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  I agreed to one episode. As I said, I was in pursuit of fun and leisure. I thought that would be my full-time job. After the episode aired, though, Freddie said the network wanted to order an hour-long series based on my character. It was called Diagnosis Murder. I said, “Freddie, I’m sixty-five years old. I can’t do an hour series.”

  He said do one. Then he said do another. And so on. That went on for ten years. I was seventy-five when I finally said “enough.”

  But slowing down was not on the agenda. That same year I started an a cappella singing group, the Vantastix, and we booked shows across the country, at any place that would have us. We still perform together. Singing is my retirement. Others play golf—and that’s fine. I may even take it up one day when I get old.

  That may not happen. My mother, a beautiful woman in her younger days and regal looking as she aged, lived until she was ninety-six. As a kid, I would have long conversations with her as she did the dishes, while my father barely talked to me at all. He said even less to my brother, Jerry. Before getting married, Dad had been a bon vivant around town—without money. He played the clarinet and saxophone in a band, had played semipro baseball, and once won a left-handed golf tournament. A jack-of-all-talents. Then I came along, and he stopped that life. He became a traveling salesman, which he hated. It made him angry about his fate. He was tall, thin, and wiry like me and genetically poised to live a long life, and he likely would have if he hadn’t been a chain-smoker. He died at seventy-six of emphysema.

  His father—my Grandfather Van Dyke—was my real mentor. He filled in while my father was on the road, and in many other ways. He worked in the shop at the railroad and had massive, muscular forearms as proof of all the pounding and lifting he did on that large equipment. Until Charles Atlas came along with his enormous chest and biceps, the mark of a strong man was big forearms (think Popeye). My grandfather was cut from that mold. He died at age fifty-six from a ruptured aneurysm. He went instantly.

  His wife—my grandmother—continued to live in the family’s house with his mother, my great-grandmother, who passed away in her eighties, leaving my grandmother on her own for the first time in her life. She was the proverbial small-town, provincial Midwesterner. She had never traveled outside of our hometown, Danville, Illinois, and never ventured, as far as I knew, beyond the daily routines that filled her days. She knew her neighbors, but as they began to pass away, she had less to do and fewer people to talk to. I worried that the isolation of living alone would drive her to a premature grave. I put her in a nearby rest home.

  Though it was nice, I was unsure whether she would take to the communal surroundings. But not only did she take to it, she took over. She ran the kitchen. She got involved in everyone’s business. She was full of stories. One day she called me up and said, “Dickie, I didn’t know that people were the way they are.”

  She was in her late eighties when Mary Poppins was released in theaters, and she got to see it. They had a premiere in our hometown. During the screening she said, “I always knew Dickie was built like a racehorse.”

  One day I visited her at the rest home. She was sitting on her bed when I came into her room. Ordinarily she liked to hear me tell stories about Carl Reiner, her favorite from Your Show of Shows and my boss on The Dick Van Dyke Show, but this particular time she took charge of the conversation.

  “I have some snapshots you’ve never seen,” she said. Excited, she reached behind her to get the pictures. Somehow she did a complete backward somersault in the bed. If you thought the little stumble I did over the ottoman at the start of The Dick Van Dyke Show was something, you should have seen this. Even more impressive, she somersaulted forward again, with barely a pause in her conversation, as if it were nothing out of the ordinary.

  But that was my grandmother. She was light-hearted—never worried about much of anything.

  I inherited her sense of humor and ease and maybe also her ability to take a tumble and bounce back up with a smile. Though unlike her, as a younger man I was a worrier. As a nightclub performer and then TV host, I worried about how I was going to support my wife and young children. I mention that frequently and am sure you will find me talking about it again because I did not have much ambition or secure employment. And yet things worked out: I still marvel at my good luck.

