“When you have been writing novels as long as I have, you never quarrel with your instinct.”

These words come from Norman Mailer, the 84-year-old author of many novels, nonfiction books, essays and articles. Speaking to a generally hero-worshipping crowd on the last stop of a book tour, this long-famous author proved able to spark laughter and applause with the skills of an entertainer.

He had entered the sanctuary of the church, navigating carefully on two canes. Arrived in a tall armchair, he beamed at the audience with a warm smile of relief. Short and less stocky than formerly, dressed in an experienced dark blue jacket and baggy pants of nearly the same color, Mailer showed himself a lively, sometimes blunt, and witty personality.

This is the man who electrified the literary world in 1948 with The Naked and the Dead, a novel that grew out of his World Ward II experience. A lot has happened to him since: 34 other books; six marriages; nine children; and much controversy.

As his introducer, Amanda Darling of Harvard Book Store, observed, Mailer has “staying power.” Despite his physical disabilities─ labored walking, increasing deafness, hoarse throat─this literary lion retains the aggressiveness that has always marked his personality.

His newest novel, The Castle in The Forest, has been published in 19 countries, he proudly announced, but only recently in Germany. In it, Mailer focuses on Adolf Hitler’s early life, up to teenage years. He would like to continue this theme in later volumes but “at age 84, you don’t go around making predictions of what you’re going to do next.”

During his discussion of one of Hitler’s alleged physical defects, he sang a bawdy song dating from World War II. Acceptable newspaper practice bars me from reproducing its lyrics here but I can vouch for the singer’s boast: “I have never been known to hit a note on pitch.” It should have been sung to the tune of The Colonel Bogey March.

The most important character in the book, in the author’s view, is a subordinate devil, Satan’s assistant, who serves as narrator. Adopting a classical view of evil, Mailer believes there to be “a satanic effect in human affairs.” Hitler’s impact on the world cannot be explained by mere psychology.

“Hitler goes beyond our comprehension of human nature,” the writer claims. Contrasting the Führer with his Soviet counterpart, he says; “Stalin killed only those people who were in his way; Hitler killed by metaphor.”

By the latter phrase, Mailer means that Hitler gained no practical advantage by wiping out Jews. Instead, this policy actually hurt the war effort. But, as psychiatrist and scholar Robert Jay Lifton has explained to me: “They had to be killed for abstract reasons, for Hitler’s psyche, translating it into an ideology.”

Though Mailer did not wish to linger on a discussion of incest, it plays an important part in the book. Alois Hitler, the father of Adolf, was involved in more than one incestuous relationship, the novelist says, including that with Adolf’s mother Klara Poelzl.

Mailer claims that incest sometimes gives rise to a few individuals who may not be mentally weak, but instead brilliant and unusually creative.

In the course of his talk and during the question period, Mailer commented on all sorts of important subjects, among them aging, politics, belief, literature, and women.

On aging, he says “When you get into your 80s, each year counts as two or three.” Later, when faltering in answer to a question, he excused himself with “Sorry, 84, losing it already.” Given his overall performance, however, this admission seemed merely rhetorical.

As to politics, he displays strong feelings. “Iraq is not exactly the seedbed for democracy,” he says in condemning the invasion. In explaining what he takes to be Karl Rove’s advice to George W. Bush, he says: “One half of America is very stupid and we have got to appeal to that half.” He quickly adds: “It’s very important for stupid people to be patriotic.”

After being an atheist for much of his life, Mailer now believes in God. However he has faith in what he calls an “existential God.” His friend Dr. Lifton, understands this term as meaning “a God who himself or herself is struggling and doesn’t have a clear path.”

In response to a woman who raised the question of his alleged misogyny, Mailer pleads innocence. “I’m one of the small injustices of the feminist movement,” he claims in defense. However, he also would like to have been “more macho than I was.”

As to literature, “the ideal novel will give you a structure for thinking in the future.”

Walking away from a stimulating evening, I felt the force of character in this man who is obviously in physical decline but who can summon up reserves of inner strength. Mailer still inspires controversy─and sometimes indignation─ but he continues to be creative and rollicking.

Richard Griffin

“You all send the strangest people down here,” a Congressman from Mississippi once told Barney Frank. The Mississippian was referring to Father Robert Drinan, who represented the Fourth Massachusetts Congressional District from 1971 to 1981.

