Category Archives: Men

‘Lovin50’ Plate: Vanity? Revelry? Polygamy?

04 Tuesday Feb 2014

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loving 50 plate

BY BOB SMITH

I saw this vanity license plate (LOVIN50), while driving on Route 66 the other day. Is it a confession of polygamy? If so, this guy (or gal) would rival Brigham Young, who, according to some sources, reportedly had up to 55 wives. Then again, even if you had 50 spouses, would you really be “LOVIN50”? You’d probably be indifferent to at least a few, and downright dislike another dozen or two. It’s also been reported by some sources, that even Brigham Young had divorced 10 of his 55 wives by the time he died (stone deaf and exhausted, no doubt).

Or is the license plate a commemoration of 50 years of marriage between Loretta (LO) and Vincent (VIN)? That’s a stretch. Besides, the car wasn’t going 15 in a 55-mile-zone with a little white head, and glasses, peering over the steering wheel.

The most likely explanation seems to be that the driver recently rolled the birthday odometer over from 4 to 5, and is reveling in this happy decade after youthful insecurities have mostly melted away, and before outright decay entirely sets in – Whoopee! I’m 50 and LOVIN’ it!

At age 20, or even 30, I would have been nauseated at the thought of proclaiming my age like that. But once you’re in your 50s, you gain valuable perspective – namely, who gives a crap what other people think? You’re mature enough to sport a vanity license plate that shows both humility (admitting advancing age) and chutzpah (and I’m just fine with that).

I wonder if the driver has reserved LOVIN60 against the day when he or she rolls up to the next decade? Then again, by then, maybe they’ll just be LIKIN’ it.

Memories of Super Bowl XX: We Scored Big

03 Monday Feb 2014

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Frank with baby

David was born on the Monday after Super Bowl XX, 1986.

BY FRANK TERRANELLA

There is no more compelling demonstration of the circle of life than the coming of a new baby. If all goes well, my family will add a new member next month. And as my son and daughter-in-law prepare for the miracle that is childbirth, I am inevitably drawn back to January 26, 1986, the day before my son was born.

It was a Sunday, but not just any Sunday. It was Super Bowl Sunday. Super Bowl XX to be precise. Mike Ditka and the Chicago Bears defeated the New England Patriots by the score of 46–10 at the Louisiana Superdome in New Orleans, Louisiana. Quarterback Jim McMahon and running back Walter Payton led a team that featured a rookie lineman named William “Refrigerator” Perry.

Pat with babyThat morning of Super Bowl Sunday, my wife Pat began to feel labor pains. We were living in Clifton, New Jersey at the time, having just moved there four months before from Bergen County. That is why our obstetrician was in Englewood, nearly 20 miles away. To make matters worse, the forecast was for snow that evening. Pat called her doctor who said to wait a few hours and then come into Englewood Hospital. Rather than just sit home and wait, I proposed that we should both go to my office in Englewood Cliffs, and she could wait there while I tied up some loose ends to ease my being away from the office for a few days. The beauty of that was that if my wife’s labor progressed more rapidly than the doctor thought, we would be only 10 minutes away from the hospital.

Finally, we got to the hospital around game time as light snow began to fall. The hospital staff was ready for us. But we found out that our child was not yet ready to be born. Labor continued through the evening and long after the Super Bowl celebrations were over. Midnight came and went, and Pat proposed that we go home and come back tomorrow. The nurses smiled knowingly, and turned up the IV drip to try to move things along. Three a.m. came and went, and then the sun rose on the two of us – both looking as miserable as we felt. There were now whispers of C-section among the nurses, but the doctor who came in at 7 a.m., looking fresh as a daisy, felt that we should give natural childbirth just a few more hours.

And so the hours dragged on. By 9 a.m., there was still nothing imminent, and Pat had now been in labor for more than 24 hours. At one point that morning, she looked at me with a face that combined pain with frustration. I smiled because it reminded me of an old Bill Cosby routine where the suffering wife sits up during labor and yells at her husband, “You did this to me!!”

