I was 62 years old, and I figured, ‘Hey, time for Mama to get goin’.’

Sylvia Reader of Reseda, an accomplished musician and seamstress, was trained as a medical technician. She chose a job as a typist and worked her way up through the county marriage - license bureau, the Probation Department, the divorce court and criminal court. Reader, 71, still seeks variety in retirement.

I was born and brought up in Boston proper, right in the slum area, the south end. My father had a business where he had part toys and part master locksmith. He said the only way we could have the toys was if we shared them, smart man. So we had a lot of friends in the backyard, and we didn’t wander.

When I got to be 7, my mother decided that I should play the cello. I was a tiny little bit of a kid, very short, very slight. My father, who had a kind of puckish humor, said, “Do you think that she will even cast a shadow behind that cello?” So I played a half-sized violin.

When I was 13, the Boston Symphony Orchestra ran a contest, and I was one of the kids chosen for the first young people’s orchestra. All through high school I sat as second violinist in the Boston Symphony, learning how beautiful music is made. I sat on two telephone books so I could reach the top of the stand and see the music.

I was 28 when my husband was killed in World War II. I had two little kids. I had a college background, but I had never worked. I played the violin and I played the guitar and I sang. I asked my father, “What now?” He said, “Why don’t you pick up your guitar and sing? People will listen.” And by God, they did.

Our rabbi started me singing at temples, bar mitzvahs, weddings, the whole bit. It was such a wonderful thing. I could do it in the evening from about 8 to 12, so I was a full-time mother even though I was working. I sang 10 years. I made 75 dollars a week, and that was a lot of money then. I could keep my kids, and we had a home. They grew, and I saw them through college, and they married.

It hasn’t been easy. I brought those two kids up practically single-handed. I lean on my background. I had a couple of wonderful parents. If something was wrong, you scurried around to see if you could do something about it.

In 1978 my boys were ensconced in their careers and doing well. They were happy and didn’t need me. I was 62 years old, and I figured, “Hey, time for Mama to get goin’.” So I took an early retirement and went to Europe for a year and traveled to the places I had always dreamed about and read about in poetry. After a year I was lonely, so I came home.

I threw myself into volunteer work. But I still couldn’t find my niche. Then a friend suggested I go with her to the Andrus Gerontology Center at USC. I went, and it was like suddenly a door opened. The people are on a level with me. I can talk to them. I’m doing something worthwhile. I’m a reporter for their newsletter, and I was the recorder for skills development at USC.

I was in a research project in the psychology building for eight months. They test your marbles. They wanted to find out what makes me the kind of person I am. How come I survived the cracks and I still think life is beautiful? I don’t think I’m ready to die yet. I think there’s sex after 60. You talk like that to other seniors and they’re horrified.

When I got through with this, they said, “You are just like a breath of spring there, but you should be with younger people. Diversify, be with both. Go out on your own, speak before groups.”

I thought, who’s going to look at an old lady? Who’s going to listen? But they do. I speak at hospitals. I spoke about dieting and exercise, of all things. I was waiting for someone to say, “So how come you’re so fat?” But they didn’t. I spoke on brotherhood, which is a pet subject of mine. I spoke about sentimentality in the old, and that’s a lovely subject. And I spoke about patriotism. And I get paid for it, whatever pay is OK.

Some people are scared before they even start. I don’t think I’ve ever been scared of anything. I’ve been disappointed but not frightened. Not so much so that I can’t pick up and try again.