Ten years ago I was at my son David’s wedding in Washington state. While we were standing in front of the hotel, my two- and- a- half year old granddaughter Emma looked intently at me, frowned, and said, “ Dee, you’re old!”

I pointed to my 92-yearold father who was standing nearby and said, “I’m not old, Emma. Look at Paw. Now he’s old.”

“Okay,” admitted Emma with a smile, “You’re just a little old.”

Today, at age 71, I’m 10 years older than “just a little old.” My dad died five years ago.

Having just attended my 50th reunion at Bowdoin, which included a moving Memorial Service for departed classmates, I’ve been asking myself. Am I old? Just a little old? And what does being “ old” mean anyway?

Such thoughts prompted me to write a column about living life in the old lane. Not every older ( I prefer the term “chronologically enhanced”) person experiences life the way I do. But I daresay that we share some common fears and frustrations, jitters and joys. Most of us are just happy to be around, on the right side of the ground.

I hope to address everything from technology ( shudder) to romance, humor to despair, delight to death. Maybe it will help some fellow oldsters know that they, we, are not alone; rather, we’re all in this together. It might help our “kids” (we never stop calling our kids “ kids” even when they’re nearing 50) understand us a little better. If nothing else, this column will help me come to grips with my own mortality in the best way I know how: By writing.

As I reflect upon aging, I glance over at the cluttered couch in my office in the basement. I see the box, which contains my dad’s ashes. Yes, I know, who keeps one’s parent’s ashes around for five years? Well, inertia is partly to blame. My dad wasn’t into religion or sentimentality, although he was the most ethical and fair- minded person one could meet. “ Toss me out in the garbage after I die,” he would say, half jokingly. In truth, my sister and I haven’t decided what to do with his remains. But here’s the bigger reason I’ve kept that box around: It’s kind of nice to know he’s still here, sort of.

Speaking of my dad. Now there’s a guy who never ever admitted to being old. Long past the time he should have stopped driving, he would say, “I used to be an excellent driver; now I’m a very good driver.” Some people said, “Just take away his car keys.” But in fact, you can’t take away someone’s car keys if he or she is mentally competent — at least in Delaware where he lived. My dad, though, could never understand why his friends wouldn’t be in a car with him if he was driving.

While my dad was blind to his driving capabilities, he never lost his sight at the card table. A nationally ranked bridge player with 26,000 master points (that’s not a misprint) and a member of the Bridge Hall of Fame, he won a bridge tournament just one week before he died at age 97. His partner: a 45-year-old woman who tolerated his jokes because he was such a good and kind and patient bridge teacher.

And speaking of jokes. My dad never let up with the jokes. Ever. He tended to be an introvert so he often connected with people by telling them jokes. “ Say, did you hear…” he would say to a person he just met at a party? And if that person laughed at the first joke, he’d go on to the next. And the next.

When we later reviewed photos after that wedding of 10 years ago, one photo stands out for me. It shows my dad (again, he was age 92 at the time) surrounded by five or six beautiful young bridesmaids. He can be seen in full joke-telling mode: Straight face, hands gesturing. The young women are all smiling or laughing, buoyed perhaps more by the setting and the champagne than the brilliance of his jokes. But they look happy.

I’m sure at that very moment, my dad would have said, “I’m not old. I’m just a little old.” And, you know, he would have been right.

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David Treadwell is a writer; he lives in Brunswick.