The sports universe was abuzz this week with news that the desperate Florida Marlins had turned to 80-year-old Jack McKeon in their quest to win a few games between now and the end of the baseball season. But if you’re in any way connected to the Pennsylvania State University, the only possible reaction was: ’80? The guy’s a kid.’
This is pretty much how my dad reacts whenever he hears about 50th or 60th wedding anniversaries. ‘Newlyweds!’ he snorts.
That’s because he and my mom were married in October 1941.
In January 2010, Mom’s prognosis was not good. Her doctor predicted she’d be gone in three to six months. A year and a half later, I’m not betting against her sticking around to celebrate that 70th anniversary – or her 90th birthday next March.
We love tales of spry old-timers who rage, rage against the dying of the light. Jack McKeon and Joe Paterno and Herman and Nettie Frank (are those early 20th century names or what?) are models of the robust old age to which we all aspire. (Well, Mom and Dad aren’t all that robust lately, but they were doing pretty well until about two years ago.)
So why did the McKeon story occasion a round of geezer jokes? A quick search turned up quips about Depends, early-bird specials, afternoon naps, walkers and Hoveround electric scooters. All pretty lame.
Folklorist Alan Dundes, known as the ‘joke professor’ for his studies of one-liners about light bulbs, dead babies, Jewish mothers and the like, thought jokes were ‘a disguised way of dealing with our fears and anxieties . . . or guilt and grief. We laugh to keep from crying.’
When it comes to getting old, there’s plenty to cry about. We baby boomers, in particular, are at the point where we’re starting to freak out about aging: Will we have enough money to retire? Will we become frail and confused? Will our kids have to take care of us? Will we know when it’s time to check out and will we have the ways and means to actually make it happen?
Grim questions. So we try to laugh it off. Here are two of my favorite alte kaker (old fart) jokes, told to me by late Uncle Eddie:
- Two elderly couples are trying to decide where to eat. The one old guy tells the other old guy that he and the missus recently enjoyed a meal at a nearby Italian restaurant.
‘Fine,’ his friend says. ‘Let’s eat there. What’s the name of it?’
The guy wracks his brain. Finally, he says, ‘You know that flower with the thorns?’
‘Rose,’ his friend says.
The guy turns to his wife. ‘Rose, what’s the name of that Italian restaurant we liked?’
- This guy in a nursing home is celebrating his 90th birthday. His friends surprise him with a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader.
They wheel the guy in, the cheerleader climbs into his lap and purrs, ‘How about some super sex?’
The guy thinks about it for a minute.
‘I think I’ll have the soup,’ he says.
Oldsters like Jack McKeon and Joe Paterno reassure us middle-aged worriers that if we take good care of ourselves (and maybe, if we’re lucky, even if we don’t), we’re good for another 20 or 30 years.
‘Eighty doesn’t mean a thing,’ McKeon said when he was introduced as the Marlins’ interim manager. ‘I’m not 80.’ I would have preferred to hear him affirm that he was 80 and anyone who’s surprised or skeptical needs to get hip to the fact that octogenarians can still perform at a high level.
But much as we like stories about people who continue to perform at a high level into old age, some of us like even better stories about people who begin to perform at a high level late in life.
If, despite whatever you’ve accomplished in life, you suffer from underachiever syndrome, it’s enormously comforting to hear about late bloomers. They’re proof that it’s never too late. You can still publish that blockbuster novel at age 60 or 70. There’s still hope. There’s still time. (You will, however, have to let go of the dream of playing shortstop for the Yankees.)
See how greedy we humans can be? One minute we want only to be healthy and clear-headed when we’re old. The next, health and clear-headedness aren’t enough. We want to be dazzling, famous, revered, immortal even.
From time to time I think, I’ve done all right: I’ve raised three lovely children, I have a nice life. It’s enough. Stop putting pressure on yourself. Forget burning and raving at close of day. (Dylan Thomas died at 39, you know.) Relax. Enjoy.
Can’t do it. Given the choice between the soup or the sex, I still want the sex (as it were). So, I imagine, do Jack McKeon and Joe Paterno.
