How To Stave Off Old Age

Two favorite video subjects: Nonna and my infant daughter, 1995. Forever young.

First days of school. Halloween, complete with princess costume.

Christmas and Easter, northbound trips to camp, birthday parties for young and old alike.

Magical footage of my kids on the Cape Cod beaches that we still haunt. The ritual of making homemade macaroni with my Grandmother and Godmother, with my very young children “turning the crank”.

One project I’m undertaking (on a list of many) is to review old video tapes that need to be converted to DVD before the tapes disintegrate. I was able to watch all of the above and more.

The old is new again. Overcome with everyday events which, as we were running the camera so many years ago, seemed ordinary. But not so. They were sure and concrete steps that turned out to be the details of a big life – a time on Earth that can’t be replicated or replaced.

In a previous post, I turned 50 and wasn’t sad about it – I was in pretty good health. Then the knee, the left one to be exact, turned to a pile of shit. Had me using the elevator for the first time in a while. The original diagnosis at the doctor’s office was osteoarthritis. An x-ray revealed an injury, what is referred to as “soft tissue damage”. Just a little something that needed to heal.

Bullet dodged. There you go.

Although I’m glad not to be in the throes of arthritis, there should be no kidding myself. The sands of time are marching on. To keep the concept of advancing age at bay, the most important thing to do is think young. The videos helped. Access to a video camera and using it with any regularity provided me with the quickest trip to the fountain of youth.

You can see amazing things. Like:

Seeing a friend who was gone away, directly in front of you, smiling back at your camera
Watching your mentors apply the tasks that had built their lives – and influenced yours
Watch your son bounce uneasy through a tiny wave on the Cape Cod shoreline, basking in the glory of a June sun
To see your daughter in that princess costume, stalking your old neighborhood, taking candy from the people you grew up around yourself

Easy Ways To Stay Young

With a title like the one this post has, you probably came here with the idea of finding useful and pertinent information, and not just listen to me wax poetic about the recent past. Fair enough. Though I think most people aren’t much for following advice, I’ll put in my two cents.

Feeling young for me includes having a catch in the yard, running/walking with/chasing my dog, or beating a heavy bag while listening to Aerosmith and Van Halen at ear splitting decibel levels. The most important way to capture that elusive essence of youth is movement, or exercise. If you’ve got that one covered, fantastic. The following tips may be helpful as well:

1. Fast Food? Really? – Neither inexpensive nor convenient, fast food is still a go to for millions of Americans daily. And I still don’t get it. The advertising is sultry, but the food never looks that good when you finally get it. Yeah, I may take my son into the drive-thru occasionally for a treat. But the kid has probably just played a game, a practice, or has run sprints for twenty minutes.

I’m guessing your average American isn’t involved in that kind of activity before going to McDonald’s.

Skimping on food and buying to reduce expense in this way is idiotic. I once knew a guy who would go to Subway and Burger King because it was cheap, but he had multiple cars and boats (and insurance policies) sitting in his driveway. Now there’s a way to prioritize your spending.

Stay young by avoiding fast food.

2. If It’s Not Life And Death, Forget It! – You know the drill: stress is the silent killer. Work place stress equals financial stress, leads to marital stress, yada yada yada. Everybody has stress. I’ve had plenty of the workplace variety myself, in the past. I decided that working for that particular company wasn’t worth the stress. Inevitably, we parted ways.

I know people that stress out because their IPhone isn’t working right, or their Starbucks isn’t hot enough. Or they found out they didn’t qualify for the financing on a $400K house. Poor babies.

Although it’s not perfect, one rule I try to remember whenever I’m feeling any type of stress is this – if it’s not a matter of life and death, it’s just not that important. Unless you’re dealing with death or severe illness, your perception is worse than the actual likely outcome.

To stay young, chill out.

3. Take It Easy On The Carbs – This is one that’s hard for me. Imagine an Italian American that has completely given up pasta or Italian bread. No such thing, right? Correct. I’m starting to think there’s a bit of good sense tied to a diet of protein, vegetables, fruit, and good fats, hence I’m working to reduce the amount of refined carbs that I eat. Although I could never see myself not eating pasta at all, there is a fantastic product called Dreamfields that I love. It’s what they call low glycemic index, and quickly becoming the only brand of pasta I’ll use.

