The Romantic Larry Behr, 88: A Young Man on the Prowl for Life, Love, and the Pursuit of Happiness.

My old friend, Larry Behr, 88, is shown here in his tux before singing this month with the Bristol CT Choral Society. Having survived the loss of two great longtime loves, Larry is back living full steam ahead -- and is on the prowl for a new romance.

I remember having lunch with him 18 years ago to celebrate his 70th birthday. As we sat there, I thought, "Oh my God, seventy years old!" Now I wouldn't mind being that young.

A former sales manager for 28 years at the same New Jersey company, Larry is quick to say that he is not the retiring type. He is independent. He has his own money and has had the same financial advisor for 20 years.

He lives in his own large, comfortable home. He has all his "cookies." He is fully mobile. He drives. He sails. He travels. He keeps up with current affairs and can expound at length on the pros and cons of President Obama's policies.

A whirlwind of interests and activity, he is always doing something.

“Idleness is my enemy,” he said. “Time on my hands gets me down thinking about Elaine (his last great love who died three years ago)."

A bright spot in Larry's life is that Elaine's family of five grown children (and 16 grandchildren), have reached out to him and make a point to include him in family gatherings. He deeply appreciates this and wants to remain a part of the family as he has been for 18 years.

He is also close to his sister Norma in New Jersey, and his nephew Mark and wife Leslie and their son Alan. But they are in New Jersey and Larry is three hours drive away in Connecticut. The distance is difficult to surmount regularly.

The running joke with Larry and me is that I have applied for and received court custody of him. I tell him that I don't like bothering him, but the court requires regular visitations. He laughs.

Larry's sense of humor  marches on as if to its own imperatives. The sign here is typical Larry Behr humor. It is near his front door and greets every visitor.

He blames his poor mother for his sense of humor. “Wherever she went, even to the store, she would come back with a story about somebody she met or something that had happened,” Larry said.

Larry's stories are legendary and come out when they have to, which is all the time. You have to run off somewhere. Too bad. You have to hear a story on your way out. Not feeling yourself, Larry will have a story for you. It may or may not make you feel better. It may or may not be funny. It may, actually, be awful.

But quite a few are hilarious. Many are cultural jewels from his childhood, from his wartime experiences in World War II, from his stint hosting a Connecticut radio show – and thus the sonorous voice – and from going on nine decades of living.

Normally, I limit Larry to three stories a visit. He good-naturedly goes along with the limit, but never stops trying to slip in an extra story. I gently, but firmly, shut him up.

He is also a thoroughly addicted punner. When you thank him for something, he invariably says, "my pressure.”

No matter what is happening in Larry's life, the punning never stops.

This evening, Larry was singing with the  150-strong Bristol Choral Society. He is a baritone. The Bristol Choral Society does not hold auditions. Anybody is welcome to join. The Society sings everything from Latin liturgy -- in Latin -- to modern pop. This particular evening the choral group also performed a beautiful continuous selection from Cole Porter.

When a select group of women were singing alone and Larry was sitting in the audience with us watching, he said, "Fourth from the left. That's the one I have the hots for."

"Larry," I said, as his legal custodian, "those days are over for you. Don't you think it's time you acted your age?"

"No. I really, really like her."

He explained that he had already approached her and learned that she was involved in a relationship. "She told me that it wasn't going well," he said brightly, "so I gave her my card and asked her to call me when she was ready. She's a beauty."

Larry also has a business selling and fixing antiques.  He calls it “Fetherson and Fothergil, Purveyers of Antiquity.” His business card offers restoration and repairs of the following: Weapons. Scientific. Clocks. Tools. Primitives. The last one applies to people and things. He makes house calls. The card sums up his business as “specializing in almost everything.”

Rarely does one see or hear of a business with almost no interest in making money, but Fetherson and Fothergil is such a business. “I'm not doing it to make money,” Larry said. “I'm doing it for people, to see them, to be around them, to talk to them.”

In pursuit of his own surely quixotic idea of business, Larry hits the antique shows, fairs, and other places where antique-lovers gather. While serious businesses follow the money, Fetherson and Fothergill goes to where the people are. 

Larry's “customers” don't need fat wallets; they just need to love antiques and be willing to hear Larry's stories and tell him their own. He will charge something for his wares and services, but it is largely a front to maintain appearances.

“I'm cheap,” he said. But he is quick to add that he does quality work. Should there be any doubt about that, it is dispelled with one look at the beautifully restored fine antiques displayed throughout his home.

If you are an antique-lover and are in the market for a cheap antiques purveyer and restorer who makes house calls, there is a number you can call. It is 860-585-6484. In conscience, however, and in the interests of full disclosure, there is a caveat.

If you are a woman, you must understand something. Larry Behr is on the make, actively looking for a pretty young thing. He may be 88, but he is looking for romance, actually for the next love of his life.

“I'm on the prowl,” he admits. “I'm looking for a meaningless relationship.”

“Aren't you a bit too old to be even thinking about dating?”

“Look,” he said not the least bit sheepishly. “I like girls.”

So girls -- excuse me, ladies -- watch out for Larry Behr. Also, he has been known to dangle enticements, as in this photo. There, you have fair warning. Here is a young man on the prowl for life, love, and the pursuit of happiness. 