  Today I don’t worry about anything. At eighty-nine, what’s the point? But I don’t think worrying served much of a purpose when I was younger. It was a waste of time, I suppose. It was an attitude suppressor. The less you worry, the better your attitude is, and a positive, worry-free, guilt-free attitude is key to enjoying life at any age—especially old age. A thousand years ago people didn’t live long enough to worry about anything other than finding their next meal and avoiding becoming some ravenous beast’s next meal. If people did manage to live a long time, their family or tribe took care of them. Very often they worshipped them, the wise elders of the clan.

  I can see heads nodding: if only that were the case today.

  It is a relatively recent phenomenon that human beings worry about old age, social security, medical bills, and long-term care. But you can only plan so much. In general, things either work out or they don’t, and if they don’t, you figure out something else, a plan B. There’s nothing wrong with plan B. Most of life, as I have learned, is a plan B. Or a plan C. Or plans L, M, N, O, P.

  Here is the truth: your teens and twenties are your plan A. At fifty, you’re assessing whether plan B or plan C or any of the other plans you hatched actually worked. Your sixties and seventies are an improvisation. There is no blueprint, and quite honestly you spend a lot of time feeling grateful you’re still here. Call it fate, luck, or whatever. If you make it past then, as I have, you discover a truth and joy that you wish you had known earlier: there is no plan.

  As you get older, you figure this out. You relax. You exhale. You quit worrying. You shake your head with an accepting disbelief as family members and friends disappear like photos in a yearbook, leaving empty spaces where there used to be familiar faces, and occasionally you wonder when it will be your turn and what that will be like. You go for a walk—not to get from point A to point B but just because you want to feel the warm sun on your skin and enjoy fresh air. You open your eyes in the morning with surprise and delight that you’re still here. You realize you’re playing with house money. You are ahead of the game. You eat whatever you want. You do what you like. You smile at strangers. You wave, “Have a nice day.”

  And if you don’t do that stuff, you should.

  This will tell you a lot about me: I do the New York Times crossword puzzle in pen. There are three types of people: those who don’t do the crossword puzzle, those who do it in pencil, and those who do it in pen. I have done the Times’s crossword puzzles for decades, so you would think I’d be pretty adept at them by now. But no, my ability has stayed the same over all these years. I get through Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday pretty easily. Thursday is a test. Friday takes a while; I might carry it around with me most of the day. And if I get halfway through Saturday’s puzzle, I feel pretty good about myself.

  My simple pleasures. I drive a Jaguar. I eat raisin bran with blueberries in the morning and a hamburger for lunch when the craving hits. I like cookies and cake and a big bowl of ice cream every night. I asked my doctor whether I’m eating too much sugar. He said, “Dick, you’re nearly ninety. Enjoy yourself.”

  So I do.

  Age is something you do not think about until it happens, and I am here to inform you it happens slowly, with a sneaky tap on the shoulder. One day, in my seventies, I was playing volleyball at the beach, as I had for years, and I realized I was winded. That had never happened before—that was the shoulder tap. Then tennis got to be too much—another tap.

  The thing that really got me, though, was when I had to give up sailing. I had always sailed. I loved flying across the water with the wind filling the sails. It was thrilling and always so beautiful to look across the water, with
the coast in the distance and the sky overhead. It was of the moment, and I felt completely alive and in tune with the world. Then one day the boat heeled, I got disoriented, and it scared me to death. It turned out to be my inner ear—tap, tap, tap.

  “You’re getting old,” my doctor said.

  “No, I’m not,” I replied. “My inner ear is not what it used to be. But I’m fine.”

  Both of us were right. I cultivated new hobbies. I kept moving. The only way to deal with these shoulder taps from Father Time is to accept them, deal with them, and make adjustments. As we get older, none of us stays entirely the same—and who wants to? That’s what I don’t understand about plastic surgery. All that nipping and tucking doesn’t make you look younger—only stranger. My advice? Let the outside sag and wrinkle; change what’s on the inside.

  I once considered plastic surgery, though. On the first day of production on Chitty Chitty Bang Bang I was sitting in the makeup chair and overheard the director whisper to the makeup guy, “What are we going to do about his hooter?”

  The makeup guy replied, “I’m not a plastic surgeon.”