Watch the stuff that makes you fat: white bread, potatoes, rice, and yes, macaroni. In moderation only.

4. Catch Your Zzzzzzzzs – My wife has this one right, for sure. She tends to be in bed most nights before 10PM, and she always tries to get me to come up with her. 😉 But, I have always been a night owl, and as much as I want to change that, there are still going to be nights when I’ve got things to do. I’ll stay up late. If I’m writing a post like this, rest assured I’ll be at the laptop past 10, or even 11PM.

I’ll keep trying to make it an earlier night. When your body’s used to being up late, it’s a difficult transition.

5. You Are The Sum of The 5 People… – There’s an oldie but goody. Want to stay young, energetic, and stress free? Get rid of the jerks in your life. Plain and simple, just like most old-school mantras. Whether they are family or “friends”, people that are negative, unsupportive, nasty, and without criticism of the constructive variety have got to go. If you are not willing to jettison these malcontents, you’ve got no one to blame but yourself.

With the possible exception of number 3, I’m sure my little old Sicilian mentors would have agreed with all of these. That alone makes the above fantastic advice to stave off your aging process.

Start a conversation in the comments section. How do you keep the attitude of that young person you are or used to be?

Jim Valvano

If you laugh, you think, and you cry, that’s a full day. That’s a heck of a day. You do that seven days a week, you’re going to have something special.”

Turning 50 Edition – Just A Number

California Dreamin' - finally — California Dreamin’ – finally

Last week, I turned the big five-oh. 50 years old.

In preparation for this monumental event, I needed to go to my local DMV to renew my driver’s license. The clerk who took care of me asked if I would like to have a new picture taken to go along with my new license.

“Yes”, I said. “There’s a few more gray hairs now than when the last picture was taken.” After all, the cops need to recognize me. “Let’s snap a new one.”

The number of gray hairs will keep multiplying, just as they have been. 50 is just a number, but that shine of youth is disappearing, to be replaced by the shadow of impending old age. New pictures need to be taken. The familiar cannot become the unrecognizable.

50 is just a number. But it’s a number that draws varied reaction. Some people get excited about it, saying “Hey! 50! Wow, that’s great!” Others will tilt their head and look at you with eyes that convey nothing but pity. Ooof, that’s old. What will you do?

Truth be told, I feel more 15 than I do 50. Experience and energy at this stage could create a deadly combination. Yes, the opponent is still game and moving forward, but at 50 you are just warming up into the later rounds. I’ve heard this is where the fight gets fun.

As I talk to my daughter today about her future, looking at early college courses, heading toward her senior year, I try to say the right things. About always applying. About persistence. About sweeping the rejection off of you like dust from a jacket. About showing everyone the leader you can be.

What I should have said is… get ready to fight.

Put up your dukes.

Get ready to rumble.

Because life is a fight. You will be battered, jostled, and be told that there are things you can’t, or shouldn’t do. There will be those who will want to steal your dream, or step on it. You will need to fight them.

When you’re a teenager, you can be unaware of the opponent. The opponent often has a friendly smile with suggestions of “you can’t do that” or “forget love, go for the money”. I didn’t hear these subtle suggestions when I was a teen. They were spoken and unspoken, but I didn’t know what they meant. At 50, you know what they mean.

Just A Number

These days, 50 is hardly old. Especially for the depth of my gene pool. Italian, remember? My grandmother ran circles around people decades younger than her while she was in her 80’s. I watched my grandfather, in his 70’s, chase down a bus he had missed. He caught it. There’s never any guarantees, but I think I have a shot at being healthy a while longer.

Old at 50? I don’t think so. Just starting to get interesting. I fulfilled a dream – going to California – not too long ago. Thank you, gracious employer. My daughter just returned from touring multiple cities in Italy, getting to live out my dream of going to Rome (lucky kid). And the year has only just begun.

It’s just a number. It’s not the age of the dog in the scrap, it’s the amount of scrap in the dog. And this geezer still has plenty of scrap left. Life’s been good to me, and I have more blessings than I probably deserve. I have this amazing wife (how I got her initial attention I don’t know), and my kids are the ultimate source of my pride.

God willing, I think I’m just getting started. Yeah, it’s 50. A number. It’s a long way from 1963. It’s a long way from the 70s or my heyday of the 80’s. My fondness for those memories is boundless. But I think I’m going to love 50.

