I hate the term “senior moment” and have taken a private vow never to use it the way others do. Why employ a phrase that fixes on something negative as characteristic of later life? Doing so seems a surefire way of lowering morale by calling attention to a deficit rather than an asset in one’s mature years.

To be sure, the phrase enjoys widespread popularity. Every time a person of a certain age hesitates and gropes in memory for a word or name, then you are likely to hear that person offer the excuse “I’m undergoing a ‘senior moment.’” Often this excuse comes with a nervous laugh, perhaps indicating a mixture of embarrassment and fear.

Instead of taking a merely negative stance toward the expression “senior moment,” however, let me suggest salvaging the term and making another use of it instead. Besides the largely negative experience of forgetting, later life features the positive recalling of people and events from our earlier life that carry rich meaning for us.

I will not soon forget hearing a speech by the prominent American artist Ellsworth Kelly when the new federal courthouse on Boston’s waterfront was dedicated. Then 75, Kelly recalled how he had been a student at the Museum School in Boston back in 1946. He used to bike down to the harborside area where the courthouse now stands. There he bought his canvas and other art supplies.

As he recalled this early experience and contrasted it with where he had eventually arrived as an artist, Kelly choked up and had to pause for a few seconds. Others may not have noticed, but I recognized in this moment an experience that I myself have often felt.  Kelly had suddenly felt the events of his earlier life to have taken on a new stature, meaning, and poignancy that surprised him. Surely this merited the description “senior moment.”

There are times when I feel myself to be acting the way my father did. I recognize in myself traits learned long ago from him and I thus become aware of his presence. It’s uncanny the way I feel myself to be talking like him, though he died almost 50 years ago. That, too, seems to me to merit the name “senior moment” since usually it does not occur until later life.

When I returned last week to my high school for the 55th anniversary of my graduation, memories of my school days flooded over me. As it happened, I was the only member of my class to show up for the celebration. Standing as sole representative of the 21 who graduated in 1947, I felt myself to be what the poet Oliver Wendell Holmes called “the last leaf.” Again, an event worthy of being dubbed a “senior moment.”

On the day when I first wrote these words, I heard a Harvard Square church bell tolling at noontime the ancient prayer called the Angelus. Listening to it, I was swept back to the time when I used to say this prayer every day and my life took its direction from church tradition. Yet another senior moment.

My friend Frederick Buechner has written: “Every person we have ever known, every place we have ever seen, everything that has ever happened to us – it all lives and breathes deep within us somewhere whether we like it or not, and sometimes it doesn’t take much to bring it back to the surface in bits and pieces.”

Senior moments I value flow from memories of the people, places, and events that have figured in my life. My parents, grandmother, aunts and uncles, friends, and associates who have taken leave of this earth play a large part in my psychic life. I think frequently of them, much more so than I did when younger.

So, too, the places where I have lived – Peabody, Cambridge, Belmont, Watertown, Lenox, in Massachusetts; St. Asaph in Wales; Paris, Brussels on the European continent – all of them continue to provide me with senior moments in my sense of the word. The physical features of these places often flood me with memories, some of them downbeat, but most resonant with beauty and depth.

And events – millions of them, it seems – that have enriched my life or, at least, provided reason for reflection. Falling in love, the birth of my daughter, the death of my father, stand out among many that have shaped my life in ways that I still mine for meaning. The imaginative replay of these events truly deserves to be enshrined under senior moments.

So much of growing older is psychic and dramatic in ways that others cannot see. The senior moments in which I recall the richness of my world and my life are what make later life so precious. These moments live on with us and enrich our spirit, turning growing older into an inner adventure.

Richard Griffin

Near Thiepval, France, visitors see looming up before them the largest British military monument in the world. It is dedicated to “The Missing of the Somme,” those who died in the most disastrous battle of what used to be called The Great War. On a single day, November 16, 1916, some 60 thousand British soldiers were killed or wounded in frontal attacks on entrenched German positions and gained no significant territory from them.

“Their Name Liveth For Evermore” says the inscription on the towering memorial to the lost battalions who went over the top in what quickly became a hopeless assault against defenders using artillery and machine guns to mow them down. However, the names of some were in fact lost, along with their bodies.

Some people continue to commemorate those who lost their lives. A red wreath from Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception Church in Liverpool, recently laid at the tall monument, says: “The Parish remembers (12 names are listed) who gave their lives for their country in the Great War 1914 – 18, and are commemorated among the missing of Thiepval.”

For me, a tourist born ten years after that war ended, the horror and waste of it all dominates my feelings. Why did the countries of Europe ever allow themselves to enter a conflict of such monumental foolishness? How could they tolerate millions of their young men being cut down in such a dubious cause?

In expressing such sentiments I am, of course, echoing the feelings of the British war poets such as Wilfred Owen and Rupert Brooke. With bitter irony, Owen titled one of his poems “Dulce et Decorum Est Pro Patria Mori” (It is sweet and fitting to die for one’s country), calling the dictum “that ancient lie.” Visiting the battlefields of northeastern France, one relives the horror of the mass slaughters resulting from decisions by heads of government and their uninspired generals.

