I’ve known several grumpy old men in my time, guys who preferred their own company to that of the rest of nattering society, and two genuine hermits, both of them now long-dead denizens of the Adirondack woods. They clearly favored the solitary life, but only in the matter of everyday living; they resisted any disruption of their routines. They sat down to eat with others – and quite convivially, at that – if the others brought the groceries and the pots and pans and did the cooking. I’d call them Hollywood hermits: Their solitary, quirky reputations brought them company that they wouldn’t otherwise have had.

One of them, then in his old age, was being considered for admission to what we used to call an old people’s home. This would be an expense to the county, so it required a court hearing. A friend of his, a rather salty old dog himself, was called as a witness and at one point asked what the subject did when he was alone.

“How the hell do I know what he does when he’s alone?” The friend was excused.

I will admit that the silence, especially in this darkest time of year when it’s uncomfortable to sit on the porch with a whiskey and a newspaper, can get me down now and then. But I’ve found a way to mitigate its oppressiveness. I’ve named most of my household objects and invested them with human characteristics. The night light in the hall, which I douse each morning as I let Kiki out to clear the yard of predators, is a gift from my light of love, who brought it here from her home in Massachusetts to replace the previous night light (Soleil de Nuit, who died after a long illness). Her name is simply Sunshine. I salute and thank her morning and night. If I’ve done a wash during the night, I thank the washer and dryer, Hans and Franz, two good German lads, as I empty the dryer. Then it’s on to Henri-Pierre Café. And you don’t really want or need to know the rest of the drill. It’s pretty pathetic.

As you may have detected, routine plays a big part in keeping things on an even keel. This is increasingly important as my consciousness begins to develop holes in it where names and words used to be. This isn’t weird or necessarily ominous. I can recall driving with my wife at least thirty years ago when in the middle of a sentence one of us would come up blank, usually on a name. We learned eventually not to get all anxious about it; one of us would come up with it in five minutes or so.

That sort of lapse gets more common with advancing age. It can be symptomatic of a more serious condition or just the slowdown of old age. Naturally, I read all I can get my hands on to try to divine which it is that troubles me. So far I’m reassured. The worst incidence of it that I can recall occurred in the moments before I was due to go onstage and launch into a fairly long bit. Suddenly I realized I had no idea what I was supposed to say. But here came my cue, and I was rescued. That was scary.

The problem – if it can be called that – that afflicts me is the result of obsolescence. I plan to propose a paper on the subject at the next convention of the American Neurological Association, if such a thing exists. I’m a member of the card catalog generation. Not only have I spent hundreds of hours poring through the alphabetized cards in oak-wood drawers and taking notes; all my memories – nearly ninety years of them, a veritable treasure trove – are likewise stored on 3x5 cards. Modern young people have theirs stored on CDs (passé) or thumb drives (nearly antique), so they have not only quicker recall, but fewer factoids to store. Someday before long even their mysterious Cloud will be outmoded.

All my cards are stored in the attic between my ears, supervised and cared for by an elderly lady named Sally. Like me, Sally’s not as swift as she used to be. But when I hit a temporary stump and send the reference request upstairs, she jumps up and runs to what she’s guessed is the appropriate source: either the card catalog or Reader’s Guide to Periodic Literature. It does no good to try to speed her up; she’s doing the best she can. So am I. So relax. We’ll all get there. Someday.