As we begin this journey into being old, let me assure you that *I* am not old! My parents are old. And even they are not really old. Old means frail and feeble. My parents are neither frail nor feeble. True, chronologically, they are in their 90’s, but live in their house, and care for themselves, although the neighbor took the snow shovel out of my mother’s hands last winter and refused to return it until she allowed him, a mere youngster in his 50’s, to shovel her snow. She begrudges him that to this day. So if my parents are not old, I cannot possibly be old. Yes, I was born before the war. You see, we call it ‘The War’, because, as far as we are concerned ‘The War’ started on December 7th, 1941 and ended in June of 1945. I am not even a baby boomer and glad of it. Some baby boomers are old, but I, a pre war baby, am not. Some old people ramble when they write. With us youngsters, it is just an effective writing style.
Just so you know that as we talk about old people and how they got that way.