Hi again everyone — I’m so happy to be back with The Times Record again. In truth I’ve aged a bit since my last column appeared although I prefer to use the “a bit” words a bit loosely.

As the years have gone swiftly by, like so many of us living in Geezerland, without especially trying to, I have been remembering my past, and while I am not proud of lots of my stupidities and thoughtlessnesses, they are alas, part and parcel of who I am, and I can’t change what’s done. I’ve considered apologizing to those I’ve offended over these 85 years, but realize I can’t count that high, and many things I would not want to change, anyway.

I’d been blessed with a 65 year very happy marriage and a beautiful family who seem to forgive me lots. And lots.

Anyway, back to the being old thing. I used to wonder, back in the Jurassic when I was young, why really old people would sigh and say, “Well, I’m gettin’ old I guess.” I always wanted to shout, “Hey, you are already old. Honey, you are there! You’re not gettin’!” I knew, however, had I given into such rudeness I’d have been grounded until I was 40, so I held it in. Back then, being childishly outspoken and honest was not considered charming, or a virtue, and was often followed up with an unwelcome taste of brown soap.

Now that I hover quite near the hemline of 86 years old, I am forced to openly admit to being officially old. The wrinkles on my face cast long shadows even at dusk, and, in fact, that very face I gape at in the mirror now looks perplexingly like the bottom of an elephant’s foot. I have an inordinate fear of falling, although I know falling is the easy part; it’s that pesky getting back up thing, and no one I know owns a crane or a handy forklift, so I have to — well, you know.

And another thing, even when in my youth, I was never amused at those horrid old person cartoons, women with breasts like empty hot water bottles, undies hanging to their ankles, bodies shaped like bloated gourdes, sun-bleached chicken-bone legs, or legs like barnacle-covered traffic cones, hair like a nest of greying computer wires, and showing maniacal toothless grins while glowering from dried apple doll faces.

Never funny. We elderlies are never like that, and by the way, no one will ever hear us joyfully shriek, “When I am old, I shall be finally free and I shall dance in the rain in my purple underwear.” Seriously? Who does that? Dancing in the rain in one’s undies of any color is just plain indecent and can quickly become pneumonia.

So folks, let’s knock off the Hilarious Old Crone jokes. They are not. Getting old for most of us is frequently painful, scary and tedious, so when old age hits and it does seem to sort of arrive like that, do not be too proud to take anything offered to alleviate those maladies. We fogies saying inappropriate things or doing unacceptable things? Let it go. Ignore it. It happens.

Do not be too proud to carry a cane; it helps greatly with balance, causes people to be extra kind and helpful and it’s always great for swatting away those things requiring swatting, and you know who and what they are. I knew a wonderful old man once who told me that he was “intensely devoted to his cane.” I laughed then. I’m not laughing now.

In fact, folks, those of you who are not there yet, be of good faith. Old age can be a freeing, lovely, sweet and funny time of life and if you’re lucky, you’ll get there too, one day.

LC Van Savage is a local writer. Contact her at LCVS@comcast.net, or visit LCVanSavage.com.