With friends like these two, how can I miss as a writer? The one, an age peer from Winchester, attaches a note to the material he sends me, adding “if you can’t get a column out of this, better hang up your shingle.”

He has sent me an article by Zoe Ingalls in the Chronicle of Higher Education that is all about an artist, Jacqueline Hayden, who exhibits life-size nude photographs of elderly men and women. These photos have reportedly drawn sharply contrasting reactions from viewers.

At the Yale University Art Gallery a 70-year-old woman docent told the artist she found them “repulsive.” But at an exhibit in Northampton, an older woman thanked her because it was the first time “I’ve ever seen anybody on the wall who looked like me.”

Does my friend expect me to construct a peaceful path between zealots who feel turned on by the naked elder body as a sublime new concept of beauty and critics who find the whole idea repugnant? Where’s that shingle?

The other friend of many years’ standing, a Canadian, emails me from Montreal, heading his message “grist for your mill.” Then he states “I presume that Saul’s sex life is good material for your column.”

He informs me about a newspaper story on the Nobel Prize winning writer, Saul Bellow, becoming a father again, this time at age 84. Bellow, it turns out, was born in the province of Quebec and grew up there before his family moved to Chicago when he was nine. And, to make matters even more Canadian, the new mother, Janis Freedman, Saul’s fifth wife, was born in Toronto.

“Perhaps their ‘Canadian roots’ have something to do with their fertili-ty,” my friend suggests.

So should I contact Saul Bellow and ask him if indeed that is true? “Do you, Mr. Bellow, feel more virile by reason of spending the first nine years of your life in America’s attic, as the great Canadian novelist Robinson Davies used to call his country?

Or, perhaps, I should ask him if he takes Viagra. Recently a couple of friends over sixty were telling me about being on this pill. One of them, age 62, reported that his doctor, a woman, had taken the initiative and given him a pre-scription, remarking that she thought it would be good for him.

When I asked these latter two gentleman about the effects of Viagra, they both agreed that it had served them well. Their phrasing intrigued me, their saying that “it helped make the work easier.” I had not quite thought of the activity that way but perhaps thinking about it as a form of work rather than retirement could be provocative.

This being America, I feel sure that I could have provided an interview with many more details from one of those fellows but, again, because of readers’ sensibilities I have refrained.

In place of the interview, perhaps I can simply allude to some new body-oriented definitions that have been making the rounds on the Internet. They de-rive from a weekly contest appearing in the Washington Post.

“Abdicate” is a verb meaning “to give up all hope of ever having a flat stomach.” Similarly, the adjective “flabbergasted” means “appalled over how much weight you have gained.” And “lymph” is another verb signifying “to walk with a lisp.”

Far be it from me, however, to make fun of my age peers whether round, heavy, or, for that matter, lisping. You will never find me badmouthing anyone who can boast about having lived long. Rather, I leave joke-making about elders  to the boldest of professional comedians.

Among them, Jonathan Winters, himself an elder, stands out for his ability to deliver an occasional anecdote that pokes fun at people of a certain age.

Recently, on the “News Hour,” he told host Jim Lehrer, the following story flowing from a group trip that he and his wife took to Greece.

They were coming out of a temple some 50 miles from Athens. He noticed a woman turning toward him. “I know who you are,” she said.
“Yes, so do I; it’s on my dog tag,” he replied.
“You are him, aren’t you?,” she continued undeterred.
“I’m him,” the comedian admitted. “But the important thing is who you are, dear,” he added.
“I’m Agnes Lenler; we’re from Terre Haute, Indiana. This is my husband, Howard, my second husband. My first husband was run over.”
(“Better be on your toes,” Winters silently admonished the successor.)
“Let me ask you something, Mr. Winters,” the woman went on.
“Yes.”
“What did you think of the temple?”
“I was terribly disappointed,” said Winters.
“Why?”
“Everything was broken.”
“My God, man,” she exclaimed, “it was five thousand years before Christ.”
“It should be repaired by now,” Winters suggested.
The lady shook her head.
Then the somewhat crabbed husband said to her: “You know, honey, a lot of men are completely burned out.”

Richard Griffin