The clock passed 10 a.m., and by now it seemed like every other woman in the maternity corridor had already given birth. The doctor came in and upped the drugs again, and as the clock hit noon, there was finally some real action. Pat was rushed to the delivery room, and I donned my scrubs and mask to accompany her. David arrived at 12:32 p.m.. The nurse asked whether I wanted to cut the umbilical cord, and I politely declined.

After an all-night vigil, I was punchy, and feared I would harm the child. So the doctor did the honors, and soon afterward the nurse handed me my son. I was shaking as I held him, and tears flowed freely. Meanwhile, Pat had made a remarkable recovery. She was smiling, and the entire labor experience was just a distant memory. I swear that Mother Nature does this to trick women into having more children.

As I look back at the birth of my son, I can only marvel that my child will soon be at his wife’s side as I was, and my child will soon experience the complete joy of meeting his son for the first time. It’s the circle of life, and isn’t it grand.

Shingles: A Pain in the Back

29 Wednesday Jan 2014

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BY KENNETH KUNZ

During my annual physical a couple of years back, my primary care provider (once known as family doctor), asked me if I had ever had chicken pox. I confidently responded that I had not. Indeed, for my entire adult life, for fear of contracting the condition, I had stayed away from children with chicken pox, those possibly about to get chicken pox, and any young person just getting over chicken pox. Doc chuckled rather condescendingly, and said that many of his patients insisted that they, too, had never had chicken pox. Yet, upon testing, were almost always proved wrong. He ordered the appropriate blood test for me to convince me I was mistaken as well.

On a follow up visit soon after, he reviewed the test results, and sure enough I was correct! I would have remembered the scars I told him, in a most non-condescending tone. He shook his head, smiled and actually apologized for doubting me. But now we had to get me a chicken pox vaccination posthaste because adults who had had chicken pox in their youth are prone to contracting shingles. He wrote me a script to get vaccinated.

After enduring a few months of dealing with a bit of a rigmarole involving matters such as who covered what, and when a supply could be ordered, I ended up back where I started at my PCP’s office, and he ordered the special serum. In two separate sessions, I was vaccinated, then boostered. I felt great – comforted knowing that now I wouldn’t have to worry about shingles (which I had always heard could be quite painful). I also always thought it was one of the goofier sounding conditions one had to admit going through.

I have had intermittent lower back (lumbar) pain since my twenties due to more things than I can remember. I imagine most of us can make that claim. I have often said that as soon as Homo sapiens finally stood erect, the entire species began having back pain of some sort (another story perhaps). At any rate, shortly after the vaccination episode, I started experiencing a bit more back pain than usual, and went through my normal protocol for relief – extra doses of Advil, some pain relief cream, stretching, et al. Nothing worked.

And then … I started itching and burning. Like sunburn. Then a rash developed. Then the self-diagnosis (with the help of Google, WebMD and a host of other sites), that I had contracted shingles. What? But I thought …

Never mind. Went back to the PCP, and sure enough, within about one second of examination, it was confirmed I had the suckers. Relatively mild case, but more severe pain than I had ever experienced next to kidney stones (still another story). Went through the prescribed treatment, and within two weeks all was fine. By the way, no one could really explain why I got shingles after being vaccinated against chicken pox. I personally feel the stupid vaccination made my body believe I actually had chicken pox, so why not let me fall prey to shingles as the natural follow-up?

A few months ago, my most recent visit to my PCP has him telling me I am now old enough to get the shingles vaccination and he suggests I do so as soon as I can. I venture to the pharmacy, and am informed that since I had yet to turn 60 at the time, I needed a script. Back to the pcp. Now with script in hand, back to the pharmacy. They can surely help, but they have none in stock, and the insurance site is jammed so it is not sure that my policy covers the shot. Is it me? I leave – don’t feel like waiting. About a month later I go back during my lunch break, and within 15 minutes, all is good. I get the vaccination with no co-pay or any other charge.

Phew!

Except now, despite all this great preventative care, every time I get even the slightest itch in my back, guess what I’m thinking?

Snow Shore

22 Wednesday Jan 2014

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Bob snow 6

BY BOB SMITH

I took a bunch of photos after the last storm, secretly hoping that would be the only big nasty snowfall of this winter. No such luck. Here we are again, with everything – porch furniture, garbage pails, hedges, cars – transformed into weird white domes. The icy street is an invitation to a fenderbender, and the boardwalk is a desolate, wind-whipped wasteland.