The fight is going into the later rounds. Isn’t that always where the fight gets good?

Like this post? Awesome! Share your thoughts by leaving a comment below. All feedback appreciated!

A Boy Named Anthony

Dad-Anthony — My Dad and his younger brother Anthony. Early ’50s

I have a recurring dream that tends to wake me up out of a sound sleep. In the dream, I’m riding a bike on 14th Street, the street where I grew up. I’m about 10 or 11 years old, and flying down the road, going like a bat out of hell.

There’s another kid on a bike in front of me, even faster. I can never catch him. He’s about the same age, pedaling furiously, like he’s trying to get away from me. The more specific details of my dream are the color of the sky – a deep, indigo blue, the kind you’d get just before a summer sunset – and the length of the ride.

You see, 14th Street is a side street just a few blocks long. In the dream, our two boy bike race goes on forever. The ride never stops.

Even though I can’t be sure, I’m convinced the boy on that bike is my Uncle Anthony.

I can’t be sure because I never knew him. He passed away when I was a baby, almost 50 years ago. He was only 13. Although I didn’t know him, I felt like I did from listening to all of the stories about him, mostly told to me by my grandmother. From her perspective, he was a loving and kind person, a real “Mama’s Boy.” But for purposes here, a slightly different perspective is required…

(Note: The following recollections are not my words, but from the excellent memory of my cousin – also named Anthony.)

What Was – And What Could Have Been

Big Anthony was as solid as a rock, a good tough fighter. He could run like the wind, and in my opinion, could have been one hell of a halfback.

He was called Big Anthony because he was almost seven months older than me, and to make sure my mother and your grandmother knew who to blame for something when necessary. Thus, the titles Big Anthony and Little Anthony.

Little Anthony and Big Anthony, left to right

The best times we had were when your family lived lived downstairs and we lived upstairs on 14th Street. With all of the cooking going on on both floors, it’s no wonder I was 200 pounds by the 2nd grade.

Your uncle, on the other hand, was not a big eater. And the fact that he loved Chef Boyardee spaghetti and meatballs really pissed off your grandmother. We would go to the ice cream parlor down the street and order two huge banana splits, at fifty cents each. I took your uncle because he could never finish his and I always ate the rest.

We were constantly together when Anthony lived downstairs. We would bang on the pipes to signify that something was needed, or that a meal was ready. We would spend every Christmas Eve together to wait for Santa Claus. We never slept. I can still hear Anthony telling me to shut up and go to sleep.

One year, two weeks before Christmas, we found the presents that your grandmother was hiding. To appease us and keep us quiet, she gave gifts of toy guns and holsters to tide us over until the holiday.

Your uncle had a very hard time in school. It may have been attention deficit disorder in today’s terms, but back then they didn’t know how to handle it. Your grandmother hired college students as tutors, but that didn’t seem to work. He had trouble reading, so I would read to him a lot. I wish now I could have helped him more.

My father was a big boxing fan, and he used to put the (boxing) gloves on me and Anthony, and your uncle always kicked the shit out of me. I told you – he was tough.

Football and basketball were not big sports back then, but we did love baseball. We lived and died with the Yankees. Mickey Mantle was our favorite. Anthony could play ball, too. He could hit, and as I mentioned before, run like the wind.

We would go to the newsstand around the corner to buy our baseball cards. And do I mean buy. We had hundreds. I know for a fact I had five Mickey Mantles and a Roger Maris rookie card.

Lastly, your father had a reel to reel tape recorder that we thought was the top! We used to fool around with it, making jokes. I still have a tape of your uncle singing a song about being in love with a girl named Mary Ann. I never knew who she was, but I remember the song well enough to sing it for you. It’s amazing, I can still hear him sing after 50 years.

There is not a day that goes by that I do not think of him. I still wonder what could have been.

(Thanks to Anthony Prezio for providing these great stories, and wonderful memories.)

The Ride Never Stops

I won’t forget the television images I saw this December of a father who just lost his six year old daughter to a violent end, a senseless tragedy. I couldn’t hear the audio or anything else happening around me. Just the images. The face of pain. I know my Nonna and my grandfather were once those parents, the faces of loss.

It’s hard to know how much grief they experienced. My grandfather was the strong, silent type, capable of hiding emotion. My grandmother would mention my Uncle’s name at the kitchen table, cry for a few minutes, and then fiddle with her coffee cup.