Congressman Barney Frank included this anecdote in the eulogy he delivered at Father Drinan’s funeral Mass in Boston early this month. As Drinan’s successor in the House of Representatives, Frank has been well positioned to appreciate the many virtues of this colleague.

At the heart of Father Drinan’s service in the House was his demonstration of what a moral response to politics can be. The Jesuit priest recognized the dignity of every person, said his successor.

On another light note, Barney Frank observed that “Bob Drinan wrote more books than many members of Congress have ever read.”

Another skilled eulogist, Harold Koh, Dean of Yale Law School, recalled that he was six years old when he first met Father Drinan. The young boy’s father had insisted that his son wear a tie in honor of the event.

Of his longtime friend and inspiration, Koh said: “Father Bob Drinan was not one of those lawyers who love human rights, but not human beings.”  In response to people who asked how Father Drinan got so much done, Dean Koh cited his mentor’s succinct answer: “Celibacy.”

These remarks about Father Drinan indicate the respect and love for him that suffused the funeral. Everyone present in the church seemed to recognize that they were celebrating the life of an altogether extraordinary person. We mourned his loss but rejoiced that he had left us so much.

My friendship with Bob Drinan goes back to 1953, when we were both students at Weston College, then the suburban Jesuit seminary. In June of that year Bob had been ordained a priest while I was a student of Scholastic Philosophy.  

In January 1954, he came to my door with the terrible news that my father was dying.  Sharing information that had been entrusted to him by one of my father’s friends, Bob eased the blow with the compassion that he felt for me and my family.

In succeeding days, Bob continued to offer me support as my family and I grieved over our loss. He helped us deal with an event that had devastating consequences for us all.

The other moment that stands out in our friendship came in 1970, when he arrived one evening on my doorstep to ask me a question, presumably one that he asked of many others.

What would I think if he ran for Congress? At first, I was astounded that a fellow Jesuit could propose such a daring step. That, after all, was something a Catholic priest had never done. And he would have to challenge an incumbent entrenched in office for many years.

Recovering quickly, however, I embraced the project enthusiastically and urged him to run. Among other considerations that loomed large for me was my fervent opposition to the war in Vietnam. Knowing that, unlike the incumbent, Bob would work to bring that misguided American effort to a halt, I felt great enthusiasm for Bob’s candidacy.

In recent years my contacts with Bob were rare but I continued to follow his activities with interest. He impressed me as a model of flexibility when he resumed his career of law professor after leaving Congress in response to the edict of Pope John Paul II.

I felt little sympathy for the papal command but had to admire Bob for his conscientious decision to obey it.

In his role of law professor, Bob championed the human rights of people in many parts of the world. El Salvador, South Africa, and Chile were among the places where he traveled to press for those rights.

At age 86, Bob continued to teach enthusiastically. It was in the classroom that he collapsed, stricken with his final illness.

As many have noted, Bob cared about the oppressed wherever they were. That same spirit moved him to continue publishing books and articles at an impressive rate. He also understood that “unjust wars are immoral” and worked to halt them.

Calling attention to a central belief, Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi has said of him: “He believed that there was a spark of divinity in every person and he acted on that belief.”

I will always remember his face, in latter years at least, so bony and ascetic. In repose, he sometimes looked like a grim monk, but when other people approached, that look would be transformed into a warm smile.

Inevitably, the nation will miss his prophetic voice. He supplied to us all a dedication to the common good that we sorely need at this stage in our national life. I only hope that others, both public officials, and private citizens, will come forward and incorporate in themselves the spirit that animated Bob Drinan.

Richard Griffin

As a child I could never understand why grown-ups did not welcome snow. The adults in my parents’ circle of acquaintances, at least, wanted no part of the white stuff.     

They might dream of a white Christmas, at least in song, but their hardheaded preference even for that fabled day was for bare streets and sidewalks. They would be delighted with this winter, which (as I write, at least) has been almost snow-free.

This attitude we young people considered Scrooge-like. Our elders were not only violating New England’s hereditary rights to Currier and Ives snowy winter scenes, but they were depriving us of outdoor fun.

My family lived on one of Watertown’s hilliest streets; it provided a fine surface for sledding. We kids looked forward to sliding down the hill at high speed, no matter the peril. Until after WWII, skiing was not a popular sport; we and most of our neighbors did not have equipment for sliding down the mountains up north.