So long and keep moving.

                 
                                     Amazon E-Books by George Pollock

"State Kid: Hero of Literacy" is fiction based on his real-life experiences growing up in foster homes; "Last Laughs," is the true story of how five foster kids (he and four younger siblings) found their way in life and each other. "Killers: Surprises in a Maximum Security Prison," is the story of his being locked up for 23 hours with killers in a maximum security prison; "I, Cadaver" is about his postmortem adventures and mischief in the anatomy lab at UMass Medical School. “A Beautiful Story” demonstrates the art and process of creative writing as a 16-year-old boy goes all out to write a story that literally saves his life; "A Long, Happy, Healthy Life," is about how to live the title every day; and "Unlove Story," Writing anonymously as "Elvis," a husband, dumped after 38 years of marriage, lets it all out on love, marriage, life, everything. A guy doing this? It's unheard of.

 
For the Nook:

A Beautiful Story
A Long, Happy, Healthy Life
I, Cadaver
Killers

New Apple Smartphone: With a New Toy, Looking Everywhere for Good Pictures.

Barbara and I finally gave in. It was just time. After putting it off for months, we tip-toed into the 21st century -- with new Apple iPhones.

Everywhere I have been going lately, I've been like a kid with a new toy, taking photos right and left with my new Apple smartphone. To my surprise and delight, people haven't ducked, run, or waved me off like some big mosquito.

That's what I regularly got when I whipped out my big old Canon PowerShot A630. People noticed. Many didn't like it.

But with everybody clutching a smartphone these days, it has become almost too common to notice. It is so deeply embedded in our culture that it has become one word, morphing from smart phone to smartphone. Unlike my bulky, old-fashioned, highly visible old camera, it seems to pose no threat to privacy.

With my smartphone, I can apparently snoop into peoples lives with impunity.

Smartphone in hand, I went for a walk on the campus of a nearby university, WPI. In the main guadrangle, with lots of students coming and going -- literally all clutching smartphones-- I came across a student stretched out sound asleep on a bench.

I thought: What a contrast. What an interesting picture.

I  sat down on a facing bench and, with a couple of quick taps, took the picture.  No one noticed.  Below is the photo. I must note that, even though sound asleep, the student has a strangle-hold on his smartphone.

Let's hope his parents, who may be springing huge sums for their son's education, don't see this picture.

Next, I went for a walk on the campus of Worcester State University, smartphone in hand of course. No sooner did I step foot on the university grounds than I heard blasting fire sirens and police horns.

Soon, with fire engines and police cars arriving and onlookers gathering, I took a bunch of photos. No one even noticed I was doing it.

"What's going on here?" I asked a group of onlookers.

No one knew. "I don't see any smoke," I said. "My guess is that it is some kind of medical emergency."

Onlookers nodded in agreement. Not only was I photographing the scene; I was a part of it. Later, there was nothing in the local paper about the incident.  I never found out what the emergency was. But in case you think I'm making this up, here is a photo I took.

Then there was my old friend Barbie Bell's cookout at her beautiful lakeside place.  I have to say that I contributed something to its beauty. Last summer, I and Barbie's partner Tim built her a waterfront stone wall, pictured here.



Tim willingly served as my "rock bitch," and we had a lot of fun with that.

Before I arrived, Barbie told me that she had a surprise for me. It was a wonderful one: she named her wall after me. She now calls it the GPW, or George Pollock Wall.

Barbie showed me a large stone, pictured here, with the name on it. She said that my namesake rock will always be displayed  with the wall.

Thank you, Barbie and Tim. It was my pleasure. And now, when I click on my smartphone, the first thing I see is the GPW rock.

Did I say that Barbie's place is beautiful?  Well, above is what I mean.

As if  Barbie's GPW rock were not enough, Barbara and I got another pleasant surprise, this hand-drawn-on-the-spot caricature of the two of us. Barbara looks like a young chick, which she is. I look like an old goat which, I have to admit, I am.

Oh, well. I can live with that.

Barbie had bought a winning ticket on the services of the artist, shown here sketching the two of us. Amazingly, working several hours straight, he did a caricature of everybody who wanted one.  He did all the kids.

I noticed that his left arm appeared unusable. I asked Barbie about it. "He had a stroke a while back," she said. "He's still recovering."

This is one good way to recover,  I thought. I also could not help noticing the nonstop smile on his face. No wonder he worked so many hours straight, pausing  for only a few minutes to grab something to eat. He loves to draw caricatures of people.

He has a story. I'd like to write it.

Then there was my niece Linda's and her friend Kelly's fundraiser for their Breast Friends support group.  Both are breast cancer survivors and hold monthly meetings for other survivors.

Of course, sadly, some do not survive.

"We don't use the word 'terminal,'" Linda says. "Our group is all about hope. There is always hope."

Great  prizes, all donated, were laid out on long tables and raffled. My sister Ruby, shown here with Barbara and my son Greg manned the coffee and pastry table, all donated.


Barbara and I won three prizes: a $25 gift certificate to Big Y supermarket;  two tickets to the Hanover Theater to see Mary Poppins (worth about $150); and a $25 gift certificate to Flip Flops Restaurant in Holden, Mass.

Pretty good, I would say.