  I knew I had a big nose. I was teased about it all through high school. The teacher would ask, “Does anybody know the answer to this?” From all corners of the room arose a chorus of “Dick nose.”

  After Chitty Chitty Bang Bang wrapped, I returned home to Los Angeles from England and saw a plastic surgeon. “Why are you here?” he asked.

  I told him what had been said about my nose on the movie set. “It seems I need a hooter-plasty,” I explained, trying to make light of a sensitive subject.

  “Go home,” the doctor said. “You’re established. You can’t do anything about it. That’s who you are.”

  And that’s the way I stayed.

  Accepting that life is a perfectly imperfect experience is a crucial part of appreciating senior citizenship and coming to terms with the past. Every once in a while I will be flipping through the TV channels and see myself in a TV show or movie that I didn’t think was very good when I was making it back in the sixties or seventies. Seeing it all these years later, I think, Hey, that wasn’t bad. In fact, it was pretty good.

  As a younger man, though, I lacked confidence, the confidence that comes with experience. I worried and stressed way more than I should have. Now I see that worrying and stressing never helped accomplish anything. It was only when I let myself go and had fun that the magic happened—and continues to happen.

  Here’s another example, this one more recent and personal. My wife is forty-six years younger than me—yes, I know the reaction people have hearing that for the first time (or the third time)—and for that reason I couldn’t wait for her to turn forty. For whatever reason I thought forty sounded much more reasonable than thirty-nine—that is, until I realized no one cared about the difference in our ages as long as we were happy. We went to events together, saw friends at restaurants, all that stuff couples do, and all anyone said to me was, “Dick, it’s nice to see you so happy.”

  We had a fantastic time celebrating her fortieth, a Love Boat–themed party we had on a four-story boat. Guests were asked to dress as a favorite TV character or personality from the seventies and eighties (we had a couple of Mr. Ts, a Sonny and Cher, and a handful of Magnum P.I.s). I was Mr. Roarke from Fantasy Island, and Arlene dressed up as Dolly Parton and kicked off the night with a spirited lip-synced rendition of “9 to 5.” I morphed from Mr. Roarke into Kenny Rogers (I removed my tie and opened my shirt—I already had a white beard) and joined her in lip-syncing the Dolly Parton–Kenny Rogers hit “Islands in the Stream.” The Vantastix closed the evening with a medley of songs from Mary Poppins and Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. It was my kind of birthday party—focused on someone else and total fun.

  The next day I asked Arlene whether she felt any older. “No,” she said. “If anything, I feel happier.” Perfect. Mission accomplished.

  Likewise, on the morning after my eighty-ninth birthday I opened my eyes and said to myself, “My God, this is the first day of my ninetieth year. I feel great.” I got out of bed and went to the gym, where I walked on the treadmill and lifted weights, as is my daily routine. On my way home I stopped at the market, where the gang there was waiting with a present: a pound of coffee and a freshly brewed cup with a large “D” written on the side. My favorite checker, Debbie, sang “Happy Birthday.”

  At some point later in the day I realized that at eighty-nine, I was the same age as the stodgy old banker I had played in Mary Poppins, Mr. Dawes. I loved playing old people. To this day many fans of the movie don’t realize that was me beneath all that makeup, stooped over, with a mop of white hair, a long beard, a curmudgeonly frown, and legs so weak I tottered precariously on a cane while singing “Fidelity Fiduciary Bank.” I had pitched the idea to Walt Disney, who made me audition for the part.

  I laughed as I recalled that role. Then I laughed harder, thinking about how I didn’t have to pretend anymore. I am that old!

  But getting old, I am delighted to report, is not a prescription for acting old. Consider: a few weeks after my birthday I stopped at the vitamin store to get my wife a green protein shake, as I do every day. Outside the store three students from nearby Pepperdine University were singing. One of them had a ukulele. I wandered over and started harmonizing. I didn’t introduce myself; I just joined in and assumed their smiles were an invitation to keep going. We sang a handful of songs together and all had a wonderful start to the day.

