I was at the birthday celebration of a member of “the greatest generation” the other night. The cake and ice cream event was for a neighbor of mine. She turned 92.

I may have mentioned her here before. Of all the people I know, not counting college students, she’s pretty much the only one who I can visit in person, late at night, for a routine chat. By late, I mean, 11:00 pm or later, late. We’re both night owls.

If I see her living room light on, I know that she’ll be up and the TV will be on. Most likely, she’ll be doing something in addition to watching television. She will usually be reading a book, knitting, crocheting, coloring in a coloring book, or something.

We were still there for a few minutes after the other guests had left the party. The 92-year-old birthday girl got a little philosophical as we visited. She essentially said, “I’m doing all right and life is okay, but I don’t know what purpose I’m serving by being here. I don’t feel like I have a function in life. I don’t do anything.”

Of course we made the case for the fact that she does have function in life. In a non-serious vein, I said that some things don’t have to have practical function other than they exist for decoration. She responded with, “I’m not much of a decoration. I’m old and ugly.” She was only half right. She is undeniably old in years, but she isn’t ugly.

(I read somewhere lately where a guy said, “My children got their good looks from me; because my wife still has hers.”)

This 92-year-old woman does more than she thinks. She remembers and marks the birthdays of a big long list of posterity. That’s a job in and of itself. She cheers people up with phone calls. She cares for stray cats in the neighborhood. She makes and gives away lots of afghans and other handwork items. She’s a great conversationalist and a source of experience, wisdom, and remembered history.

I think we as a society need to work on valuing our older people. I’m thinking more about this all the time because, I guess, I want to be valued. Though I don’t quite feel like it, mentally at least (physically is another story), I’m quickly becoming an “older person.”

I keep an eye on my longtime rival Paul McCartney. I use the word “rival” about the former Beatle, because every time Paul becomes single, my wife gives me notice that if she can somehow pull it off, she’ll be leaving me to marry him. He’s currently married, so I can relax at the moment.

The old Beatle seems young. He’s very busy. He’s releasing an album this month. He’ll be performing in Japan in April. Paul is ten years older than me to the month. He was born in June of 1942 which, unbelievably to me, makes him 74 — sliding in close to becoming 75. Even more unbelievable, I am 64, — sliding in close to becoming 65.

Okay, now that I’ve depressed myself — what shall we talk about? Getting older is a fact of life that is inescapable. Some of us fantasize that it’s not happening. We’re attracted to movies and plays which portray the concept of staying youthful. “Lost Horizon,” “Brigadoon” and “Cocoon” come to mind immediately. By the way, they’re all good shows and worth seeing. But see the old 1937 Frank Capra original of “Lost Horizon” rather than the ’70’s musical remake.

Seeing Paul McCartney on TV once in a while, isn’t my only reminder of my age. Reminders are everywhere. A while back, I stood up in front of a group of young men to give a church report. As I began to speak, I was inclined to start out with, “What I have to say is going to sound like a broken record to you guys.” (My report was going to be much the same as it was every time.)

Then it suddenly occurred to me that most of my audience didn’t really have any experience or remembrance of what it was like to deal with a vinyl record that skips and repeats over and over again. (Weirdly, however — LP records are making a comeback of sorts. There’s a store in the Provo Towne Centre Mall now that specializes in vinyl records.)

I’ve decided that I’m just going to continue to do my best to stay young for as long as I can. I’m proud of my “Peter Pan Syndrome.” Remember Peter singing the song, “I Won’t Grow Up?”

Years ago, I used to grow a beard to appear to be older than I was. These days, I’m clean shaven in an attempt to appear younger than I am. There’s something about a white beard that just doesn’t portray the dictionary definition of “young.” (young, adjective: having lived or been in existence a relatively short time)

I know that I have company in my quest for youth retention. I run into people all the time who are looking for the “fountain of youth” in the form of anti-wrinkle cream and super-duper vitamins.

I usually run into these fellow fantasizers while I’m at the cosmetic counter investigating “night repair skin potions” and at the vitamin rack selecting my own combination of magic pills.

Well, I’m deciding that getting older doesn’t have to be all that bad. Heck, Paul McCartney seems to be doing it gracefully. The senior menu at Denny’s is pretty good. I’m not being asked to help move pianos as often as I was just a few years ago.

I hope I can be as sharp in the mind, as philosophical, and, yes, as functional as my neighbor is when I’m 92. If I can do that, I’ll feel like I’ve been successful at this aging thing.

And, as they say, getting older beats the alternative. So, I say, hang on to all the youthfulness you can, and enjoy it, while you can.

And remember, “You’re only young once, but you can be immature forever.” — Merrill