Maybe you better make the next Breast Friends event. To join, donate, or learn more, click here.

Finally, the Pollock family get-together at Ruby's lakeside cottage in Oxford, Mass. For me and my four siblings -- who grew up in foster homes without family of any kind -- this is a big deal.

It's so big that Ruby decided to give her cottage a special name: Pollock Place. To make the entrance more welcoming, she had a sign made and commissioned me and her son Glen to get it up. She ordered us to get it done by September 1, the date for the Pollock event.

That gave us a week. Working like a crazy man, I got rid of a pile of brush at the entrance and built a wall. To get rocks for the wall, I had to dig them up in the woods and haul them to the entrance.

Glen, owner of Quinsigamond Machine and insanely busy meeting orders for his growing business, somehow found time to design a frame for the sign that looked right and would stay in the ground.

Here is Glen with what he came up with and how it looks in front of my wall. Linda supplied the beautiful flowers.

Now a few scenes from a wonderful day at Pollock Place.

So long and keep moving.

NOTE: George Pollock's novel,  State Kid: Hero of Literacy is now available as an E-book on Amazon (Kindle) and Barnes & Noble ( Nook).

Billy Stone was a foster child.

He ran away from abuse.

He went to juvenile prison.

He went up from there.

And he did it his way.

 Through the power of the written word. 

         Amazon E-Books by George Pollock

 "State Kid: Hero of Literacy" is fiction based on his  real-life experiences  growing up in foster homes; "Last Laughs," is the true story of how five foster kids (he and four younger siblings) found their way in life and each other. "Killers: Surprises in a Maximum Security Prison," is the story of his being locked up for 23 hours with killers in a maximum security prison;  "I, Cadaver" is about his postmortem adventures and mischief in the anatomy lab at UMass Medical School. “A Beautiful Story” demonstrates the art and process of creative writing as a 16-year-old boy goes all out to write a story that literally saves his life;  "A Long, Happy, Healthy Life,"  is about how to live the title every day; and "Unlove Story," Writing anonymously as "Elvis," a husband, dumped after 38 years of marriage, lets it all out on love, marriage, life, everything. A guy doing this? It's unheard of.

   For the Nook:

A Beautiful Story
A Long, Happy, Healthy Life
I, Cadaver
Killers
State Kid
Unlove Story

Two Birthday Girls: Sister Ruby and Aunt Lillian Do Not Know They Are Now Senior Citizens. Help!

Psst. Just between you and me, how do we tell my sister Ruby and my Aunt Lillian, newly 70 and 80 respectively, that they are now er... ah...ahem ... OLD?  They just keep acting like, well, like they are -- you're not going to believe this -- YOUNG!

Someone should talk to them.

Well, okay, with the rest of our huge family afraid to say a word, I guess it falls to me, George Francis Pollock III, the family patriarch. (Formal coronation to come; gold crown and purple robes have been chosen.)

Actually, I did get tough with my sister Ruby, in no uncertain terms, when her daughter Linda and son Glen, brought her to my doorstep for a surprise visit to celebrate her 70th. What greeted her were a few choice proclamations taped to the front door, shown below.

Linda and Glen had planned a special, very creative, daylong birthday celebration for their mom: a surprise visit to each of her four siblings, Marion, Victor, Reggie, and me. When the three of them drove off that morning, Ruby had no idea where she was being taken.


But, no dummy, she quickly figured out that they were headed for Vic's place in Sturbridge, but didn't let on. She didn't want to ruin the surprise and they had a nice visit with Vic and his partner Marianne.

As they were leaving, Vic said, "Say hello to George for us."

Marianne gave Vic a look to kill.


At my house, taking a break from horsing around and lecturing Ruby about acting her age, I gave civil conversation a try. "So, you're heading next up to New Hampshire to see Reggie," I said.

Instantly, Glen and Linda shot each other open-mouthed expressions that said, "No! Not again!" I covered my mouth. Too late ...  I had let the cat out of the bag.

Ruby looked at Glen. She looked at Linda.

Message received by Ruby.

"Oops," I said. "Sorry."

And what a look I got from Barbara, wishing me to -- gulp! -- suffer. 

My punishment was immediate and severe -- a public spanking in my own home! Glen took matters into his own hands, literally, as you can see in the photo. Ouch!

After my coronation, Glen's head will be the first to roll!

While I struggled  for some semblance of dignity, we enjoyed Barbara's homemade corn bread and bran muffins with coffee, despite the "no coffee" sign on the front door. A surprise guest, my son Greg who lives in Pennsylvania, ignored the "no drop-ins" sign on the front door and dropped in.

Greg is shown here, left, with myself and the birthday girl. But soon -- too soon -- it was time for Glen, Linda, and Ruby to head up to New Hampshire to visit the baby sibling, Reggie and his wife Jeanette.

Visiting  Reggie was extra special for Ruby. It had been 16 years since she had been in his New Hampshire home. She reveled in it.  

There was no reason for the absence. It is just that Ruby is still working at a demanding, high-responsibility job as manager of a rest home. Many of her residents are younger than she is. In addition, she owns and manages several rental properties.

See what I mean?  Nobody her age does such things.

