Plus the astonishing
metamorphosis of
an artworld icon
Traditionally, the girl who leaps out of the cake is scantily clad, if at all.
Not so at the party my Hollister Publication Services colleagues threw for me. Nicole Stranko was wearing a nurse’s uniform when she leaped out of the big papier-mâché cake created by a fellow graphic designer. At my age, she explained, I must need a nurse.
Because it was a milestone (lower case “m”) birthday, I was feted (“-ed,” not “-id”) several times — including, by my fellow ROMEOs (Retired Old Men Eating Out), some Hollister alumnae and the folks at PCA, which publishes Milestones (capital “M”).
The Big Bash, though, was at the Franklin Inn Club, organized by my Child Bride (at least that’s what she was when I robbed the cradle almost 56 years ago). It was a Sunday brunch, which is a good idea since I can’t always stay awake in the evening.
I’ve scoured the Anne d’Harnoncourt obituaries and appreciations to see whether anyone mentioned her fine-tuned low-key sense of humor. If so, I missed it.
I also looked — in vain — to see whether anyone noted the longtime Philadelphia Museum of Art director’s astonishing metamorphosis from an awkward, socially uncomfortable art wonk to a public figure
of unusual grace, confidence and
eloquence.
True class is rare. Anne d’Harnoncourt had it.
As a teenager, if I wanted pocket money, I had to earn it myself, which meant getting a part-time job, which meant giving up any chance of becoming a track star.
The choice wasn’t really so difficult. At Overbrook High, you couldn’t be on the track team in the spring unless you ran cross-country (or played football) in the fall. Cross-country meets were at Gustine Lake reservoir in Fairmount Park, in the Strawberry Mansion neighborhood. Imagine hundreds of teenage boys, from several schools, running around a reservoir in their underwear (gym shorts) in the rain (it always rained), poking, shoving, elbowing for position. Fun?
When I dropped out, the coach was furious.
“That’s un-American,” he fumed. “You must be a commie or something.”
Young as I was, I realized that his was a limited worldview, but this was, after all, during the beginning of the Cold War, so he did make me feel unpatriotic, if not treasonous.
Not enough, though, to convince me to run around a reservoir in my underwear in the rain.
In the armed services, it’s been traditional to refer to the commanding officer as “the old man,” even if, as is often the case, he’s younger than most of those he’s commanding.
But in today’s co-ed military, how do they refer to a female commanding officer? “The old lady?” “The old woman?” “The old girl?”
Make a wrong choice, and whatever-you-call-her may not appreciate it. Kitchen or guard duty may await you.
In disputes, age
can be ultimate
sucker punch By Michael Silverstein
Walking down a New York street one evening, long-retired 80-year-old former heavyweight boxing champion Jack Dempsey was accosted by two young toughs who demanded his wallet. Dempsey decked them and sent them to the hospital.
He had been badly underestimated by his would-be abusers — an experience not altogether uncommon for many older Americans.
Joys of underestimation
As a young man, one of the things that scared me about living beyond my mid-60s was that no one would take me seriously, and might not even listen, except when I was asking for help carrying groceries or getting medications from a pharmacy. In those years, I thought it was only youthful vitality and appearance that mattered in achieving personal wishes or settling disagreements.
Happily, I’ve found this is not the case. One reason, of course, is that being listened to no longer carries the importance it once did. With more age-based understanding about when it’s worth asserting myself to get heard, I no longer bother doing so as often. But when confront I must, I’ve discovered the joys of being foolishly underestimated, simply because of my age.
The other day, for example, a minor disagreement with a young man led him to try intimidation to win his point. He moved in close and raised his voice, obviously expecting the old guy to back down. Instead, I merely held my ground and met his gaze. He was confused and stalemated.
Not frightened, of course. I wasn’t a physical threat to him. But I was someone with whom his own physical advantages were, in fact, disadvantages, because to use them would expose him to bullying-the-elderly charges. With a face-saving laugh, he backed off and we settled the matter in my favor.
I recently represented myself in court on a relatively small matter. Beforehand, the lawyer and I sat in a little room to discuss the case. He was young, smiling and overly solicitous, feigning concern that I had to appear in so unfamiliar a setting. He was lathering up the old guy before conning me into the deal he was sure would soon be his.
Just before he pounced, I whipped out some paperwork from records I still meticulously keep. He seemed positively shocked that someone so apparently helpless should still be able to locate such documents. After shaking his head a few times, he gave me a curious smile and said: “You beat me.”
The ultimate sucker punch
These examples suggest something interesting:
Being older (and looking it) can often prove to be the ultimate sucker punch when it comes to settling disputes.
Sure, when it comes to big financial challenges, I still have the power suits in the closet. And yes, for serious physical threats, I’m quick to call the police.
But in countless other situations, my age is less a symptom of weakness than an edge in winning out in life’s many little conflicts.
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