Author: Howard Englander

Friendship of men, Reassurance, Nurturing, Connections

Howard Englander

Our connection is that of shared experience. How reassuring, how nurturing, how fortunate to be understood!

Friends have always played a hugely important role in my life.  Never more so than during the pre-teens years when I was in the middle of a growth spurt with pants two inches above the ankle and a voice box vibrating between alto and baritone.

I ran with street kids and trust fund heirs alike. Together we shared acne and raging hormones and the faux courage we gave each as we took the first, tentative steps on the path to the frightening concept called adulthood.

We went to high school together and conspired and confided without a trace of snobbery. For more than half my friends, college was not an option. I hung out with future stenographers, carpenters and mechanics without condescension. Tuning the motor on my 1935 Ford was no less important than my score on the College Entry Exams.

We played hooky and rode the bus into New York to see the Alan Freed Rock ‘n Roll Show at the Roxie. On Palm Sunday my pals walked by my side so I didn’t get my ass whipped by the frond-wielding posse of vigilantes spilling out of Saint Anthony’s looking for the kid who killed you know who.

The soul mates of my growing up years were my best friends forever…until years later when I can picture the ducktails and cigs in the cut off sleeves of the tee shirts we wore, but can’t remember their names. What I’ll never forget, however, was the connection, the lack of pretense, the love we had for each other although we would be caught dead before admitting to anything suggesting the emotion.

The same criteria for being friends prevail for me today. I hang with blue color and white collar guys. I relate to them the same way as I did sixty years ago, ignoring where they have landed on the Social Register. We share age spots and the faux courage we give each as we take the first, tentative steps on the path to the frightening concept called aging. Our connection is the shared experience. How reassuring, how nurturing, how fortunate to be understood!

I cherish the friend who recognizes that heartache is not a medical condition; the friend who intuitively senses my distress, feels what I feel in his or her own way, and offers me a strong shoulder to lean on whenever it is needed.

Having close relationships has been the one, constant in my life. I call them my all-weather friends, sharing both my joy and my sorrow; eschewing advice for the most part; being there for me by simply…being there.

Howard Englander has no interest in the early bird special at the pancake house. After a life-long career in advertising and marketing, he remains active writing about the realities of aging, making it a point to debunk the Hollywood and television stereotypes of “the grumpy old man” and “the ditzy grandma.” His collection of short stories, entitled 73, probes the true feelings, inevitable problems and unexpected opportunities that lie ahead for America’s growing senior population.


As the stories vividly express, when old age hits, you can either fall down or hit back. Howard is also author of an ongoing blog for the Chicago Tribune’s ChicagoNow blog called CHEATING DEATH of which the following piece is a part. He writes movingly here on how friendship can infuse life with beauty and even redemption. His essays and stories appear regularly at The Third Act Project.


How to Become Immortal

Howard Englander

Howard Englander reminds us of the many ways to achieve immortality, even at 85 and beyond. Especially beyond!

I guess it’s time to talk about it. At eighty-five there is no refuting my turn on the deathbed; it is inevitable; my time will come. And for sure, no one my age can pretend they haven’t thought about it, either fearfully or blithely.

Most of my life, not being a religious person, I thought of death as a final sleep; one day, I would take my last breath and be no more. I never gave credence to the ‘better life in Heaven’ palliative. Still, I can’t help but wonder, what happens next; is there something on ‘the other side’?

In recent years I’ve become a more spiritual person, allowing for the possibility of a soul existent beyond the corporeal. I’ve begun thinking that our sentient life is a form of ever-lasting energy. My thesis is that when we “wear out our outer body” our inner energy returns to its source, then reappears again in a different “carrier,” the process continuing lifetime after lifetime until we reach “enlightenment” and become fully reabsorbed into the cosmos as liberated spirits.

It’s not as frightening to talk about dying when I can include the idea of being re-created in the same sentence. But it may be bullshit of the most refined variety. I recognize full well that fear might be behind my notion of spirituality, or soul, as a synonym for undying energy.
Perhaps you’re familiar with Matthew Alper’s book about precisely that subject, entitled “The God Part of the Brain.” As the one species with a perception of consciousness, Alber writes, we are aware of the fact that we exist, and equally aware of the certainty that one day we will not. He goes on to postulate, the anticipation of death creates a constant mortal peril, a state of unceasing anxiety, which we humans deal with by means of an evolutionary adaptation that compels us to believe that while our physical bodies will one day perish, our “spirits” or “souls” will persist for all eternity.