She has little time for visiting four siblings, which is exactly why Glen and Linda came up with the idea of visiting them all in one one day. They do all the planning and driving while Mom enjoys the ride.

It was an ingenious way to kill  four birds with one stone and to make time four times more productive. When you don't have time, you make time. Brilliant.

Linda and Glen, how did you two get so smart?  

After a nice visit with Reggie and Jeanette in New Hampshire, there was no doubt about the next destination: sister Marion's, in Wakefield, Mass. Ruby and Marion have been close all their lives.

Growing up in foster homes -- and sharing some of them -- they watched  each other's back as they stood together against unending abuse.

 

Today, in addition to each other, they have families of their own.   Ruby has her Glen and Linda (below, with Glen's wife Patty) and Marion has her Jimmy (right) and Nanci.  Ruby has her grandkids Karina, Cam, Logan and Julianna and Marion has her grandkids James and Emmalee.

And, of course, they have Aunt Lillian and the whole precious, newly discovered Pollock family.

Marion and Ruby both put themselves through college and earned graduate degrees, Ruby's in social work and Marion's in nursing. After a long career as a high-level manager of nursing at major hospitals, Marion, 72, will be retiring soon.

From Marion's, Glen, Linda, and Ruby went into Boston where they had dinner at historic Faneuil Hall. After dinner, they strolled around the shops at Quincy Square. By the time Glen and Linda dropped Ruby off at home, it was 10:30 p.m.

 I asked Ruby how she felt about the day. One word flew out: "Wonderful. It was wonderful.  Nothing more could have been done to make me happier, nothing."

The other birthday girl, Aunt Lillian, arrived with daughter Nancy at her surprise party celebrating her big eight-oh -- and she was totally taken by surprise. She had made it clear that she did not want a party. And she figured that was that.

But she  forgot that her young-uns Ginny, Nancy, and Walter take after her. Like their Mom, they  have minds of their own.

They thought their mom deserved a party. They wanted to celebrate not just her reaching a milestone in years, but also who she is, her achievements, her courage, her resilience, and her love  that nourished them all their lives.

Aunt Lillian and her husband operated their own family restaurant and bar  for many years. Nancy, Walter, and Ginny grew up with the family business and took turns working there part time. (So did their sister Barbara who, sadly, passed away three years ago far too young.)

But now Aunt Lillian is entering a whole new phase of life. Some call it retirement. But with Aunt Lillian, it is more like reinventing herself and her life. It's as if she is just sitting down to the banquet of life.

See what I mean? Nobody her age does such things.

She is in the process of selling the Whitman home where she has lived for more than 40 years. She will be moving into a new addition to Ginny's home, currently being built by Ginny's contractor husband, Rob. Ginny is shown at left at the party's generous buffet.

Aunt Lillian's sister  Barbara, despite serious health issues and needing assistance, was also at the party. She is pictured at right with daughter Christine. Her full name is Barbara Pollock Riley.  Aunt Lillian's full name is Lillian Pollock Cloyd. 

Aunt Barbara has a wry sense or humor  and when I go into make-believe mode with her, she goes right with it. 

Christine had asked me to bring a hardcover copy of my novel, "State Kid: Hero of Literacy" to the party. She offered to pay for it. "Nah, too expensive," I said. "I'll give it to you  and then you can lend it around the family." In the photo, I am writing a little author's note for her.  

With the author's signature, the book is sure to be a collector's item  worth a fortune some day.  But if you're cheap and have a Kindle, State Kid is available as an E-book on Amazon or, if you have a Nook, Barnes&Noble.

For the five of us, Marion, Ruby, Victor, Reggie, and me, discovering Aunt Lillian (thanks to Vic's curiosity and research)  has been a dream come true. After growing up in foster homes without family of any kind, it is impossible to exaggerate how much Aunt Lillian means to us.

For us not to be at her 80th birthday party, for example, is unthinkable. Each one of us would have moved heaven and earth to get there. Above is a photo of the five of us at the party with Aunt Lillian. Now an  attempt by me to put into words how much she means to us:

White-haired Angel

Five kids. No mom. No dad. No Aunti. No Cuz. No one. No loving arms around us.

Five Adults. Out of the heavens, appears a little white-haired angel.

Aunt Lillian. Aunt Lillian. Aunti. Family. Real family. 

Oh God!  The loving arms of Aunt Lillian!

So warm. So sweet. So complete.

Postscript

After the milestones of Ruby's 70th and Aunt Lillian's 80th, dare I mention my little birthday, which was May 2, yesterday as I write this?  It lacks the big oh and high drama of 70 and 80,  but it is a birthday.

Oh, you want a number? I'll pass, but not because I'm sensitive about the number, only because it is the least important thing about this birthday. Thanks to my wife Barbara, yesterday I lived every second, every minute, every hour and it was one of the happiest and most memorable days of my life.

Like Ruby, I didn't know where we were going or what we were going to do when we hit the road in the morning. Barbara was driving. I sat in the front seat like an obedient little boy being taking by his mommy out into the big, mysterious, wondrous world.

Before I knew it we were on the woodsy back roads of Connecticut and I sat there soaking up the natural beauty of great trees and stone walls built a hundred years ago or more. I build stone walls. "Look at all those walls," I said. "Beautiful."