Now, almost 100 years later, the fields where savage battles were fought are now beautiful, lush with green. But one still sees the traces of trenches dug into the soil to provide cover for the troops. Of course, they were most often miserable living in them, plunged into mud and sometimes bitter cold and snow. The destruction of the environment accompanied the destruction of human life, as the ground was plundered by heavy artillery and machines.

At the same site, I saw a cemetery with row upon row of stone slabs and crosses. Some of them say “A Soldier of the Great War, Cheshire Regiment, Known Unto God.” Others carry only the single French word “Inconnu” (Unknown).

Michael, a friend who accompanied me on the battlefield visit, said of the experience: “I didn’t lose anybody here, but there’s something about it that stirs me very much.” Along with my own sadness about such waste I also felt stirred by the heroism of the men who gave their lives. Despite abiding cynicism about those who make war, I had to admire others who responded generously to their country’s call.

Often they were naïve young men who had no idea what awaited them after they signed up for military duty. They soon experienced at first hand the horrors of modern warfare. They must have been thoroughly bewildered to find themselves in such miserable conditions and ready to become cannon fodder along with so many others.

Hardly a man is now alive who fought in that war. The ranks of World War I veterans have declined to a precious few. They have to have reached age 100, at the very least, to remember at first hand combat in the fields of Europe in that era. But they are better positioned than we to appreciate the current unity among nations which fought one another so bitterly then.

A stone tablet set in the pavement outside the great medieval cathedral of Rheims remains fixed in my memory from this recent visit to France. It commemorates the day in 1964 when Charles de Gaulle, president of France, came together with Konrad Adenauer, chancellor of West Germany, at a Mass and celebrated lasting peace between their countries. That peace has been ratified by many events in succeeding years – – the European community, free trade, the Euro – – and has in fact brought a spirit of unity unprecedented in history.

The new Europe thus puts World War I into a different context. The Great War stands as a horrifying example of what can happen when peace breaks down. Because it led to the even greater catastrophe of World War II it has affected the lives of all of us who experienced this latter conflict. Seeing the fields where the battle of the Somme was fought has solidified my own hatred of war and made me grateful for the now solid peace among the former warring nations of Europe.

Richard Griffin

Augustin Roques, now 69, remembers vividly the day in 1944 when American soldiers marched by his part of Paris. As they came by, they threw packages of gum to the people, along with cigarettes. He recalls the sweet smell of the Camels, the brand of smokes favored by the troops.

I met Augustin, his wife Raymonde, and their dog Rocky at the approaches to the Arenes de Lutece, an ancient Roman ruin located behind my hotel in the 5th arrondisement of Paris. Raymonde was sitting in a wheelchair because of the lower body paralysis she has suffered over the past five years. Each day brings her pain, a difficult burden for which she looks to God for relief.

For his part, Augustin seems happy as he provides care for his wife and takes her on outings in the vicinity of their home. “Moi, je suis tranquille,” he tells me, attesting to his own inner peace.

In search of spiritual help, this couple has been to Lourdes, there to pray for a restoration of Raymonde’s health. In inadequate French, I suggested spiritual healing as a benefit more likely to come from such a pilgrimage, a distinction with which they seemed to agree.

Retired now, Augustin used to work as a locksmith and was a skilled maker of keys. Using my notebook, he drew for me pictures of some locks and keys that were his stock in trade. As a professional, he branded my house key as worthless, not worthy of his manufacture.

This genial Frenchman obviously took pleasure in out conversation, as did I. Only his wife’s appointment with a visiting nurse brought our exchange to an end. However, I promised to send him this column and thus continue the dialogue at long range.

Monsieur and Madame Roques were only two of the many age peers I took note of during a recent two-week vacation in France. Among them was a 76-year-old gentleman with whom I sat on a park bench next to St. Julien le Pauvre, the city’s oldest church. Conversation with him proved more difficult because he remained fixated on the dangers posed by local pickpockets.

“Attention!” (Watch out) he warned me several times, concerned that the roving robbers would find this tourist easy pickings. “The old do not have the strength to defend themselves,” he observed as he fingered his cane, a likely weapon of self defense for him.

After a while this man broke off conversation, got up from our bench, and walked out the gate. He left me with the impression that, just maybe, he felt this strange guy, so interested in conversation and so nosy, might himself be a suspicious person up to no good.

Near the river Seine, I stopped at a quirky English-language landmark. “Shakespeare and Company” is a famous bookstore, eccentric but breathing the aura of literature lovers. There I talked with the proprietor, 90-year-old George Whitman, who happily presides over the place.

Though he expects soon to relinquish some of his duties to his daughter, George takes as a model Frances Steloff, a friend who worked in a similar trade in New York City. “She was the owner of the Gotham Book Mark,” he told me, “and, when she was 100 years old, she was still helping out.”

At Mont-Saint-Michel in Brittany, I ran into other age peers, these not French, but American tourists full of spirit. Caroline Coopersmith from Minneapolis, a game 80, had just climbed to the top of the great hill with only two stops for resting. She reported everything smooth on her trip except, she said with a laugh, at the airport “I set off all the bells; I have two hip replacements.”

