Out and About (Sort of): No Age Limit on Romance by Howard Freedlander

Just as the daffodils have blossomed, so has a relationship developed between a 90-year-old woman and an 82-year-old man here at our BayWoods of Annapolis retirement community.

Though amused, I am not surprised. I am pleased for my fellow residents. The 171 independent living residents at this Bay front village are senior citizens with young souls disguised by aged bodies and visages.

What gives me pause is the chatter, typical of a small enclave where residents are constantly assessing the health and well-being of their neighbors and friends. It is a cultural phenomenon in a retirement community where your paths cross repeatedly with your fellow travelers.

A BayWoods friend characterized the newly emerging romance—and the consequent talk as reminiscent of high school. She is right.

To be clear, I well realize that seniors frequently seek the companionship of adults whom they have known for years. That was true of my late father, who after my mother died at 73, had a relationship with a former neighbor in a community where we had lived. I felt glad for him; she was attentive to him and he to her.

My father always loved eating in restaurants, be it lunch and/or dinner. Like his youngest son (this writer), he rarely cooked. My mother was highly skilled in preparing meals. So, after my mother died far too young, he found a woman to enjoy meals outside the home. His loneliness quotient was exceptionally low.

Recently, my wife and I had dinner with a BayWoods couple in their eighties who have been married seven years. The woman had been married 59 years and the man 46 years before their respective spouses died. The couples had been best friends. The gentlemen had spent most of their careers together in the Secret Service.

The one-digit relative newlyweds seemed happy (a quaint observation). They spoke warmly about their former mates. They considered their coupling natural.

Apart from physical and emotional attraction, senior citizens grieving the painful loss of cherished spouses welcome relief from loneliness, a hidden disease cured only by another meaningful relationship.

Loneliness does not easily disappear.

It is a hangover that outlasts aspirin, sleep, and distraction. It colors your perspective on life in dark gray tones.

Children and grandchildren provide spark and spontaneity. Then they move on to their busy lives. They cannot fill a vacuum created by the death of their parent’s presumably best friend and trusted confidant.

Loneliness can bring depression and addiction; alcoholism is a common malady. Suicide is another awful reaction to being alone. Physical effects include heart disease, strokes, hypertension and cancer.

Loneliness is curable. The common denominator is determined effort. Mind you, I base my opinion on watching and learning. A persistent quest for friendship through diving into activities helps dissipate loneliness and grief.

A physical move from a longtime house or apartment can mitigate the memories.

While still mourning the death nearly a year ago of her dear companion, a friend is still struggling to cope with the loss. She laughs and smiles less. She is emotionally low. But she has thrust herself into activities, albeit on the sidelines. Nonetheless, she is summoning the energy and grit to acknowledge, but not wallow in her grief.

To state the obvious, contentment has no timeline. Senior citizens are as open to happiness—and, yes, love—as people more their half their age.

Ben Franklin, one of our country’s founders known for living life fully, said “Those who love deeply never grow old, they may die of old age, but they die young.” My hero, Dr. Franklin, spouted wisdom for the ages.

Love is commonplace among those residing in their “advanced years.” As it should be.

Columnist Howard Freedlander retired in 2011 as Deputy State Treasurer of the State of Maryland. Previously, he was the executive officer of the Maryland National Guard. He also served as community editor for Chesapeake Publishing, lastly at the Queen Anne’s Record-Observer. After 44 years in Easton, Howard and his wife, Liz, moved in November 2020 to Annapolis, where they live with Toby, a King Charles Cavalier Spaniel who has no regal bearing, just a mellow, enticing disposition.