by Paul Klemperer

They say that age makes conservatives of us all. They? The old folks of course. Except that with every passing year they are becoming me. Revolutions are for the young, the sap moves more slowly in the older trees, the blood runs thin in the aged stag, and so forth. I used to think it was just the middle class cop out. You're faced with greater awareness of your own mortality so you want to pad your frail self against the travesties of age. Nice car, central air and heat, orthopedic pillow, pretty soon you're voting Republican.

But maybe with age comes that alleged wisdom the bards speak of. Maybe the old folks are onto something. The truths of youth are simple and emotionally direct. Truth is often complicated and full of nuacnes. Kids drink wine coolers. Adults appreciate cabernet sauvignon.

More to the point is the nagging suspicion that as I grow older I am able to care less deeply about the world -- well, not exactly care less, but feel that I can't do as much to affect it as I once thought I could. The world goes on spinning; we strut and rant and then become dust. Is this giving up, or is it the wisdom of age, letting go of the hubris of youth?

Change and all that. We think we make a difference, and maybe we do, but maybe not so much as individuals, but more as a cumulative process of change implemented by all the small actions of our lives. In this view, or mood, one senses that caring about the small things may actually be a deeper way of experiencing the connection to life than the fiery expostulation of big ideas and noble goals. It may be more real, or as real.

I admire the gracefully aging ones, the hermits and crones that have, with each passing year, fewer attachments to the groups, trends and ideologies of our superficially robust youth culture. They have to get up each morning and make their own way, perhaps with family and friends to help, often without.

Two figures are imprinted on my mind. Frances Crowe, a white-haired social activist I knew over 15 years ago. I don't know if she's still kicking the corporate behemoth in its fat butt anymore, but that is how I remember her. She used to start each morning with a rigorous yoga regimen. Once, when I was to meet her for a morning peace rally, I came to her house and she bade me make myself comfortable while she finished, and then went back to sing on her head in the corner.

Another figure that comes to mind is a silver haired octogenarian, a foppy gentleman just shy of dashing, who comes to my gigs in a Dallas bart, dresses in an outdated garish suit, silk tie, and white panama hat. He brings a dozen red roses which he places on the bar. Then through the course of the evening he takes a single rose to each woman he asks to dance. The young men and women snicker behind his back. From my vantage point on the bandstand I think that if we all grow ridiculous in our dotage, there are worse ways to do it.

The personal is political. For a while, for me, that phrase meant you should be on guard against hypocrisy. You should live your big ideals in the small things too. On bad days I would think that the aphorism was really just away to further ingrain Judeo-Christian guilt in well-meaning individuals: It isn't good enough to be politically right-on in public; God or some central committee honcho is always watching you.

But as the decades tick down and you are reminded that your legacy may not be in altruistic foundations, successful children, or timeless works of art, but only in the memories you leave with those you have touched, the personal becomes political in an even more immediate way. The memory of a feisty little old lady protesting the war machine, the memory of a shameless Man of La Mancha heartily and hopelessly wooing jaded senoritas, these are legacies passed to me, which I try to live up to. Real politick for real people. It may not add up, but it adds on.