Al Berman, a 75-year-old gentleman from the Philadelphia area, and I felt immediate rapport. He had just read the novel “Empire Falls” with much relish, as had I. In semi-retirement from the toy business, Al takes history courses at Penn and also takes a lively interest in his grandchildren and baseball.

Later, I observed a couple of parish priests of advanced years. One of them, the celebrant at Sunday Mass in the magnificent 13th century Gothic cathedral in Rheims sang nobly in a voice weakened by age. But his homily showed spirit and vision as he spoke about the mystical bonds united by God’s love.

In that same lively city of Rheims, an old lady entering the church of St. Jacques caught my eye. As she tried to navigate the raised threshold, she received a helping arm from a young man who formed a striking contrast with her. He sported a Mohawk haircut, had rings hanging from his ears, and wore black leather. The lady took his arm and they happily disappeared together within the church.

All in all, the “third age” in France appears to be giving a good account of itself. Like their juniors, elders there seem to take delight in their language, their food, their ancient monuments, their Euros, and, above all, the peace that now reigns among former enemies in the new Europe.

Richard Griffin

“Joe Kennedy was one of the ablest undergraduates Harvard ever had.” So says Ken Galbraith of the oldest of the Kennedy brothers who was killed in World War II.

Galbraith, now in his 94th year, was a Harvard tutor when he first got acquainted with Joe and his brother Jack. Of the latter, he observes: “He was intelligent, attractive, and not given to an excessive amount of work.”

These are among the memories shared by this celebrated economist with  an enthusiastic crowd of students and others gathered at the Kennedy School of Government. Quite deaf now and physically suffering from the effects of various health crises, the almost 6 foot 8 inches tall Galbraith still talks in a booming voice as he recalls personalities and events from a remarkably varied career in academic and public life.

Reacting to an introduction bordering on the fulsome, this giant of a man acknowledges his pleasure with typical wit: “I have to recover from deep delight in the account of my life.” At this stage of his career, he can enjoy without shame hearing himself praised to the rafters.

About the Roosevelts, Franklin and Eleanor, he says, “They looked at all the states as an extension of Hyde Park.” But he distinguishes between the two: Franklin’s concern was human, not ideological; Eleanor was a liberal.”

The latter became one of Ken Galbraith’s closest and best-loved friends over a lifetime of involvement in Democratic politics. In 1960, he helped bring her around to support Jack Kennedy for the presidency, support she had stubbornly withheld up till then.

During his presidency, Kennedy sent Galbraith to India as United States ambassador. While in that often sensitive position, the ambassador felt frustrated in communicating back to Washington through the State Department.

Ultimately, he took to sending messages directly to the president, bypassing normal channels. Often delightfully witty, these now published messages violated normal protocol. In one of them, he told JFK that “trying to communicate through the State Department is like having sexual intercourse through the blanket.”

With a mischievous grin, the speaker, however, acknowledges that the original language in this message may have featured “somewhat rougher” terms.  

Asked to comment on Lyndon Johnson, Galbraith says, “He was in some ways the most misunderstood man we ever had in the White House.” But he goes on to call LBJ “a wonderful companion.” Until the Vietnam War developed, the two were good friends, as a visit by Galbraith to the president’s Texas ranch suggests.

On that occasion LBJ took his visitor out on a shoot. Riding in separate jeeps, the president and Galbraith took aim at the birds that were their targets. The visitor had never previously handled a gun and managed only to fire into the air. “The doves in Texas were never so safe,” he says recalling the adventure.

The break between the two over the Vietnam War was personally painful to Galbraith. Among other things, he especially regretted that “Vietnam covered up LBJ’s commitment to the poor and the working community.”

Galbraith acknowledges not having known personally either Nixon or Reagan. In recent years, however, he discovered that Richard Nixon had been on his staff when he headed the Office of Price Administration in FDR’s presidency.

About Ronald and Nancy Reagan, this confirmed Democrat comments on their one great virtue: “They enjoyed the job much more than they were concerned with policy.” With wry understatement, he adds that he would prefer Ronald Reagan “to the present situation.”

When discussion turned briefly to economic issues, Galbraith recalled the powerful impact exerted on America by the British economist John Maynard Keynes. The Harvard professor admits that after his first book had gone to press in 1937, he read Keynes and realized that the book was wrong. Under the force of Keynes, Galbraith changed his mind and adopted views that went against those prevailing among his colleagues.

At that time, he says with irony, the economists at Harvard fell into two main groups: the first were professors “living in the 19th century and very keen to get back to the 18th.” The second was made up of believers in capital monopolies.

Besides these two groups, there were only a few who espoused positions on the left. Among them, of course, Galbraith would loom large, to the discomfort of many of his colleagues.

Anyone who thinks that old age deserves more respect would have been gratified to be at this session with Galbraith. The young people in attendance were positively worshipful, greeting his entrance with a standing O, and responding to his jokes and witty remarks with much appreciation.

Yes, they were applauding an American icon, the only citizen to have received the Order of Freedom medal twice. But they also seemed to be recognizing the aura that advanced age can bring when it comes with sparkle and grit.

Richard Griffin