And then we were in the historic village of East Haddam and pulling up to the Gelston House Restaurant overlooking the Connecticut River. "I've always wanted to go here," Barbara said. "You took all your old girlfriends and never me. Now, finally, I'm going to eat here. Hungry?"

"Starved," I said," but aren't you forgetting something?"

"What?"

"It's my birthday, not yours." 

"I know, but ..."

I reached over and took her hand. Smiling, I said, "But I want us to enjoy it together, just you and me. Deal?"

"Deal."

We went into the Gelston House and had a long, delicious meal looking out at the Connecticut River. I had shrimp and scallops, Barbara baked chicken.

Then came the big surprise. Barbara pulled out a couple of tickets and handed them to me. "The lunch was special, but this is the real birthday present," Barbara said with a smile.

They were tickets to a performance of "Mame" at the historic Goodspeed Opera House, located not a hundred yards away and well known for his Broadway-quality shows.

"Wow!" I said. "I've never seen 'Mame.' What time does it start?"

"At two o'clock, in about twenty minutes."

And so the two of us went to see "Mame." We had great seats and the show was, well there is only one word for it, sensational. I could not believe the performance of Louise Pitre, 55, as Mame.  

Vivacious, rockus, bubbling over with the anything-goes spirit of the 1920's, Ms. Pitre's Mame swayed and kicked to wild, all-out rhythms in a spectacular celebration of life. Both of us left the theater absolutely blown away -- and happy.

What an unforgettable birthday! Thank you, dear!

 Louise Pitre performed while dealing with a father who has Alzheimer's -- and who doesn't know who she is -- and a Mom entering early stages of the disease.  The day before she had accepted the role at the Goodspeed, she learned that her Mom had been accepted at a top health care center in  Canada, where she is from.

If she had not been accepted, Ms. Pitre said in an interview at Gelston House, she would not have accepted the role.  But she did and went out there showing us all  that, no matter what,  life is a banquet -- and we must, live, live, live!

And here she is below doing just that, singing and dancing her heart out.

So long and keep moving.

 E-Books by George Pollock

 "State Kid: Hero of Literacy" is fiction based on his  real-life experiences  growing up in foster homes; "Last Laughs," is the true story of how five foster kids (he and four younger siblings) found their way in life and each other. "Killers: Surprises in a Maximum Security Prison," is the story of his being locked up for 23 hours with killers in a maximum security prison;  "I, Cadaver" is about his postmortem adventures and mischief in the anatomy lab at UMass Medical School. “A Beautiful Story” demonstrates the art and process of creative writing as a 16-year-old boy goes all out to write a story that literally saves his life;  "A Long, Happy, Healthy Life," which is about how to live the title every day; and "Unlove Story," Writing anonymously as "Elvis," a husband, dumped after 38 years of marriage, lets it all out on love, marriage, life, everything. A guy doing this? It's unheard of.

Super Old and Healthy: Fooling Mean Old Mother Nature and Standing Up to No-Good, Sneaky Mr. Gravity .

 Cover design by Alana White. Link

Mother Nature is as mean and selfish as she can possibly be. After we have done what she wants -- breeding and rearing young -- she wants us dead, period.

Same with that old creepy-sneaky, Mr. Gravity, who works nonstop to get us to hang our heads and walk bent over while making us think that the culprit is the laws of physics.

Well, if we put our minds to it, maybe we can turn the tables on these miserable co-conspirators against our having a long, happy, healthy life. Wait a sec. That's the title of my new E-Book, above.  What a coincidence!

How to describe it. Hmmmmm.

Got it. It's a call for mass rebellion against the tyranny of Mother Nature and Mr. Gravity, while challenging conventional thinking about aging and health. It's about how we can dump mindsets about disease, lifespan, and health care, and maybe, just maybe, outlive the hills -- while living it up every precious day.

Let me give you a little taste of the book, with brief samples from it -- starting with what may be common in the near future:

 An Old, Old, Old Comic.

It is Saturday night at the Comedy Palace, a showcase for up and coming new comics. After a parade of 20-something comics, the evening's featured performer enters stage right.

He has long white hair that falls pencil-straight from the sides of his head to his shoulders; there is nothing on top. He's tall and skinny and wizened and smiling ear to ear.

To an audience used to fresh-faced sprigs as young as springtime, this guy is not just old. He's old old old. He is older than anyone in the audience has ever heard of. He is older than any human being could possibly be without being comatose in bed, unable to eat, hear, speak and sustained by tubes and beeping monitors.

He is 119. But instead of creeping on stage all bent over with decrepitude, he bounds on with the same zest as the young comics before him. As the headliner everybody has been waiting for, he is greeted by exuberant applause.

Over the past 19 years, since appearing on television on the occasion of his 100th birthday and exhibiting a vitality remarkable for his years and cracking joke after joke, he has become something of a celebrity.

But he has not forgotten where he came from. He is appearing in his home town. Grabbing the mike, he says, “Hi! Great to be back home among friends. Actually, it's great to be anywhere.”

The hackneyed line, a standard for advanced-agers everywhere, gets him whoops and hollers. He doesn't even have to say, “at my age.” The audience is totally tuned into his shtick.

When the noise dies down, he says, “The wife and I just moved out of the old homestead into something smaller. We waited until the children were all dead.”