Those storms that led to no-school announcements received a heartfelt welcome from every kid. To have lamented the loss of a day in the classroom would have been unthinkable. Expressed, it might have led to excommunication from your circle of friends.

Snowball fights brought us pleasure and, for us boys, gave vent to some of our macho instincts. It was fun to throw at one another; ungallantly aiming at girls enhanced the experience.

Snow provided us with work, too, welcome work because it was done not for our families but for pay. I loved putting on my overshoes and venturing forth into the new-fallen snow, seeking employment. Armed with my shovel, I would do the minimum for my family before venturing to ring the doorbells of neighbors.

The five dollars that you could earn shoveling a driveway was a special boon. It could entail heavy lifting but the reward made the effort worth it. With the proceeds we could buy frappes and other heady food and drink.

Now, of course, I have come to understand why my parents and their kind did not welcome snow. I now experience it more as an threat to my mobility than an inducement to fun. No longer do I throw snowballs at humans of any age, nor do I indulge in sledding.

As to shoveling for neighbors, now I am not allowed to shovel even for myself. In fact, my spouse and I have recently signed up with a contractor who has pledged to remove snow from our sidewalks. His company will remove anything over four inches  deep, leaving us free to sweep off more superficial covering.

All of my age peers in surrounding neighborhoods can now take advantage of this service. This counts as one of the amenities intended by an ad hoc elder planning group to increase our chances of remaining in our own homes. Drawing inspiration from Beacon Hill Village, we hope to enable residents of a certain age to stay put rather than being forced to move elsewhere.

Despite my later-life attitude toward snow storms, the esthetic qualities of snow have not been lost on me. Perhaps more than before, I stand ready to admire the beauty of newly-landed snow as it adorns our environment. It’s just that I want our region’s current dearth of snow storms to continue through this whole winter.

What I most appreciate about snow, when it does fall, is its power to bring out our neighbors─ “bring out” in both senses of the word. They come out of their houses in order to shovel their sidewalks, to free their cars, or to kibitz with the likes of me, no longer doing either.

They come out of their shells also, those that have them. People in my environs, at least, open themselves up when they are standing outside amid the latest snowfall. They find it hard to resist impulses to be sociable and thus exchange observations with nearby residents and passers-by.

Especially on those bright, blue-skyed days that often follow snowstorms, do neighbors slide into good moods. Common tasks or maybe common dilemmas put most people into higher spirits than usual. It becomes harder to be curmudgeonly when everyone is engaged in the same obvious situation.

It usually proves to be ideal for gathering news about neighbors. If you possess reportorial instincts like mine, you can learn facts that can surprise you. Not real dirt, mind you; some of us still feel scruples about digging up anything like that. But good clean gossip material─that’s different.

So, on the subject of snow, I have evolved to a position half-way between my parents’ view of it and the way I looked on it as a child. As on so many other issues of major importance, I find myself in the middle, this time not an uncomfortable place to be.

Richard Griffin

“My body once had served me well with little care or thought for maintenance on my part. Now it was beginning to let me down.”

These words come from my friend and colleague Andrew Achenbaum, an historian who has written several valuable books on aging. In a brief personal statement in the latest issue of a professional journal in the field, he shares with readers how illness has changed his life.

Andy got off to a head start. At age 40 he took on two chronic illnesses that afflicted him for the next 15 years. However, with good medical care he managed to keep these maladies under control.

Even so, the experience brought about changes in his outlook on the world. What he terms “a taste of mortality” gave my friend greater compassion toward other people. He became more conscious of how, for some sufferers, long-lasting diseases can be as difficult as acute ones.

Lately, Andy has come into a new area of health problems. For two years he had to cope with a prostate infection, a disease that has changed him in both body and mind. It required two operations, neither of which cured the root cause of his illness.

He also found himself forgetting things and feeling lethargic much of the time.  Through a biopsy his urologist discovered cancer, a finding that required removal of the prostate.

That latter surgery happened a year ago. Now Andy has to deal with his changed body along with other problems such as a dislocated knee cap caused by a fall.

The upshot of his new situation has been a further change in his outlook. It has changed his concept of what it means to grow older.

In explaining it he writes: “Successful aging to me means having family and friends who prove to be wonderful caregivers, chauffeurs, and cheerleaders. And in my vulnerability, I see more than I imagined in the aging faces of others.”