It feels wrong to see the beach covered in snow and seabirds perched like furry gumballs on the lake ice between Bradley Beach and Ocean Grove. But then up and down Ocean Avenue you see surfers in wetsuits trudging across the frozen sand to ride the waves, happy to have the water toBob snow 2 themselves. So what if the water’s 39 degrees – the air temp is in the 20s, so by comparison it’s warm. The boardwalk in Asbury Park is all footprints and tire tracks, and the Stone Pony has mounds of snow outside. But summer lingers in our hearts.Stone Pony

Bob snow 5

Bob snow 7

bob snow 8

‘Pippin’ Still Does Magic the Second Time Around

20 Monday Jan 2014

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BY FRANK TERRANELLA

A nice thing about being over 50 is that you can have a second (or third) crack at experiences like great vacation spots, fabulous restaurants and exciting shows. It’s fun to compare the experiences we remember from many years ago with the after-50 experience.

I sometimes find that time has not been good to a particular resort or restaurant or that a revival of an old favorite show does not live up to expectations. Memories always tend to forget the mediocre, and magnify the good or bad. And often, it’s difficult for my over-50 self to have the same pleasurable experience I had 30 or 40 years ago. But every once in a while the restaurant, beach, or show is as good as I remember – or better.

I had that experience recently when my daughter took me to see the Broadway revival of “Pippin.” I was 19 years old back in 1972 when I saw the original production of “Pippin” with Ben Vereen and Jon Rubenstein. I remember I was home on Thanksgiving break from college, and I went into Manhattan alone and bought front mezzanine tickets for $12.

I still get chills remembering the sustained opening note in the orchestra as the curtain opened to a stage full of smoke, and Ben Vereen appeared, dressed in black, leading the cast onstage.

“Join Us” he sang. “We’ve Got Magic to Do.”

And boy, did they! Bob Fosse’s dancers were mesmerizing. Stephen Schwartz’s music was phenomenal. “Pippin” was the show that got me hooked on musicals.

Fast forward 41 years, and I now have a 26-year-old daughter. This daughter happens upon some tickets to “Pippin.” She knows that her father is crazy about the show because she was raised listening to the original cast album. She invites him to join her to see the first Broadway revival of the show.

This Broadway revival, directed by Diane Paulus, re-imagines the show. The cast is full of talented circus performers who juggle fire, tumble, perform balancing acts, and what look to be dangerous feats high above the stage. Back in 1972, Pippin was searching for meaning in his life. In 2014, he has figuratively run away and joined the circus.

Anyway, as I sat in my seat listening to the start of the show, I felt, again, the excitement I felt at 19. Oh sure, there are lots of changes. The role Ben Vereen played is now played brilliantly by a woman, Patina Miller, and the smoke is gone from the opening number. The show now begins with the curtain down. The cast peeks through the curtain at first, and beckons us with their hands to “Join Us.”

And then comes the drop-dead moment, when the curtain flies out, and the circus set is revealed. Suddenly, I had the biggest smile on my face, and tears appeared in my eyes. Here was artistry that touched my over-50 soul just as profoundly as it did when I was a teenager. There was “Magic to Do” again. But this time I was not alone. A young woman, who I had raised to love theater, was enjoying it with me. That increased the enjoyment to another level.

The rest of the show was full of great moments that brought back memories of the original production. Tovah Feldshuh, at 62, was much more animated than Irene Ryan was in 1972. And Rachel Bay Jones was a lot funnier than Jill Clayburgh was in the original cast as Pippin’s love interest. All in all, the new version equaled or topped the original production in almost every way, and that’s saying a lot.

Revisiting great experiences from our youth can be perilous for the over-50 crowd. But every once in a while, we are lucky enough to recreate the magic. And when that happens, the enjoyment seems to increase geometrically. It puts a new spin on the phrase “senior moment.” Sometimes things are better the second time around.

It’s Gonna Snow! Get the Bread and Milk!

15 Wednesday Jan 2014

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snow cravings bob

It’s all about the white.