Laughter erupts all over again. With a devilish grin, he primes the audience for more. He holds back, playing, teasing. And when they can't wait another second, he hits them again.

“And, wouldn't you know, a few weeks later I buried my wife. Had to. Dead, you know.”

The room goes wild.

“I went to the doctor the other day and she gave me three months to live. Great, I said. My life expectancy is four days.”

Now the laughter is nonstop.

“I'm tired of being widowed. Now that I'm single again and back dating, I'm looking for a wife I won't outlive – say a nice stacked 19-year-old chick with great legs.”

He puts a hand across the top of his forehead and peers out at the audience. “I see a lot great legs out there. What are you girls trying to do, overstimulate me to death?”

By the time he finishes his routine, there are smiles on every face.

A 119-year-old making jokes about old age and death?

Well, maybe not quite yet. But given accelerating medical advances and changing attitudes about age, such a scene may be commonplace sooner than we think.

People 85 and older are the fastest growing age group in America. The U.S. Census Bureau estimates that by 2050, the number of people 85 and older will jump to 19 million, from about 4 million today.

The second fastest growing age group? People 100 and over.

In 2002, the U.S Census Bureau counted 58,684 centenarians in the U.S. The Bureau estimates that this number will rise to 1,095,000 by 2050 and could reach as high as 1,634,000. The super old are going to be everywhere. Four out of five will be women.

Among them will be amazing specimens of longevity who will be a lot older than a mere century. Of the planet's six billion human beings today, perhaps a thousand are 110 years old. These super oldsters may become so common, demographers say, that 100-year-olds will be thought of as relative youngsters.

Based upon simple demographic trends, then, some of the ultimate marathoners among us could be 119 some day and giving them a stand-up routine in L.A. If you harbor a secret ambition to become a late, late, late-blooming comedy star, well ...

… you better take charge of your health care now.

Bottom line: To get the health care we need, we can’t rely on doctors, insurance companies, so-called medical experts, and the government. It’s up to you and me -- all of us – to get the health care we need and deserve.

As you read this, all kinds of “medical experts” continue to barrage us with must medicines, procedures, tests, and things-to-do lists for a long, healthy, and happy life. But we can’t just swallow what they say. We have to do our own thinking.

The experts don’t know you the way you do. They don’t know me the way I do. In their writings, they promise more than they can ever deliver -- just to sell books, drugs, procedures, you name it.

Your Body and You

Our body is our most loyal ally. It wants us to live as long as we possibly can. How to help your adaptive immunological warriors fight off disease and keep you healthy.

The human body is without doubt the world's greatest feat of biochemical engineering. Tip of the hat to God or to Mother Nature or to the Intelligent Designer or to a little green alien from some far-off planet in a yet undiscovered far-off galaxy for an over-the-top achievement.

Can you imagine envisioning a human eye? A brain? A nervous system? A digestive system? Ears? A nose? An immune system? Arms and legs? And then having it all come together into a creature like you and me that walks, eats, thinks, talks, writes, loves, reproduces, and forms families, tribes, cities, and nations?

Our original designer had to be one smart cookie. So why did our designer also give us the ability to lie, cheat, steal, rape, kill, and despoil the environment? In health care, these abilities give us crooked health-care studies, greedy insurance companies, hospitals interested more in money than in patients, and people like you and me who have to fight to get the health care we need.

But despair not. We all have a super-qualified, versatile, and dedicated ally: our body. It literally fights to the death for us. It wants us to live as long as our super-old comic and even longer.

In his fine book, “How We Die,” Sherwin Nuland, who has witnessed thousands of deaths as a physician, writes that the body’s immune system fiercely resists the process of death.

When the first line of defense is breached, a second line is thrown into the battle. When the second line fails, a third line rushes to the front, and then a fourth and a fifth, until the body has no troops left. Our body fights to the last immunological soldier.

Take the common cold. Make no mistake, once you have a cold virus, you are under potentially deadly attack. After the cold virus latches onto the nasal cell, it injects its own strand of genetic material into the host cell. The viral DNA or RNA then, in effect, hijacks control of all the cell's functions, including reproduction.

The cell, which is a thousand times larger than the virus, is commanded to use all of its resources and energy reproducing copies of the virus. Soon the cell is spent and weakened and bursts like an inflated balloon. A once-healthy cell dies and hordes of new cold viruses swarm out to invade healthy cells and make still more copies of themselves.

If the viruses meet no resistance, they will rampage through the body destroying healthy cells, creating ever more viruses, and eventually causing organ failure and death.

What about antibiotics? Can't they kill viruses the way they do bacteria? The answer is no. Viruses are not alive as bacteria are and you cannot "kill" something that is not alive.

I remember an especially vicious cold. I tried an over-the-counter cough medicine, Robitussin Night Time Cough and Cold, an antihistamine cough suppressant and nasal decongestant.

The medicine helped me breathe better but the relief didn't last long, maybe a couple of hours. Oh, I get it. The bottle is small and the relief temporary for a reason: so you buy a bottle every day. No thanks.

Coughing, sneezing, blowing my nose, I was at the height of cold misery when I heard something. Bugles! Help was on the way!