It’s as if our brain is hardwired to undergo spiritual experiences the same way honeybees are compelled to construct hexagon-shaped hives. In essence we humans have come to have faith that there is something more “out there” as a way to survive our debilitating awareness of death with the belief in some form of immortality.

It makes for interesting reading but I’m not so much concerned with my next life as I am with the monologues when it’s Open Mic at the memorial to commemorate this time around. How will I be remembered for the life I lived, is the question; not some hypothesis about the existence of life in the hereafter that Houdini himself failed to prove.

I think there’ll be good energy in the room, more upbeat than gloomy. I’d like the antidotes about my life to refer to love given and received, undiluted and unconditional, without the impediments set in place by pride and conceit.

On the way home I’d like my granddaughter to say, “Papa loved me. He’s not here anymore but I still feel his loving presence.” That’s immortality!

Howard Englander is author of an ongoing blog for the Chicago Tribune’s Chicago Now blog: Cheating Death. Howard has no interest in the early bird special at the pancake house. After a life-long career in advertising and marketing, he remains active writing about the realities of aging, making it a point to debunk the Hollywood and television stereotypes of “the grumpy old man” and “the ditzy grandma.” His collection of short stories, entitled 73, probes the true feelings, inevitable problems and unexpected opportunities that lie ahead for America’s growing senior population. As the stories vividly express, when old age hits, you can either fall down or hit back.

The Secrets to Aging Gracefully, with Joy and Meaning

Howard Englander

In my salad days when AARP was a hearty burp rather than an acronym, the sun, moon, stars and wheel of fortune revolved around me. Today, sipping my-end-of-life’s digestif, I see the world from a far different perspective.

I hear a lot of older men complain about no longer “being in the game.” I know what they are saying and feeling: they’ve gone from the corner office to a tiny corner of the den and instead of running things and making big business decisions they’re having trouble walking and deciding on Ginger tea or the decaffeinated Chamomile.

They’re stuck on their perceived loss of influence and affluence. They turn into curmudgeons easily annoyed or angered and complaining about anything and everything. I try mightily not to be that way; how old I am is not as important as how I am old.

I suggest they turn off Lake Shore Drive and take a look at the tent city under the Foster Street viaduct and be grateful they’re not dealing with survival; grateful that they have clean clothes and are sitting down to a warm dinner with convivial companions rather than surfing a dumpster. I try to accept loss rather than endlessly bemoan it. I’m not the man I used to be but I’m adding years of joy and meaning to my life by embracing the man I am now.

How one looks at aging makes an enormous difference. If you think you can stem the creep of time with a Photoshop program you haven’t read the last chapter of Dorian Gray. It’s an ugly demise. On the other hand, if you see your years as an elder as a time to present yourself to the world without artifice, faithful to your authentic identity regardless of the situation, your biography will add many exciting chapters.

I spent more than half my life adapting to societal pressures and changing family boundaries. The responsibilities I took on in response to the realities of life sometimes made it difficult to let my true voice emerge. But now I don’t have to compromise in order to be on the popular side of an issue. If what it takes to belong is not fully in sync with whom I truly am, I listen to my inner voice and skip the meeting. I’m not suggesting ignoring what others are saying; you may learn something by listening. But trust your own opinions.

As I moved farther away from the trees and the forest came into view, this is what I learned. For the blunders of the past – ignoring the consequences of unbridled ambition; negotiating love as quid pro quo transactions – forgive yourself. If forgiveness doesn’t come easy, take the path of redemption and live with unwavering integrity. In time, you’ll leave the past behind.
Accept the impasses that can’t be bridged. If the loggerhead with your wife, husband, son, daughter or friend can’t be resolved, have the Reinhold Niebuhr serenity prayer tattooed on the palms of your hands as a perpetual crib sheet.

Mourn your losses, and move on. It’s appropriate to take time out and heal when the wound is deep, but the flow of life is inexorable and too long as a spectator watching the world go by is missing the fun. Even grief has a time frame.

Move from rationalizing the status quo to committing to a plan for change. Give it a try. If you mess up, so what? Inherent to trying is the possibility of failing and that’s where the learning comes from; next time you’ll do better. And besides, there’s a perk to being retired; you’re not going to get fired.