BY BOB SMITH

What is it about snow that makes people crave bread, milk, and eggs? Whenever the forecast in the New York/New Jersey area calls for more than a dusting of snow, the supermarkets fill up with frenzied shoppers “stocking up” on bread, milk, and eggs. Is this really necessary?

Does everyone plan to sit out the snowstorm munching on egg sandwiches and glasses of milk? Or are they going to bake cookies with the milk and eggs? Then why the bread? And why no run on baking flour? Why isn’t everyone out there buying chicken, yams, and asparagus? At least you can make a decent complete meal out of those.

People also fill up their cars with gasoline before a storm – even though they’ll do little or no driving if there’s a significant snowfall. Does it make them feel more secure knowing that rounded lump buried in the driveway under three feet of snow has enough fuel to take the vehicle to Cleveland and back – if only you could drive it down the block?

In any event, when was the last time it snowed so much you were trapped in your house and couldn’t dig your way out to the store before your existing, everyday, supply of bread, milk and eggs ran out or went bad? Even the worst blizzard in New Jersey is cleared away, and the roads are passable within a day – or at most a day and a half – of the last flakes falling. Are people afraid the supply trucks can’t get to the supermarket after a big storm, and our local quota of bread, milk and eggs will dry up so we’d better stock up while we can? But when has that ever happened? Not in my lifetime.

I’ll tell you what has happened, though: my local supermarket runs out of bread, milk, and eggs just before a big snowstorm because of all the panic buying. Or at least they run out of my favorite brands – I’ve been reduced to buying skim instead of 1% or 2% milk, wheat instead of good old nonnutritious white bread, and those weird brown eco-eggs that cost twice as much as regular white ones.

That’s it! It’s a white fetish! In anticipation of the world being covered in snow, everyone wants to be sure they have an ample supply of white foods. And bread, milk, and eggs just naturally top that list. White rice, shredded coconut, and lemon sherbet can’t be far behind. Heck, if snow were brown there’d be a run on chocolate, Brazil nuts, and day-old ground beef.

There isn’t a big snow event in the New Jersey forecast for the next few days, so we can all rest easy. For now. But when it all comes down, don’t get caught without your stash – be ready to white-up and hunker down for the long haul. All two days of it.

Years Disappear When Family Shows Up

14 Tuesday Jan 2014

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BY FRANK TERRANELLA

Cousins Joe and

Cousins Joe and Kevin.

After more than half a century on the planet, the odds are that each of us has made some friends with whom we have lost touch for many years. The amazing thing is that when we finally get together, often it seems like no time has passed at all. I found out recently that the good-friend phenomenon extends to some family members as well.

Those who read this blog regularly may remember that in 2013, after 40 years, I met up with my cousin in Denmark who shares the same name . Well, it so happens that he has two brothers, Joe and Kevin, whom I also have not seen for long periods of time. I last saw my cousin Joe in 1987, and my cousin Kevin in 1977. There was no reason for the lack of personal contact – we were all just living our lives. Our common grandparents had died, and we just lost touch.

So when my cousin Joe’s wife Loretta contacted me via Facebook a few years back, it was a pleasant surprise. Joe had married Loretta after the last time I had seen him, so Loretta and I had never met. But she found me on Facebook, and we kept in touch that way.

Then, in December 2013, Loretta let me know she was planning a surprise 65th party for Joe. She didn’t expect me to come. She was just hoping I would write a message that she would place in a book of good wishes she was preparing to give Joe for his birthday. But I recognized that we are all at an age when we can’t be sure there will ever be another opportunity to get together. Illness or other impediments might make it impossible sometime soon. So after talking it over with my wife, we decided to fly for the weekend from New Jersey down to Charlotte, North Carolina, where Joe and Loretta make their home.

We were booked to fly down early on Saturday morning, and home on Sunday night.

That Thursday night, a snowstorm hit New Jersey. On Friday, we dug out from the six inches of snow and packed our bags. Saturday morning we awoke to a temperature of 8 degrees and headed to the airport with our fingers crossed that the flight would not be canceled. It turned out that not only did the flight leave on time, we arrived early. The 38 degree temperature we were greeted with in Charlotte seemed tropical by comparison.