It was the Immune System Cavalry! An army of activated white cells was mounting a counterattack against the invaders. "Killer" white cells were attacking the much smaller cold viruses. Comrade cells were producing antibodies and natural disinfectants.

It is the body's immune system that produce cold symptoms (coughing, sneezing, congestion, etc), not those of the cold virus. The sneeze expels the cold virus from the nose. The cough expels it from the lungs.

It is a battle royal. At stake: my life. On one side, representing Satan and the dark forces of evil, the invading cold virus; on the other side, representing humanity and all that is good, the Immune System Cavalry. The brain is not involved. Every bodily response to the cold virus invasion is automatic.

In this case, it is not a fair fight. In the course of my long life, my troops have fought this battle many times and have won every time. They know the enemy. They know what has to be done. Well, truthfully, they don't "know" anything; they are automatons as driven to defend as the cold viruses are driven to attack.

But with each cold virus attack, the immune system as a whole adapts to the different viruses and builds up a resistance. That's why an old, proven virus slayer like me gets fewer colds. In general, people over 60 average only one cold a year, half as many as young adults.

In this attack on me, the invader is probably rhinovirus, which is responsible for 30% to 50% of all colds and its strengths and weaknesses are well "known" to my immune system. As the Common Cold Center says on its website, “ the common cold can only be cured by our own immune system producing specific antibodies against the virus."

After about a week since the onset of symptoms, it is all over. The noble field of battle, the inside of my precious nose, is littered with dead and dying rhinoviruses and also with nasal cells that had been killed in the invasion. White-celled soldiers go about cleaning up the mess and disinfecting.

The Mortal Struggle

Mother Nature is mean and selfish. She wants us to live only long enough to breed and rear the young. She must be fooled... with a lifelong con job.

So you think tennis is a game? It is not. 

It is a physical, mortal struggle in which what is at stake is nothing less than survival. I don't mean one player leaving the court a winner and one leaving a loser and who cares because it's just a game. I mean the winner, having vanquished his rival, has proved his worthiness to go on living.

He wins the right to mate, the right to food and shelter, the right to deference from the rest of the clan. He gets to drink the bracing, health-enhancing elixir of self and social worth that comes with victory in battle. He gets to stay on the top of the heap, worthy, strong, resistant to infections and disease that routinely crop the weak and the losers from the general population.

He gets to live longer.

The loser slinks off the court. Other clan males, sniffing excitedly, pick up the scent of vulnerability. Challengers, eying the loser’s turf, begin moving in. Defeated in battle, wounded (literally), beaten down in spirit, the will to fight suppressed, the loser gets to drink a poisonous concoction of chemicals specially designed to weaken his immune system and speed up his demise.

He gets to die sooner.

As a competitive tennis player, I know that I am being watched closely on the court by the cruelest old lady you can imagine -- Mother Nature. For starters, she is not at all happy that her old model is still vertical and taking up food and resources she'd rather have go to swift, young, breeding and rival-killing warriors.

Right to the point, she wants me gone and has for years. I have already lived far beyond what she has carefully designed me for. In her eyes, I represent a serious anomaly if not a disastrous breakdown of her diabolically efficient plan known as apoptosis (systematic cell death).

In Mother Nature's heartless eyes, I am the house guest who never goes away. I fulfilled the main function she gave me on this earth decades ago. I reproduced. 

Watching me on the court, she looks for straight answers to a few simple questions: Is he strong enough to reproduce? Can he still hunt? Can he run fast enough to chase down and kill prey? Can he feed and protect young? Can he kill rivals?

When I play poorly, Mother Nature is horrified. Instead of running, she sees me back on my heels. When I don’t reach a ball, in her eyes I have failed to catch a nutritious small mammal with which to feed young. 

When my shots plop repeatedly into the net, she sees a wasted arrow that should have flown strong and true and killed a meat-laden, bounding, hoofed animal that could have fed the clan for days.

And when she sees me limping from a pulled muscle, she starts pulling the plug on me furiously with both hands. If she has no use whatsoever for an old animal, can you imagine how she feels about an old animal who is also injured? It is not by chance that the life expectancy in the wild of old, injured animals is measured in hours.

Mother Nature does not believe in second and third chances. Fail to get the job done, and you instantly become past tense though still marginally useful – as a meal for the stronger, with the inedible remains used to enrich the soil. So know this: we all have to make the old bitch think that we are more than a meal or fertilizer.

Only then will she stop her death-inducing chemicals from flowing in us. I must somehow figure out a way to have her let me drink once again of the life-lengthening brew that comes from victory on the court. We all need to prove to her that, in a brutally competitive world, we can still hack it.

Physical Exercise

We know we have to do it. But very few people realize how much we must exercise if we are to stay healthy to super old age. 

We were not made to sit at a desk or on a couch or behind the wheel of a car. We were made to run through the forest chasing down our living food. To eat, our ancestors gulped for air and flooded their lungs with oxygen as they jumped streams and vaulted over boulders and fallen trees and chased down prey. They had to catch them or die.

We need to do the same and for the same reason. The trouble with the standard advice to "exercise" is that it is not urgent enough and demands too little. It tells people to walk thirty minutes three or four times a week. The fact is that we were made to run as if our lives depend on it -- which it does -- and to do so every day for hours not minutes.