On reading his statement, I felt sorry that my friend had to suffer so much. Until I saw his article, I had no idea that his health had become so precarious since I last saw him. Since he lives in Houston, I do not have the opportunity to visit him or offer any help.

Of course, I welcome the broadening and deepening of Andy’s view of life. Clearly, he has gained from the experience of illness an appreciation of what it means to be human. I only regret that the price for this breakthrough has proven so high.

Most of my age peers have tasted at least some of the same bitter fruit that my friend has. Hardly anyone of us escapes this fate, much as we wish otherwise.

And, while undergoing this kind of trial, we ask the same question that people have presumably been posing for millennia. “Why me?” asks Andy as he looks for some rationale for his suffering.

No more than anyone else can I pretend to offer an explanation. Yes, the experience may offer a chance for greater compassion for others. And it can deepen our understanding of what it means to be human─our vulnerability along with our capacity for hope.

But these profits extend only so far. They do not relieve the pain, nor are they certain to increase our chances for curative processes to take hold.

More promise, perhaps, lies in what my friend says about family and friends. In reaching out with care for him, they have given him a convincing sign that he is loved. Their actions show him his own importance as a human being, a person deserving of deep respect and, yes, love.

That has been my experience when suffering crises in health. Last winter I underwent two such crises. In response to my need, professional caretakers provided me with needed help and encouragement. They reached out to me with skill, sensitivity, and compassion.

Even more, my wife responded to my needs for physical assistance and moral support. To my amazement, she never flinched at the often nasty business of helping me take care of the new mechanics of bodily processes that were forced on me. I envisioned being in her position and wondered how she could cheerfully take on these tasks without being put off by them.

This kind of response to illness can change the whole experience. That is some of the meaning I find in a poem by Rumi, a 13th century Persian poet. Astonishingly enough, he happens now to be one of the most popular poets in America. Here, in a translation by Coleman Barks, is what Rumi says:

I saw grief drinking a cup of sorrow
and called out,
“It tastes sweet,
does it not?”
“You’ve caught me,”
grief answered,
“and you’ve ruined my business.
How can I sell sorrow,
when you know it’s a blessing?”

Richard Griffin

A stylish lady, swathed in winter furs, walks gracefully down the urban sidewalk, led by a Boston terrier. She carries in one hand the leash that connects her to the dog, and in the other a paper bag and a pooper scooper.

When the dog stops to do his business, she waits patiently with her scooper ready for action. Finished, the animal prepares to move on but the lady has a task to do. She stoops over, scrapes the poop off the pavement, and deposits it in the bag. Then, her dignity intact, she proceeds on her way.

This scenario, repeated all over America by all sorts of dog owners, is one that I never expected to see. During most of my life, I was accustomed to walking through, around, and sometimes into, dog leavings on city sidewalks and streets.

It would always be that way, I was convinced, and there would never be anything I could do about it. My shoes would always be at risk of tracking home dog leavings with their noisome smell.

Yet, that situation changed and virtually everyone with a dog now observes the new rite of life in public. If peaople violate this practice, they are subject to social disapproval. Strong social backing would embolden me to reprimand anyone who neglected what is almost universally seen as their duty.

That this change in public mores took hold, and did so in short order, still amazes me. How did it happen? What influences had to accumulate to bring about such an unexpected transformation of public conduct?

The answers to these questions I do not know. Nor have I ever seen in writing an analysis of a social change that may not be among the most important in American history but is surely of interest.

It would probably take a sociologist with special knowledge to track the attitudinal shifts that led to this change. If there was a large-scale public campaign, backed by big money, I remain unaware of it.

I suspect, rather, a series of small changes of values. Gradually, people may have come to care more about the beauty of their environment than they did about the laissez- faire freedom of dog walkers to allow their animals to soil it with impunity.

Another benefit of the current norms is that they require dogs to be leashed. No longer does one commonly see these animals wondering around on their own the way cats still do. Now each dog must be attached to a human being clearly identified as responsible for the dog’s behavior.

So maybe we can attribute to the environmental movement the readiness of people to clean up after their dogs. In any event, I count it social progress; America is the better for it.

What still surprises me is the lack of any embarrassment felt by pooper scoopers. After all, it could be seen as humiliating for dignified people to be shoveling into a container their dog’s daily offerings.

