Like many of you, Embry and I tuned into Thursday’s presidential debate only to find ourselves in dismay. This morning, I read all that was available online in The New York Times and The Washington Post and spent the better part of the morning watching Morning Joe (my favorite unbiased and nonpartisan television news channel). It turns out we are not alone. Today—the morning after– the Democratic Party is in a panic mode. The big questions are whether Biden’s performance was so bad that the party’s movers and shakers should try to persuade him to step down while there is still time for a replacement and who might that replacement be.

While practically everyone acknowledges that his performance was poor—due to looking and acting old and frail and muddling his words– most Democrats also point out that he has been a great president. Because of that some argue that he deserves another four years. In any event, unless he voluntarily releases his delegates, an action which seems unlikely, he will the party’s nominee, like it or not. Besides, switching horses at this late stage is extremely risky, especially since the race is so close. What to do?

My recommendation? Biden should withdraw. It is time to pass the baton to the next generation. I wrote a blog post over a year and a half ago, pleading with Biden to announce that he was honoring his pledge to be a one-term president. (See “Just Say No, Joe.” November 13, 2022.) My argument then was simply that he was too old to seek a second term.

One of the pundits this morning on Morning Joe commented that we should not worry too much. While Biden may lose the vote of many young people, he will likely pick up votes from seniors that will compensate for losing younger voters. They will love him for it.

Please. I doubt few octogenarians will be happy to see someone our age in the Whitehouse.

I am nine months older than Biden. Last time I checked we Homo sapiens have a limited life span on the planet Earth. When Biden and I were born, it was about 76. For those who make it to 82, on average we men have a tad over seven years left, about a year longer for women. So what is the problem? A second term would only be four years.

The problem is that we humans all slow down as we age, and we all lose certain capabilities, both physical and mental. We just can’t do many of the things we used to be able to do. I just returned from my 60^threunion at Davidson College. Over a third of my classmates have died; and the 15 percent or so of those who made it to the reunion, no one I talked to was still working in a full or even a part time job. Of all my friends my age or close to it, I know only one person who is still working and no one who has a full time, high pressure job. We seniors understand that we slow down. This is our experience. We know that disabilities set in, try to deal with them as best we can, and understand that we just can’t perform at the level we used to at a younger age. I do not know anyone in their 80s who would say they miss being in a high pressure or stressful job.

There are age limits for lots of jobs in the private sector and for good reason. The average age of a CEO of a Fortune 500 Company is 57. Only 18 percent are over age 65. It seems that the one major exception to this is the gerontocracy of the United States Senate and House of Representatives. I do not understand why this is the case but suspect it has to do with the kind of support that they have, their responsibilities or lack thereof, and workload. In any event there is a big difference between being a U.S. Senator or Congressman and being the President of the United States.

In my case, a decisive turning point was turning 80. However, there were many transition points along the way—when I gave up serious waterskiing in my mid 30s, when I gave up serious running in my mid 50s, when I sold my consulting company, also in my mid 50s, and began part time consulting, when I retired from adjunct college teaching and gave up tennis and canoeing in my late 60s, when Embry and I sold our house and moved to an apartment building in my mid 70s, and when we sold our last sailboat in my late 70s. Sailing was probably the toughest one to give up, but in each of these milestones, I came to realize that I could not continue to do these things anymore. But turning 80 seemed different and more like a watershed moment. I have still been able to keep up my walking 15-20 miles a week but at a much slower pace and I need to get more rest. With a bad knee and balance issues I have started using a hiking stick for long walks. I am forgetting names more often. But I am the lucky one. I do not have any life threatening diseases and am still able to keep moving—and blogging. But at age 82 being able to do any serious, high stress work is out of the question. Being the President of the United States? I don’t think so.

So what should happen next? It will take some time for leading Democrats to figure this out. But if Biden is going to step aside, it needs to happen soon. Trump right now is ahead in almost all the battleground states, and Republicans are euphoric. However, Biden shows no sign of throwing in the towel and reportedly gave an energized speech in Raleigh today to a crowd roaring their approval. Some will argue that there is still an opportunity for a better showing in a second debate.

But what about the stakes? If Trump were to get elected, democracy would be at risk for our country, and the damage he could do world-wide is unthinkable. Think Sixth Great Mass Extinction. It has already been 130 million years since the last one. These extinctions have occurred every 130-150 million years. Could we be next? Never have the stakes been higher. I don’t know if Biden read my November 2022 blog post, but he should, and he should follow my recommendation.  However, he does not have the luxury of time. It needs to happen now.

 

 

My last post warned the reader that I would write about my paying a price for gutting it out for the Davidson reunion. Rest assured that at last I am on the road to recovery and have enough energy to write about the follow-up story—getting down there and getting back.

The flight from Washington National Airport was par for the course. We waited in line for about a half hour to get to the security clearance. Embry cleared immediately. I failed, and if I wanted the matter cleared up, I was told to proceed upstairs to the security desk. Hey, no problem. Was this the third or fourth time in a row that I have not sailed through security clearance? In trying to get to Costa Rica it was my passport that was about to expire. In trying to get to Puerto Rica it was the eye test that I failed followed by a pat down to find the weapon hidden in my underwear. In both instances, we finally made it to the gate minutes before it closed. So I am used to this.