The reason the standard advice on exercise is so modest is  that our health experts are realistic. They know that most people hate to exercise because they see it as grinding work. Doctors are tired of talking up exercise and being ignored. Today they settle for getting people to walk for 30 minutes two or three times a week.

It is nowhere near enough. Exercise does more good for us than any pill or combination of pills. In addition to cardio health, it helps us maintain muscle strength, which is especially important as we age. If we lose strength, soon we can’t put out the rubbish or carry groceries or maintain balance and prevent dangerous falls. 

One thing I do to maintain muscle strength is build stone walls. I search out and gather big rocks and push a wheelbarrow full of them. I definitely overdo it. Ever try pushing a wheelbarrow full of rocks?

 

Aren't I afraid I'll hurt myself, strain something? Just the opposite. I'm afraid that I'll hurt myself or strain something if I don't overdo it. I used to have back problems. They have disappeared since I began building stone walls in earnest.

Never has my back been so strong.

Building a fieldstone wall is classic strength training. It exercises all the major muscle groups: back, legs, arms, shoulders, chest. I pick up large rocks and hug them to my chest as I walk with them. Really big rocks, small boulders really, I bend way down and push, shove, and roll slowly through the muck. 

All that bending, lifting, and walking with a 50-pound or more rock is certainly extreme exercise. But in order for muscles to grow stronger, they must be overworked. Once you become strong, stress on joints is reduced, you are more stable on your feet and less likely to fall.

  

From years of building walls, I have grown to love the thunk a rock makes when it slides perfectly into place. It tells me that an unseen, powerful, and uncompromising force that wants to weaken the wall can't. It attacks the instant one rock is placed upon another. Its ultimate goal: reduce the wall to a pile of rocks.

That force is Mr. Gravity. He’s a mean, old, grumpy sonofabitch who wants things his way, not yours. Sound familiar? That’s right, Mr.Gravity and Mother Nature are two peas in a pod, self-serving to the core.

You already know the controlling Mother Nature. Mr. Gravity is a double threat, to my wall and our health. As we age, he’s the one pushing us to walk bent over. He’s smart, sneaky, and patient. His relentless, unseen push gradually has us walking bent over and we don’t even know it.

When you tell your kids and grandkids to stand up straight, that is a slap in the face to Mr. Gravity. When you realize what he’s up to and make a point of walking chin up and shoulders back, as we all should do, that is a frontal assault on the devious old crank.

However, to be fair, Mr. Gravity has a good side. But it comes out only when, literally, you stand up to him. When you stand and walk straight up, there’s not a damn thing he can do about it -- and he caves. Not only that, he helps you stand and walk tall.

In the building of a wall, when Mr. Gravity is confronted by one thunk after another adding strength and stability to a wall, he finds himself cornered and hogtied. Again, he surrenders.

Not only does Mr. Gravity surrender, but he changes sides. From fighting a wall, the turncoat throws his immense power into making it stronger. From pushing us to be all bent over, he supports our feisty standing and walking straight.

What Mr. Gravity has is classic personality disorder. He has equally great and indiscriminate capacity for good OR evil. To be a good wall builder, we must crush Mr. Gravity’s evil side and bring out his good side. To have good posture, we must do the same.

In addition to  the previous excerpts,  "A Long, Happy, Healthy Life" has chapters on the following:

Built-in Special Interests 

Skewed studies and medical practices serve the corporate and medical establishment – which is why we must all  take charge of our own health care.

The Spy Within

Your blood, the ultimate insider, knows when something is wrong.  To stay healthy, you must get an annual blood test and listen to what your blood tells you.

The “Miracle Drug”

Taking a statin drug for high cholesterol or feeling pressure to do so? Why you must think long and hard before taking a statin, the world’s biggest selling drug. 

Gum Disease

A healthy mouth is an important key to a healthy body. Gum disease is preventable and curable -- and here’s how.

Diabetes Prevention

With diabetes one of the six “horsemen of death,” you must control your glucose levels. What the author learns when he takes part in a major diabetes study.

 You and Others

So, you can take or leave other people. Fine, but you have been made to be a social animal. If you want to live a long, happy, healthy life, you must BE one!

 100 Close Friends

Joan is legendary for having a lot of good friends. It’s healthy, especially when they all pull together and help her beat a big, ugly, potentially fatal tumor!

So long and keep moving.

"A Long, Happy, Healthy Life" is available here.

 E-Books by George Pollock

"State Kid: Hero of Literacy" is fiction based on his  real-life experiences  growing up in foster homes; "Last Laughs," is the true story of how five foster kids (he and four younger siblings) found their way in life and each other. "Killers: Surprises in a Maximum Security Prison," is the story of his being locked up for 23 hours with killers in a maximum security prison;  "I, Cadaver" is about his postmortem adventures and mischief in the anatomy lab at UMass Medical School. “A Beautiful Story” demonstrates the art and process of creative writing as a 16-year-old boy goes all out to write a story that literally saves his life;  "A Long, Happy, Healthy Life," which is about how to live the title every day; and "Unlove Story," Writing anonymously as "Elvis," a husband, dumped after 38 years of marriage, lets it all out on love, marriage, life, everything. A guy doing this? Unheard of.