  Ironically, as I look ahead to my ninth—or is it my tenth?—decade, my only real concern is that I have term life insurance. It’s good up until age ninety-five. If I live beyond then, it cuts off, and there’s no payout. I didn’t realize this when I took out the insurance fifty years ago. Who figures they’ll live to be ninety-five? However, given my health and my attitude, my doctor says that I will likely live to see ninety-five and beyond. My wife says the same thing. So do my children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. No one expects me to go anywhere soon.

  Good for me. I am not about to complain. In terms of money, though, my family will be up the creek. I probably shouldn’t say this, but I may have to fake my own death before I’m ninety-five. I feel too good.

  The Kid Stays in the Game

  There used to be a regular poker game at Barbara Sinatra’s house in Malibu, and a great group of people showed up, including Jack Lemmon, Larry Gelbart, and Gregory Peck, who wore a little green visor like an old-time gambler. Everyone was about the same age, in their late sixties or seventies. I took my longtime companion, Michelle Triola, there because she loved to play poker. One night, back when I was doing Diagnosis Murder, I let her off and told the gang I was going back home.

  “I’m the only one here who doesn’t play poker,” I said.

  “You’re the only one here who’s working,” said Gregory Peck.

  Oh Brother, How Old Art Thou?

  (Or, How Do You Know When You’re Old?)

  How do you know when you’re old?

  People worry about this. They think about it, they plan for it, and then one day they wake up surprised. They look in the mirror and ask, “Is that really me? Am I old? How did that happen?” I have done that many times, though I try not to, despite the daily onslaught of insurance solicitations that arrive in the mail and the TV commercials we all see targeting the ailments, afflictions, and anxieties prevalent among us soldiers in the gray-haired army. Maybe you know you’re old when you start paying attention to those commercials. I change the channel.

  I have managed to avoid the question, even though all of the major birthdays that trigger such existential inquiry are in my past. I have also managed to avoid the question even though my oldest child, Chris, is sixty-five, my next oldest child, Barry, is sixty-four, and my daughters—well, I won’t say their ages. To me, they’ll always be kids. But I also have a forty-year-old grandson among the brood, all of whom are inching up the actuarial table. They may be asking themselves how they will know when
they are old. They may even be looking at me for signs.

  I don’t want anyone to waste the time, so I’ll point out the obvious. I used to be six-foot-two, and now I am five-foot-eleven. Where did those three inches go? Medically, I’ve been told that vertebrae compact, the skeleton compresses, and you shrink. But I still think of those inches like socks that disappear in the dryer—a mystery. Is that what it means to grow old? You shrink a few inches every few years until you disappear?

  Then there’s my hair, which used to be brown but is now gray. Actually, it’s white. That transformation to Santa Claus–white from dishwater brown wasn’t even a speed bump for me. I was touring in Music Man at age fifty when I noticed my pate had paled—I was completely white. Instead of being depressed, though, I said to myself, “By God, if I’m ever going to have a chance to look a little like Cary Grant, this is it.”

  The truth is, my hair could be blue or green for all I care—as long as I have some on my head.

  If ever there was a sign I was old, it was when I was rejected by the AARP magazine. That actually happened a few years ago. They asked whether I would be on the cover, and I said, “Sure, why not?” Then I received word that they had changed their mind. They put Michael J. Fox on the cover instead. Apparently, at eighty-six, I was too old for AARP. I got over it—immediately—as I do most things.

  Losing three inches, not getting a magazine cover—what’s the big deal? There are few things in my life I would change, and as a result, I focus on what’s next, not the past. Comedian George Burns, who, when asked late in his life whether he lived in the past, said, “No, I live in Beverly Hills. It’s much nicer.” I live in Malibu and feel the same way. When I do get nostalgic, it’s apt to be for simple pleasures, like the jazz and big band standards from the forties and fifties or the kinds of things that make a night special, like a dress code in a nice restaurant or having my Caesar salad dressing made tableside the way I used to enjoy at fine restaurants in the sixties.