We hopped on the elevator to the special security desk, waited in line; and when we got to the security expert who asked me what day I was born, I told her that it was April 1,1942. She said that was the problem. My driver’s license showed the correct date, but the reservation showed May 1. This serious problem had to be cleared up. Embry chimed in, “It was my fault. I put in the wrong date. I will testify that April 1 is the correct date.” The security lady excused herself to confer with her supervisor. Several minutes later she returned and replied, “Ok we will let you go this time” and printed out a new boarding pass. “Do not let this happen again.”

Off we went back to the line for security, which was now almost twice as long and took about 45 minutes and then walked to the gate, which had to be at least a mile away, located at the opposite end of the terminal. Given my weak left knee and bad sense of balance, I now often use a hiking stick and move very slowly. We made it to the gate just before boarding closed.

The flight arrived in Charlotte on time, and we walked a considerable distance to the rental car area. The line for Dollar was short and we were able to make it to Davidson only a few minutes late for the class dinner at 6:30. I checked my pedometer on my iPhone. We had walked over 2.5 miles. I commented that since this experience now seemed to be standard, we should try to  get to the airport for the return flight at least three hours before departure time.

 We made  it to the airport for the return flight to Washington with over two hours to spare though we were not prepared for what would come next.

Something has terribly gone awry at the Charlotte Douglas International  Airport. Embry and I have traveled all over the world including to many third world countries. The Charlotte airport on the day we were there was about as crowded as any of the airports we have been in. Long lines were everywhere including the lines to the machines to get boarding passes, and the people mulling around  were so close together that it seemed like Grand Central Station at rush hour. Since Embry had not gotten a boarding pass online, she stood at a machine only to discover that all the machines were down, and anyone needing a boarding pass was directed to go to the customer service area, which we did. When we nudged our way though the crowds, we found ourselves at the end of a long line that did not appear to be moving. I did a quick body count and stopped counting when I reached over 100. There were only five or six customer service desks. I concluded there was no way that we could make it to the gate on time. Embry then had a brilliant idea—try the internet. She got online and happily reported that she had gotten the boarding passes, which were being emailed to our smart phones. She had already received hers and encouraged me to check my email.

“I don’t have my iPhone,” I reported.

“Of course you do, you are reading emails or checking the weather all the time.”

“Well, it is not in my pocket where I usually keep it, so I lost it.”

“Excuse me?”

“And it was practically brand new. It is probably in the rental car.”

With a horrified look on her face, Embry escorted me to the side of the huge ticketing area where there were two vacant seats and directed me to sit down. She placed her carry-on bag next to mine and with the authority that is often used by young parents with unruly small children, sternly ordered, “You sit here. Do not move. Guard the bags. I am headed to the car rental!” And off she charged. We still had almost an hour to make it to the gate.

I stared off into space observing the masses of people panicking because the boarding pass machines were down. It was at least a ten minute walk to the rental car return area and another ten minutes back plus Embry usually does not pay much attention to the kind of car we rent. I also recalled as we were returning our car, I had counted at least a dozen cars which had pulled in behind us and more were pouring in every minute. As we got out of our car the attendants were already driving the returned cars ahead of us off the lot. What were the chances that Embry could find our car, find my phone and get back to the terminal in time to make our flight? While we had almost an hour, I figured it would take that long just to retrieve the phone—if she could even find it. This time we were doomed.

Resigned, I continued to stare off into space. Then suddenly Embry appeared running  toward me waiving the iPhone.

“Got it! Let’s go!”

We had about 40 minutes.

As we were making our way to the security line, she said she remembered the color of the car was red and told the attendant about our problem. He directed her to another lot where she began opening the door of every red car and after the tenth or twelfth try spotted the phone on the front seat.  We got in a long line for security which thankfully was moving quickly, and we reached the attendant with about 30 minutes to spare. There was still a chance we could make it. Embry quickly passed and went into the bag screening area.

 I was rejected.

Embry looked back at me over her shoulder with a horrified look of disbelief. “Not again,” I could almost hear her saying.

The lady guard said, “I am sorry to report that you will not be allowed to pass through security. The machine has rejected your driver’s license. Unless you have valid identification like a passport, you are not flying.”

“What is wrong with my driver’s license?”

“I have no idea, but the machine has the last word.”

When I demanded that she call her supervisor, a tall skinny guy came over and examined my license. I then asked if he could look at my photo and confirm that I am who I say I am. He agreed that I was who I said I was but then said that it appeared that my driver’s license was being held together by scotch tape, which it was, but which made it impossible for the machine to read.

“But if you can confirm that I am who I say I am, why not just let me in?”

 He excused himself to find his supervisor. I could see Embry observing, impatiently looking at her watch.

