The woods decay, the woods decay and fall,
The vapors weep their burthen to the ground,
Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath,
And after many a summer dies the swan.
Today, for the hundredth time, I fold the morning paper on the small cabinet by my desk, look at my scratchy notes, and type "Poet's Notebook." More precisely, I type 100. Poet's Notebook: "#100"
I slide back in my chair and straighten up. Jeanne has noticed I slump when I write, hunched over like a clerk out of Bleak House. I always start with good intentions, but as soon as I fall into a sentence, back down I slide. Like Chevy Chase's gum-chewing President Ford, I can't seem to hold more than one thought in my head.
Nobody will care that these Notebooks have reached this marker except me and possibly Creative Loafing's editor David Warner, who may be thinking "Enough already!" [Editor's Note: More like, "100? Already?"] But the general topic this number suggests to me is longevity: living 100 years.
Gerald Ford was our longest-lived president, dying at 93 of arteriosclerosis. A basically smart man (after all, he was a fellow U. of Michigan grad), his last year was filled with strokes, pneumonia and hospital visits, but he had 92 years of decent living. (John Nance Garner, FDR's Vice-President — who famously described the vice presidency as "not worth a bucket of warm piss" — died at 98.) It won't be long before our presidents and the rest of us live past 100; and like a circus performer, I'm trying to get my head around that two-edged sword.
In 1932, when I was born, the life expectancy of American men was 61. Now it's 75 (women, 80). America, despite the money we spend, ranks only 20th in the world's longevity scale (Japan's #1: men 78, women 86). In families, children tend to outlive their parents. Add to that, America's statistics are lowered mainly by smoking, obesity, diabetes and poverty, so if you can avoid those pitfalls you've got a good chance of a long run — whether you want one or not.
Our family's fairly typical. All four of our parents smoked. Jeanne and I smoked, too, but gave it up a long time ago, around 1980. But our four kids — all healthy adults — never smoked at all (cigarettes, at least). Theoretically, we should live longer than our parents, and our children should live longer than us. One of the pleasant developments in this area is that, according to recent studies, red wine, beer, coffee, dark chocolate, sex and marijuana are all good for you in "modest" amounts. Perhaps if I could just stick to these, I'd live forever, but I'm fond of the occasional salad.
Although the world's longevity extends slowly, citizens in developed countries soon will be able to pretty much choose to have a shot at 100 years. In 1950 there were around 2,300 centenarians in America. Today there are over 72,000, a big jump — though the idea of 72,000 centenarians jumping is not attractive.
I have to admit that I'm very curious about how things are going to turn out. What kind of world will our grandchildren grow up in? Will the religious right and Islamic fundamentalists grow in tandem, like matched mammoths, heading for the ultimate heavenly showdown? Will it be harps or virgins? Or will China transmogrify into a powerful panda that can bat sense into them both with its powerful paws? I hate to leave without finding out.
But then I think of Tennyson's poem about Tithonus, the human prince in love with Aurora, goddess of dawn. Granted immortality by Jupiter — but not eternal youth — he shrivels away in old age, turning into a grasshopper while she remains young and beautiful forever. I'm already in the shriveling years. Yesterday I hopped through our door with a big armload of groceries, congratulating myself for still being able to lug heavy packages. But as the door swung back, the key, still in the lock, sank into the aspirin-thinned skin of my arm like an ax in goat cheese. I didn't even notice until I saw blood drops on the floor. At least we don't have rugs. Maybe by the time I'm 100 I won't have any blood left, just skin and bones.
Actually, I think one more decent decade is about all I can handle.
…I wither slowly in thine arms,
Here at the quiet limit of the world,
A white-hair'd shadow roaming like a dream…
— Both quotes from "Tithonus" by Alfred Tennyson (1809-92)
This article appears in Oct 13-19, 2011.