RIVER CITY JOURNAL: THE NEAR-ELDERLY: SO THAT'S WHAT COMES AFTER MIDDLE AGE

When I come to a dead stop on Broadway, I'm giving the right-of-way to another motorist. Either that or I'm lost.

When Tammy Wynette, the much-appreciated country singer, died this week at age 55, someone in the office said, "It's so sad when someone dies so young."

I profusely thanked the speaker for considering 55 to be young.

As you know, I too am age-advantaged. Or, as Garrison Keillor of Lake Woebegone said in an essay in this week's Time magazine, the 55-to-65 age group has a new label: the near-elderly.

The older I get, the more patient I become. At least I chalk my perceived calmness up to wisdom rather than the normal slowing caused by the aging process.

I don't pull out onto a busy street anymore unless I can't see anything coming. Once upon a time, I considered my reflexes to be so sharp that I could gun the engine at the corner and beat the 18-wheeler bearing down on me. My heart rate wouldn't budge. Nowadays, I get palpitations just being on the same highway with one of those mechanical behemoths.

The fact is, when I look up and down a street, I usually can't see anything coming. I have Presbyterian eyes. At least I think that's what the optometrist told me during my last checkup. I swear I look both ways before pulling out on Broadway. But nearly every time I do, there is some irate motorist -- usually some young son-of-a-gun -- shouting at me for being so irresponsible. I can't actually hear him, but you can tell when someone is shouting. And you wouldn't want to repeat most of it.

My age-induced patience and wisdom have made me into a much more courteous motorist. Whenever I see a car occupied by someone who is really elderly -- given my perspective, you know what that means -- I slow down and yield the right of way.

The motorists behind me don't always appreciate my kindness. It is particularly galling when the driver behind me making all those I'm-mad-as-heck-you-picked-today-to-be-nice gestures turns out to be an old coot.

Now, I know it's not nice to call people names like old coot, but geezers who can't spare an extra 10 seconds, even at their age, come up short as recipients of my respect. When younger folks display such impatience, I chalk it up to the notion that everyone younger than I am doesn't have a lick of sense. I can say that, because when I was younger I thought I knew everything too. I didn't. I guess that's part of growing older: At some point you realize you will never know it all -- or enough -- no matter how long you live.

For now, I'm satisfied that most folks think I'm a darn nice guy when I'm behind the steering wheel. I wave at just about everyone I see. Not because I know them, you understand. It's a precaution. I wave so that anyone I do know won't be offended, not realizing I can't for the life of me see who's in another car most of the time. Sometimes I can't even make out who's on the sidewalk. So I just wave. And smile. Just try to do all the things nice people would do if they could see.

And if I saw Garrison Keillor on the street, I'd stop and wave in a way that he would know I'm a nice and patient fellow who wants to give him the right-of-way. After all, he's one of the few people with glasses thicker than mine. I bet he can't see the side of a barn.

~R. Joe Sullivan is the editor of the Southeast Missourian.