There are times when a condition known as "writer’s block" gets in the way of meeting a deadline. For me, writer’s block is in full swing when I find myself sitting in front of the keyboard, staring at the monitor and finding the cupboard of ideas empty.

Making an effort of getting my brain in gear, I leave "Word" and switch over to solitaire. Even there I am defeated. The cards will not collaborate.

Time continues on. The deadline evaporates. There is that gentle nudge from Faye via e-mail. Still, nothing happens in my mind. The keyboard does not collaborate and I’m staring at an empty monitor. There are thoughts in my head, but none of them are suitable for print. There is a feeling in the pit of my stomach that convinces me that whatever I think of will be boring to the reader, that there is nothing left to entice the reading mind, nothing to identify with, to encourage with, to intellectually stimulate with. Touch the keyboard and write in big bold letters: BORING BORING BORING BORING.

The phone rings. I check my caller ID. Well, there’s no avoiding the inevitable. When Faye calls, I respond. I tell her about my problem. Faye, being Faye, refuses to acknowledge the condition. Briefly, we are cautiously indulging that proverbial ostrich maneuver: We are both sticking our proverbial heads in that proverbial sand. After all, if we don’t see it with the mind’s eye, it does not exist. We talk about Clarence. We talk about the people I’ve met at Culpepper, people who range from age 80 to 102. And people who are beginning to write, to possibly go for publication, people who enter a brand-new chapter of a long-term existence.

"I turned eighty," Faye tells me. Well, I arrived there some months ago. We are, no matter how you look at it, octogenarians. We realize that we can’t dance the polka anymore. Performing that ballerina-style split would probably earn us an expensive trip to the ER. And there are lots of other items on the list of NO-NOs. A banana split is possible providing it’s sugarless, fat free, and spread out over several days with a couple of delicious spoonfuls a day.

Then something wonderful happens.

"Oh, but think of all the things we still enjoy!" Faye exclaims. There were lots of them. Blue skies, waves caressing the water’s edge, that mysterious sound from the forest adjoining the lake, the scent of new-mown hay, and we could have gone on and on. But Faye hadn’t mentioned the most important things we were able to do. We still volunteer our time to whatever valued cause that comes our way. We still teach, we still comfort, we still rescue, and we still aid someone somewhere in need of whatever it is we have to offer.

"Come to think of it," Faye suggested, "we’re not alone in this." We counted friends we had. Barbara Owens, painter and artist, still paints at eighty-eight. Alexandra Scoville still goes line dancing at eighty-four. We counted famous people who still volunteer their time and talents. It didn’t matter if they were alive or dead. We started with Grandma Moses, and we continued on to Michelangelo, to Einstein, and we acknowledged the many octogenarians we did not know.

We stopped when we realized that being eighty was just one more benchmark for the experienced time traveler. Our beloved government talks about benchmarkS all the time. Eighty was a benchmark, like forty was a benchmark. For Maxine at Culpepper, 100 was a benchmark.

By the time we stopped talking, I had my idea for one more column. Of all the e-mails I received, there were those that were written by octogenarians. Therefore, let this be a salute to all the octogenarians in our club, or our group, whichever you prefer. I don’t know how old Shatner is, or Nemoy. To those of us who were ardent Star Trek fans, they embodied many of our noblest concepts and ideas. And as Spok saluted, so will I.

LIVE LONG AND PROSPER!!!!!!