But during a recent weekend in Manhattan, I observed locals galore carrying out this chore with aplomb. They seemed not to find anything undignified in wielding the scooper. My parents, however, almost surely would have.

I cannot imagine either my mother or my father submitting to this ritual. Nor would most of their friends have done so. That was a different era, when middle-class Americans behaved more formally in public.

It speaks well for our contemporaries, I suppose, their flexibility in accepting change. As a beneficiary of their readiness to adopt the current norms, I feel thankful that steaming messes no longer lurk in my path.

For the most part, however, dog owners probably do not have much awareness of operating in a changed environment. Young people, especially, may simply accept without reflection the current situation as the long established norm.

However, I find it valuable to reflect on the ways in which society changes. Long life offers a fine vantage point from which to take note of transformations. Looking back to your childhood, you can see how things that seemed securely fixed in place have become dislodged and you can ponder the reasons why that happened.

The French do not have it exactly right when they say “plus ça change, plus la même chose.” (The more things change, the more they stay the same.) There are ways in which society changes and brings in something definitely new.

Looking at things from the eminence of many decades can enable us to evaluate change and to distinguish between the desirable and the undesirable. On rare occasions, when acting in organized groups, we may have the opportunity to influence society’s acceptance or rejection of looming change.

The lady in fur with her terrier represents a step forward. Though I may observe her with a certain detachment and even amusement, I still appreciate what she is doing for me and other pedestrians like me.

Richard Griffin

The last time I went to a pro football game, the Boston Yanks were playing someone or other. That must have been sometime between 1944 and 1948, during that team’s short lifetime.

Not having saved the program, I cannot be more precise about the date or the game itself. To recall in detail a sports event occurring some 60 years ago poses a test I cannot pass.   

My father probably had free tickets, available for a newspaperman like him. The game had to have taken place at Fenway Park, awkwardly pressed into service as a football stadium.

Most likely, I saw the Yanks lose because that is what they did most of the time. In their first year, they won two and lost eight. Improving slightly on this record in the other three years was not enough to preserve the franchise.

Since the era when I attended my last one, I have seen hundreds of professional football games. But all of them have come to me via television. My fandom is entirely at an electronic remove.

To believe Adam Gopnik, that means I am missing a lot of the real drama of the game. Writing in the New Yorker, he claims that we TV fans get too restricted a view of the game. By contrast, if you’re there, you can see the development of dramatic situations rather than just their outcome.

“The real excitement of the game on the field,” he writes, “lies in the sudden moments of frenzied improvisation, most often by the linebackers and especially by the safeties, who on television mainly appear at the end of the play to make a hit or swipe vainly at a pass.”

But Gopnik and his like sit in the press box, not the stands. I have sat in both─though not at pro football games─and can witness to the difference. Those privileged to sit on high do not experience restricted views; grandstand viewers often do.

People will stand up in front of you, sometimes at crucial moments, to go out for a beer and a hot dog. Some of that beer may end up on you.

When the game ends, you may have to spend hours getting to your car and navigating your way along the highway, as did friends of mine who recently went to their first Patriots game.

Meantime, however distorted my view, I am enjoying the game in the comfort of my favorite rocking chair. Most important, I am free to pursue other pleasures all the while. I would never sit in front of a TV sports event without a book, magazine, or puzzle to occupy the many breaks in the action.

For fear this behavior seem eccentric, let me cite some statistics. Three years ago, Richard Sandomir, a New York Times writer, compared the amount of actual playing time in a televised college bowl game and the time when the football was not in play.

The game lasted more than three hours; only 7.3 percent of that time was given to actual play. That means a mere 16 minutes and 28 seconds went to football action. During this bowl game, there were 79 commercials and 35 promotions for upcoming programs.

Admittedly, pro games are shorter than postseason college games, but much of the television time devoted to watching the pros does not go into football itself.

However, even comfortably settled before the TV screen, I do not qualify as an untroubled fan. What bothers me is my implicit endorsement of a system that I consider morally dubious.

The sports page last week featured a lineman for the Philadelphia Eagles who has successfully lowered his weight from 397 pounds to a mere 335. The writer praises the player for this achievement.

A system that pressures people to beef up their bodies to even the lower figure strikes me as less than ethical. For young men to fatten themselves like this cannot be good for their health.

