as scarce as good companions.
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By John Lancester Spalding
To be more impartial about the modern world, you need the vantage point of old books.
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The weak, when they have authority, surround themselves with the weak.
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Conversation injures more than it benefits. Men talk to escape from themselves, from sheer dread of silence. Reflection makes them uncomfortable, and they find distraction in a noise of words. They seek not the company of those who might enlighten and improve them, but that of whoever can divert and amuse them.
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The smaller the company, the larger the conversation.
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By Austin O’Malley
Beware of the patient man The bigger the dam of patience, the worse the flood when the dam breaks.
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A man’s life is like a well, not like a snake— it should be measured by its depth, not by its length.
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In selecting a wife use your ears before your eyes.
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By Goethe
An intelligent man finds almost everything ridiculous, a wise man hardly anything.
This book is well-written, compelling, and—most notably—largely uncontested. I’ve read and heard very little pushback on the specific facts or episodes it reveals, which suggests that authors Alex Thompson and Jake Tapper did their journalistic homework. The anger it has generated seems not to concern the accuracy of its content, but rather the timing of its release—particularly among Biden loyalists, who view it as a betrayal during a time when the President is reportedly battling stage four colon cancer.
Others, more detached, wonder aloud why this information wasn’t brought to light sooner—why major media outlets, especially CNN, did not explore or disclose the full extent of President Biden’s physical and cognitive decline during his time in office. That is perhaps the most damning question of all.
This is an important book. It speaks to an uncomfortable truth that extends far beyond one man: the American political establishment, across all branches, has proven remarkably inept at addressing questions of age, health, and capacity among its senior-most officials. From the silent frailty of Dianne Feinstein to the vanished vigor of Ruth Bader Ginsburg, we’ve seen what happens when ego and denial—both personal and institutional—take precedence over public responsibility.
Perhaps the quintessential case of this phenomenon was Woodrow Wilson’s second term. After a debilitating stroke, Wilson was essentially incapacitated. His wife, Edith, barred access to him, managed his communications, and in effect acted as President. It was a quiet coup by pillow and teacup. The Republic endured, but barely.
There are shades of Edith Wilson in Jill Biden. She appears to have acted as her husband’s chief protector—controlling access, managing his schedule, shielding him from the press, and preserving the illusion of a functioning presidency. In her role as spouse, that’s understandable. In her unelected role as a shadow gatekeeper to the Commander-in-Chief, it is far more problematic. One might say she acted out of love; but in doing so, she may have done a grave disservice not just to Joe, but to the country.
The book should be read not as a political hit job, but as a cautionary tale—a sobering account of what happens when the reality of aging is denied, hidden, or downplayed in a role where vitality, decisiveness, and mental clarity are non-negotiable. The tragic erosion of strength and cognition in old age is painful to witness in any context. But when the individual in decline is the President of the United States, the stakes are exponentially higher.
Being President is not a part-time job. And yet, this administration’s inner circle seemed intent on turning it into a 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. desk duty—often with questionable results. The staff’s attempts to mask or manage the President’s decline weren’t just misguided; they were reckless. Shame on them. Shame on the senior Democrats who knew the truth and said nothing. And shame, too, on the partisans who savaged the few journalists who dared to report what millions of Americans could plainly see.
Modest Proposals for Reform
The republic deserves better than this. Here are a few modest proposals to restore some measure of honesty and responsibility to our political gerontocracy:
Mandatory retirement at 78 for all members of Congress and Supreme Court justices. This would mean the last year someone could run for the Senate would be age 73; for the House, age 76.
Presidential retirement at 78. If a sitting President reaches that age during their term, the Vice President should assume office.
Lower the minimum age to run for President to 32. Why 35, anyway? If you’re old enough to command a drone strike, you’re old enough to command the White House.
Annual cognitive testing starting at age 68 for any sitting President, Supreme Court justice, or member of Congress, with results made public. Transparency, like sunlight, is the best disinfectant.
And What of Donald Trump?
Let us not delude ourselves. The other septuagenarian (now octogenarian) candidate is not immune to the same questions. A similar book could be written—perhaps will be written—about Donald Trump’s own health, mental acuity, and fitness for office. The signs are there, albeit in a different key.
One would hope that, should Trump become clearly unfit for office due to health reasons, the wise and the decent would persuade him to step aside. But hoping for wise and decent behavior in American politics is a bit like hoping the Mississippi River will reverse course out of courtesy.
We are a nation now ruled by its elders, but without the wisdom such a gerontocracy is supposed to confer. Instead, we cling to figureheads and fictions, while truth sits ignored in the wings—sometimes until it’s too late. Original Sin may not be a comfortable read, but it is a necessary one.
Esot-eric 