They’re Elderly but Not Retiring : Bette Davis said, ‘Getting old ain’t for sissies.’ Here is the view from a retirement home where octogenarians live active, full lives.

A 5-year-old boy who accompanied his mother to a retirement home is puzzled. He can’t understand why she calls her friends there “the girls.” He says they have “grandma faces.”

I never expected to be among them, or the grandpas they greatly outnumber, but I have been here now for more than two years.

I never felt this old until 10 years ago when a young lady in a car next to me in a crowded parking lot waved me ahead of her with an “OK Pop.” I was then 79 and took umbrage because I felt no sign of advancing age. A newspaper headline on a story I wrote at the time said, “At What Age Does One Become ‘Old’?”

I still recall the remarks of a clergyman, retiring on his 75th birthday, who told his parishioners: “You think I’m old. You are old when your mind makes a date your body can’t keep, and I’m not that old.”

Now, at 90, I find that old age for me began in my 80s. Steps got shorter, every chore took longer (most everything these days is a chore--even dressing), visits to doctors and hospitals became more numerous, bones more brittle. An afternoon nap is one of life’s little pleasures.

Words do not flow as they once did when I was an active newspaperman (he covered the Lindbergh kidnaping trial for the Associated Press and later became the AP’s general news editor) but when I have to ponder the right word, I find solace in E. B. White’s lament:

“The aging mind has a bagful of nasty tricks, one of which is to tuck names and words away in crannies where they are not immediately available.”

So, with illness in the family and my having suffered a broken hip, we entered a high-rise retirement home here. We liked it and I, now alone, still do. Not everyone does. A relative, whom I tried to persuade to join me, said, “No. When I go outdoors, I don’t want to have to take an elevator.”

There are 348 of us here--doctors, lawyers, educators, engineers, journalists, military veterans (one went to Utah Beach in June for the 50th anniversary of D-Day) and many former government employees.

Some residents are still active. A lawyer in his 90s, who specializes in drafting wills, probating estates and consulting on domestic relations, still goes to his office daily. Despite a minor leg fracture recently, he was back to work in three weeks.

One resident, a retired Army general, buys and sells stamps. Another is a chemical consultant. Wallace J. Campbell, one of the founders in New York City of CARE, an organization involved in relief, food programs and development in 44 countries, goes daily to CARE’s Washington office. Once president of the organization, he is now president-emeritus.

Many are volunteer workers at Washington arts and musical centers--the National Gallery, the Smithsonian and Kennedy Center, among others. Some help out at the Montgomery County senior education department and the public schools.

One lady joins other volunteers in handling White House mail. They code it by numbers for an official response. They must have security clearance and sign a year’s contract and pledge to work 16 hours a month.

Frank Sinatra is here. Not “Mr. Blue Eyes from Hoboken,” but “Mr. Brown Eyes from Philadelphia.” Our Mr. Sinatra was a percussionist for 30 years with the National Symphony in Washington. In his apartment is a picture of the two Franks with Dinah Shore taken years ago in Philadelphia.

We have a lady who likes to be called “Countess.” She conducts herself sedately, never goes out without hat or gloves, enjoys having tea Sunday afternoons in a downtown hotel. One day we got the real story. At tea a young waitress heard her addressed by friends as “Countess.”

“Are you a real countess?” she asked.

The reply: “I was married to a real no-account. I think that makes me a real countess.”

Most elderly people love to eat. They are at the dining room door in numbers before the 8 a.m. opening for the buffet breakfast. The standing joke: “If you want strawberries, you better be here before 8.” No sooner finished with breakfast, many residents go to the lobby to read the dinner menu. They line up early for two evening sittings. A woman once appeared at 3 p.m., said she was hungry and asked if she could have dinner. Sorry.

At dinner one night, a lady talked about her 18-year-old cat that suffers from arthritis and deafness, among other problems, but “loves to eat.”

“Just like the people here,” her dinner companion commented.

Many women say they came here because they tired of cooking. “Anything I don’t have to do--buy it, cook it and serve it--is fine with me,” one said.

Another who once felt the same way says she is leaving “because I miss my cooking.”

I’m sure that few, if any, of us had at home every night a menu like this: soupe a l’onion, Caesar salad, fresh rolls, cottage cheese, apple sauce, fruit juice, a choice of lamb with mint sauce, chicken Florentine or turbot with sauce veloute, lemon sorbet or chocolate mousse and coffee.

Then there’s swimming and water-exercise classes. In the latter we wiggle our fingers and toes, dance and prance, all of which one lady says “takes us back to our childhood.”

The class instructor says she heard some women ask: “Are we ready for Broadway or the Rockettes?”

No need for any worry there.