On Reaching Ninety
When I was about twelve, my grandfather that I knew well and had seemed healthy died of pneumonia at the age of 84. Several others in the family had died at earlier ages. I reached a settled conclusion that the oldest I could live would be 84, and I probably wouldn’t make it that far. My mother said that one of her grandmothers had reached 91, but that women tended to live longer than men. In any case, it was something of a surprise to wake up today and consider that I’m 90, mobile, feel healthy, and can still type fast. What it takes, I guess, is to not wreck yourself, and especially, I regret to have to add, have had a lot of luck.