Never say die

Elderly gentlemen fascinate me endlessly. There’s something about the silvery hair, the slightly stooped back the deliberateness of the movements, the time delay in their information processing that makes one anticipate and relish every utterance — a welcome breather to the urgency of the dealings of the young; the slightly dulled sense of hearing that necessitates a breach of personal space when in contact with them; the wrinkles, which seem like lived-through-it-all battle scars; and that tempered disposition that seems to say, “I have nothing to prove. I have seen all that is good and ugly in the world and have made peace with it.” In other words, “Chill, everyone.” 

I look forward to every opportunity to listen to them recount stories of lives past and youth lost. There is something hauntingly romantic about the old world they moved around in where word of honor, integrity, valor and chivalry where not merely concepts but were living, breathing traits of character that defined a man.

It is a pity that such opportunities are rare with my father living in another city and with both my grandfathers gone. I do have my favorite uncles, Eddie and Ernie, around, plus non-blood-related ones, fathers of close friends such as Ambassador Johnny Rocha, Tony Carag, Daniel Mercado, to name a few — gentlemen all who dish out charm, wisdom and fun in equal measure. But occasions to socialize with them are few so any chance to be in the company of an elderly gentleman is golden.

I don’t buy the much-parodied stereotype of grumpy old men because the few that I have had substantial exchanges with are dignified and engaging and in possession of a sense of humor sharper than their memory and eyesight. I should be so lucky.

So every time I come across elderly men, be it on social occasions or on the streets, I stop and regard them with a keen eye, ready to be awed at any moment. They never fail me.

This elderly gentleman, bowed by age and yet dressed in a crisp summer suit, sits at the very edge of this lone bench by the city walls, as though waiting for someone to join him. 

Now that I am on a break, I have the luxury of time to be on the lookout for them and observe them more closely. Here are the more remarkable moments captured stealthily on camera.

In Perivolos beach in Greece, I spied this tall and tanned “Daddy Cool,” as I had named him in my mind because he looked snazzy with his longish silver hair and colorful swim shorts that were virtually Speedo trunks on steroids — just a wee bit longer than your regular Speedos but hardly. I know; he shouldn’t have bothered but whatever. He must have been north of 70 because he walked gingerly about as he fetched himself a cocktail. But he still had that ever-so-slight swagger. He took his lounge chair out of the shade and sunned himself to a crisp with his nose in the air and a grin plastered on his face. I thought, “Way to go, gramps!”  What spirit.

As I was watching him, a movement off to the left corner of my eye distracted me.  Hello! It was an even older man (easily 80) and this time in full-fledged, itsie-bitsie, teenie-weenie Speedos, but then again, why the hell not?  At 80, who cares about what others think? He’s earned it. He was struggling to pull on some shorts, clearly having problems with balance when I pulled out my camera. If the 70-something one was Daddy Cool, this one was Tatang Groovy.

A couple of days later, in the medieval, fortified town of Siena in Italy, I almost got in the way of this biker as I absentmindedly strolled around. He deftly maneuvered his bike to avoid me and as he pedaled past I caught a closer look. Man, he was Lance Armstrong fast-forward 30 years! Fully decked-out in a yellow jersey cycling outfit, he was fashion-savvy even as he worked up a sweat. And then I realized, belatedly, what in heaven’s name was a pushing-70-year-old doing, cycling the steep cobblestoned hills of Siena? Then I figured he was sticking his middle finger up to old age and all the pre-conceptions that come with it. 

And then came this handsome elderly gentleman bowed by age and yet dressed in a crisp summer suit, perambulating up the slope entering San Giminiano. I spotted him as I got off the car at the parking lot, so I fast-walked to catch him as he turned the corner for fear of losing sight of him. But there he was, perched at the very edge of this lone bench by the city walls, looking around but at nothing in particular, as though waiting for someone to join him.  Could it be a lady? I was intrigued. I waited for some minutes to find out but it got too windy so I moved on. Whether or not he was alone or expecting company, the fact that he had put on a suit and ventured into town for a night out is the victory. He could have sat the night away at home in his pajamas watching TV but that’s the point — he didn’t.

“Lance Armstrong” (fast forward 30 years!) is fully decked-out in a yellow jersey cycling outfit. He is fashion-savvy even as he worked up a sweat. 

And they just kept coming! Along the autobahn in Ulm, Germany, from out of nowhere a pair of bikers zipped by the left flank of the car at around 100 kph — give or take. Of course they couldn’t be missed — all that black leather plus the studded biker boots called attention, not to mention the mean-looking bikes. When the car caught up with them again at some point and kept abreast for a minute or so I noticed the wrinkles and the loose skin because of the whipping wind and because they weren’t wearing full-face helmets.  Spring chickens they obviously weren’t but might as well have been with all that verve.

Not long after, a few towns later, into the autobahn putted two dapper old men from the Harburg exit, each in his own vintage Triumph sports car: one wearing a tam and a long scarf that flapped about; the other, in a black beret and old-world driving goggles.  They kept to the right-most lane, one in front of the other in perfect tandem as they chugged along. 

Some days after, up the winding road in Grinding leading to the Vienna woods, I came upon a man — pushing 80 years old if not quite, judging from his stoop and spindly legs, knobby knees and sagging arms. I felt panicked by the thought of him snapping in two as a dried-up twig would should he fall victim to a simple misstep and have a bad tumble. I mean, how far could those skinny legs take him, really?  But up he climbed at an even pace — quick and snappy — with hiking poles or what looked like ski poles without the spikes, tied to his wrists. Higher and higher he went with no sign of slowing down. I watched him as long as I could as the car sped on, until he became smaller than my thumb. 

Finally, while on a cruise in Lake Luzern, as the boat, docked to let passengers out at the castle stop, there came into view a dozen or so elderly people — men and women, mostly couples. They were sunbathing by the water’s edge and the sight of these spunky old souls in colorful swimsuits delighted me to no end, until out of the row of bodies sprang an old man with his back to the boat. I was in disbelief because in the bright sunlight, against the backdrop of the gorgeous azure lake below and the castle on a crag above, this old man’s not-so-firm butt shone in all it’s naked splendor! He had absolutely nothing on — no care in the world and not a stitch. He stood there for some minutes, kind enough not to turn around and flash us all until the boat cruised away. There’s a lot of fight in that one still.

 Many say that Caucasians age earliest among all the world’s races — physically, that is, so I could be some years off the mark here and there in age estimations. But no matter, what we speak of here is not the body but the spirit — that which does not age, in theory or so I thought, until I bumped into all these men.

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Thank you for your letters.  You may reach me at cecilelilles@yahoo.com.