 Now all of this was taking time. The line of well over 50 people behind me was becoming uneasy. One person shouted, “Let him pass or throw him out for god’s sakes!” Another screamed that he was missing his flight. In another couple of minutes the supervisor returned and said it was ok to let me through—this time. I stumbled toward the security area. We could still make it.

As I was waiting for my bags to come through the machine, a guard came over and informed me that he had to check me out. The machine showed that I was hiding a weapon in my groin area.

“Not again,” I said.

When he sternly replied, “Oh, so this has  happened before?” I came close to losing it.

“Look,” I said, “I am 82 years old. I walk with a cane as you can see. And when was the last time someone hijacked a plane anyway? And you are pulling me aside to check if I have a weapon hidden in my underwear? This is outrageous! Believe me, you will not find a weapon down there. Just ask my wife. She is the lady standing over there laughing.”

Not even so much as a smile. Just doing his job, he said, somewhat apologetically, as he patted me down to the amusement of a small crowd. We had about ten minutes to make it to the gate, but as luck would have it when we finally staggered into the boarding area about 10 minutes after the gates were supposed to be shut, the boarding had not even started. There was a 30-minute delay.

Just another day in flying the friendly skies.

I said to myself, “I-am-not-going-through-this-again-period.”

When we finally stumbled into our apartment in Washington later that day, I collapsed and have been in a recovery mode for almost a month. I am finally starting to feel almost normal. When I reported all this to a doctor friend—that at what I thought was the tail end of a bad cold, I had walked almost three miles for three straight days and endured humiliation and stress beyond description, all of  which caused a troubling relapse,  his reply was “duh.”

Then I realized that in a month we are flying to Paris for the Olympics.

Stay tuned.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

On Tuesday, May 28 I came down with a very bad cold or something worse. Minor panic. In four days Embry and I were supposed to go to the 60^th reunion of the Class of 1964 at Davidson College. How could I miss this occasion to reunite with old buddies, and miss the opportunity to stay at the home of one of our dearest friends? Plus, I had the honor of introducing one of the main speakers, also a close friend. I went to bed immediately, tested negative for covid, drank plenty of liquids, and took it day by day. On Friday morning I was starting to feel better. In discussing the situation with Embry, she made the comment that this could be my last chance to see my Davidson classmates, noting that there was no such thing as a 65^th reunion at Davidson. Decision made: gut it out.

The reunion was all I could have hoped for. Five of my best friends—all former fraternity brothers– were there with their wives, along with an equal number of people I knew pretty well, which added together accounted for over half of the Class of 1964 who were present. When I attended Davidson, our class totaled 250. Some 86 of us have died, about 34 percent. About a dozen of the deceased I knew, some well. One was one of my best friends. Many others are probably struggling with serious health issues or have stopped traveling. Some have never attended any reunions. So, the 23 of us accounted for about 15 percent of the survivors. Sounds low to me, but we were told that our participation was par for the course for a 60^th reunion.

The six couples sat together at our class dinner on Friday evening, attended on Saturday  the talk by the new college president (a 40-something male alum), who passed muster, and we all agreed was a good choice, toured the campus including the new, vast athletic complex, and went to a lakeside restaurant together for dinner. I managed to stumble through my introduction of friend and classmate, Bill Ferris, a famous folklorist, author, film maker and former head of the National Endowment of the Humanities, who made a terrific talk.

The pedometer on my iPhone showed we had walked over three miles on Saturday. Normally this would be a good thing since for the last several years I have been walking between 12 and 15 miles a week albeit at a pace which has been diminishing each year and this year with the aid of a hiking stick. But my body was telling me that this time, maybe not a good idea.

But Embry was right as she is most of the time.  The reunion experience was worth the effort and important. Hey, we are now old codgers. We members of the Davidson Class of 1964 will all be 82 before the year is out. In five more years when in theory the next reunion would happen, those of us who survive will be 87. But how many of us will still be kicking? If nothing else, class reunions underscore human mortality. That is just the way it is for us humans and for all plant and animal life on the planet Earth. The challenge for each of us living creatures is to make the best of our limited time on the stage.

While most of the reunion conversations could be construed to be small talk—“How’s the family, kids, grandkids?”—they are more than that. Something more important  happens at reunions . Reconnecting is what counts, and here is where we humans join the rest of the animal kingdom. Have you noticed how animals connect or reconnect with another of their kind? Dogs are the extreme example. Hardly ever do two dogs  pass each other without a brief smell of each other’s rear end followed by a wag of the tail. This is like saying, “OK, I remember you, you’re a friend,” or “Gee whiz, I would like to get know you better,” and then they move on. This is very important in what it means to be a dog. It is part of their DNA. It is what must give meaning to their lives. Well, we humans are not all that different. Just a kind greeting, a smile, handshake or brief hug reestablishes that connection with an old friend. You do not have to engage in a deep or lengthy discussion. Reconnecting is why reunions are so important. It is also part of our DNA.

So, despite not feeling so great, I am very glad we attended the 60^th Davidson reunion, but I paid a price, and that will be the subject of the next blog post.