And this practice, commonly begun in college if not in high school, has made  injuries a standard part of the game.

How can you be knocked on your head by a 300-pound-plus lineman running at full speed without suffering physical trauma? Or how can such a behemoth land on your leg and not cause you serious injury?

Those who have retired from the game, some after only a year or so, will carry their injuries with them for the rest of their lives. Rare is the footballer who does not have knee problems or other disabling conditions.

Prospective players are confronted with a devil’s bargain. You sell out to the demands for bulk and you reap rewards, but, very likely, you pay for them for the rest of your days.

As of this writing, the Patriots prepare to face the San Diego Chargers, the team with the best record in the league. I will be rooting for the Patriots, in comfort but not without misgivings.

Richard Griffin

Maybe our daughter ought to change careers. To be sure, her talents suit nicely the publishing business in which she works now. But Emily has other gifts that can sometimes surprise even us, her parents.

Last week, she demonstrated dazzling skills in the role of what used to be called efficiency expert but what we might now dub “clutter consultant.”

Home to celebrate Christmas, New Year’s Day, and her 27th birthday with us, our daughter took it upon herself to set our household straight.

That meant embarking on the monumental job of throwing out a wide variety of stuff no longer useful to us. For that she ransacked our small house from top to bottom. Before leaving town, this enterprising young woman initiated a clearing-out process that has transformed our place, at least for now.

First, she bought us a shredding machine and reduced to pieces the paper records that should have been thrown out years ago. For a time, our new shredder was as busy as it might have been in federal government offices during the Iran-Contra scandal.

Though getting rid of the paper pleased me, I find a certain irony in yet another use of technology: it accomplished a task that I did not think we needed a machine to do.

Then, in a paroxysm of further activity, Emily chose objects to be discarded. Suitcases, bags, tables, hampers, wrappings, videotapes, old printers and computers, and books, books, books made an impressive pile in our dining room on their way to the front porch and then the curb.

Ultimately, to our relief, some of this material would be picked up by the Big Brother Organization, while other stuff would be cremated in the city dump.

Emily also displayed refined political skills in getting her mother and father to agree with the decision to ditch each item selected. Whenever we expressed reluctance to throw out a given item, she backed off. She respected our refusal to dump some things that she, left to herself, considered disposable.

Like people who move their place of residence, this discovery of mounds of expendable stuff in our house has left my wife, Susan, and me reeling. Of course, we had already accused ourselves of having too much. But gazing on the piles revealed their horrifying immensity.

We now feel lighter, and relish knowing that the attic is less likely to cave in on our heads. And our fears that parts of our very identity would be going out in the trash have proven unfounded.

That I should have been party to the accumulation of excess property clashes with my life style in earlier adulthood. Then, I practiced poverty. In fact, this monastic tradition formed a basic part of my daily existence and I prided myself on not having any possessions of my own.

At least, I did so in the early days, those of my first fervor, when obeying the Jesuit rule meant being scrupulous about the smallest things I used. That was the era when I asked permission for every single razor blade received.

The theory behind this austere approach to daily life saw a tension between having material things and searching for God. Like other religious traditions, mine maintained that love for earthly passions would block your commitment to the spiritual life.  

Part of my mid-life transmission to the so-called “real world” involved discovering how easy it is to accumulate possessions, even things of no earthly use. When my monastic orientation began to wear off, I gradually learned how to acquire more things that I would ever need.

We Americans are awfully good at acquisition. But it comes at a price, both monetary and psychic. Almost every middle-class household lies cluttered with a lot more baggage than can be defended as good for us.

Our daughter has left behind a heap of materials ready for disposal. She has also left her parents feeling happy to be relieved of excess baggage. And she has given us a further sign that she cares about us.

If one never ceases to be a parent, our offspring never stop being daughters and sons. In this instance, our daughter has reached out to her relatively aged parents and unburdened us of burdensome stuff. And she has done so before an era sets in when we might have be threatened with moving away from our home.

Even after the purge, we are not now living like St. Francis of Assisi, nor even Henry David Thoreau. Our possessions are still sufficient to fill much of the house. But we feel lighter toward things and closer as a family.

Perhaps we will call upon Emily for another clutter session in the not so distant future. Meantime, maybe she can find an author to write an innovative book about growing older with less, and enjoying it more.

Richard Griffin