At my uncle’s wake, one of the Roman Catholic nuns that taught him in school told her that he was an angel of God. That his time on Earth was meant to be short. That made my grandmother angry, and she would always tell that story with a defiant tone. But in her later years, she softened her stance.

Just because she believed in God and angels, and heaven and hell didn’t mean she had to buy the idea that her son was an angel before his time.

After a story like that, the two of us would always sit at the kitchen table in silence. No more words were necessary.

If the subjects of banana splits, Chef Boyardee, or Mickey Mantle ever make an appearance in my life, the first thing I think about and remember is my Uncle. Still here, still being thought of, not fading away with time.

In my dream, the race doesn’t end. On the bikes, still pedaling, sweating. That other kid is so far ahead there’s no reason for me to keep going, really. He takes a moment to peer over his shoulder, look back at me. All I can see are his eyes, and I recognize them from faded photographs. His lean frame on the bike fades into the distance just in time for me to wake up, and stare at the ceiling.

The race goes on and on. Bike tires kicking up dust into an indigo horizon, the summer heat soothing. The forever of 14th Street is my concrete paradise, as I chase a boy named Anthony.

Like this article? Please share on your favorite social media channel. Or better yet… read some more, with the related content below.

Tougher Than The Rest

The strong, silent type. Masculine, with a no bullshit attitude at all times, the kind that’s missing in these days. In arenas where men are constantly encouraged to get in touch with their feminine side, there used to be those that would have no part of that conversation.

My grandfather, Sebastian, was one of those men. I think of him often, and wonder what he would think of the myriad of ways that current events and attitudes unfold now. Sebastiano

I’m going to say he wouldn’t be pleased. He’d do what he used to, derisively uttering “God Bless America” in his sarcastic tone. And then I’d have to laugh.

Like most others of his generation, my grandfather felt he was entitled to nothing more than the opportunity to work multiple jobs to support his family. Factory worker by day, he became a bartender/restaurant worker by night. His customers did a lot of drinking, but he never did.

He simply had too much to do.

The Generation of “Non Complainers”

Sebastian did what he needed to do, without complaint. If he ever did complain, I never heard it. He was a grinder, working on tasks straight through until they were finished, no matter how long it took.

In partnership with my grandmother, Sebastian was a success as a business owner. When you run a restaurant, it’s like your mistress, and you spend most of your waking hours there. My grandfather had an incredible work ethic, one that he tried to pass down to all of us.

As an immigrant from southern Italy, my “Pops” sure as hell had his obstacles, and also more than his share of sadness. He had a brother, a soldier, killed in World War II, and his son, my uncle, died tragically as a teenager.

To have survived events like that are incredible feats. I’m amazed by the man even now, years after his death. I rarely saw him display sadness, remorse, or regret. He was one tough cookie. Tougher than the rest.

I owe my grandparents quite a bit. They’ve taught me to focus on what’s important, keep it simple, and have a sense of gratitude for it all. I miss having them here. It seems the longer they have been gone, the more complicated things are. They had a way to set it all straight. The path was clearer with them acting as mentors.

Forward, Always Forward

One aspect of following my grandfather around was his constant movement. Always going forward, working, making progress. He could be relentless. I recall mouthing off to my grandmother once when I was a kid.

His belt came off his pants at lightning speed, and he chased me outside the house, right on my heels. I couldn’t believe such an older man could be so quick.

My grandfather reminds me of Rocky Marciano. For you youngsters out there, Marciano was a heavyweight boxing champ in the 1950s who retired undefeated. I had relatives that talked about him when I was a kid, and I became fascinated by him later. He was also a success symbol for Depression era Italian Americans, many who were immigrants. Marciano inspired hope to those who were downtrodden, and convinced America’s “streets of gold” were a fallacy.

Marciano never lost a fight because he never stopped moving forward. Even when he was hurt, rarely taking a backward step. Never stopped punching. Kept coming at you. Never relented.

Sebastiano DeGiorgio, throughout his life, was a lot like him. Short and compact, but quick. Relentless and persevering. And tough. Tougher than the rest.

Like this article? It would be helpful if you could share on your favorite social media channel. For additional articles, see the related content below, and to be notified of future posts, please enter your email in the space provided.