That night we found our way to the site of the surprise party, and were greeted by Joe’s daughter, Leslie. My wife and I had met up with Leslie in 2012, but before that, we had not seen her since she was six. It’s interesting to see how kids turn out, and Leslie has turned out great. Of course, I missed all the drama years in between 6 and 32. I think that old adage about not wanting to see how the sausage is made applies to kids as well. It’s the end product that matters.

Two Pats

Pat met Pat.

Soon, other guests arrived, including my cousin Kevin. As soon as he walked into the room I knew him, even though I had not seen him in almost 37 years. We embraced, and began to catch up on each other’s lives. Kevin introduced his wife, Pat, and I introduced my wife, Pat. It was a “Pat Terranella meet Pat Terranella” moment that reminded me of my meeting with the other Frank Terranella in Denmark last year.

Kevin and I found that we both married our Pats in the same year – 1978. Then came the main event. My cousin Joe entered the room to a thunderous “Surprise!” and a round of “Happy Birthday.” I was standing towards the back of the room with my cousin Kevin. Joe immediately spotted me and called out my name. As with Kevin, we embraced and began the process of updating each other.

It was amazing how the years fell away. We were soon reminiscing about our youth spent at Lake Hopatcong, and remembering our common grandparents. By the end of the night, it was just as if Kevin, Joe and I had seen each other regularly for all those
decades.

I was happy we had made the effort to fly in for the party. It felt good to re-establish some old relationships. It felt that the karmic balance had been restored and I think our grandfather, the senior Frank Terranella, was smiling down on “his boys.”

But, of course, no good deed goes unpunished. Our flight back was delayed seven hours, and we got home at 3:30 Monday morning. Maybe our next reunion will be in New Jersey.

Bursting (Pants Included) Through the Holidays

10 Friday Jan 2014

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the holidays

BY BOB SMITH

Okay, it’s over. I’m 10 pounds overweight, feeling miserable, and resolving, like 29 million other Americans, to fight off the ravages of the recent holidays before (or rather, as) I bust out of my pants. I’ve got to at least put a dent in it before I have to put on a bathing suit again. And that could be as early as next month if I get my wish to go to Florida for the second half of this ugly New Jersey winter.

I admit it – I’m a victim of that giant end-of-year holiday “Hallothanksmaseveday,” which starts with the candy and costume ads on October 1, and runs right through to the blowing of the last noisemaker early on the morning of January 1. Four holidays are telescoped into a dizzying three-month orgy of candy, turkey, pumpkin pie, cookies, sugarplums (whatever they are), hams, yams, nog, logs (cheese and Yule), lights on trees, gifts galore, champagne, shrimp, long brunches, and tall Bloody Marys.

We’ve now entered a brief no-holiday season. Sure, there’s Martin Luther King Day and football playoffs and the Super Bowl in early February, but otherwise, the stretch between New Year’s and mid-February is relatively holiday-free. That brief respite looks like my best chance to get a serious start on losing the holiday fat before the parade of celebrations begins again.

Valentine’s Day, St. Patrick’s Day, Mother’s Day, Easter, Father’s Day, Memorial Day, and the start of summer, followed by the Fourth of July – that covers February to mid-year. August and September are relatively light, with only the traditional Labor Day lamentation of summer’s end to break up the monotony. But throw in the occasional birthday, anniversary party, or wedding, and the summer can be full of overindulgence opportunities, too.

Then it’s October 1, and the holiday marketing machine cranks up “Hallothanksmaseveday” all over again. What a life.

Happy New Year!

A Farewell to Uncle Jimmy

03 Friday Jan 2014

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bob jimmy

BY BOB SMITH

I always look forward to The New York Times year-end edition of its Sunday magazine, which is devoted to reviewing the sometimes fascinating lives of notable people who died during the year. But everyday people also died this year, and in their own ways, their lives are just as special.

Take Uncle Jimmy, my wife’s godfather. Jimmy was 98, or 99, depending on whom you ask, when he passed away in November. (He thought he was 99, aiming for triple digits in March 2014.) He was first cousin to Maria’s mother on the paternal side, and first cousin to Maria’s father through his mother. I think that’s right, but I’ve never fully mastered the intricacies of old world Italian village relationships. The name on his birth certificate was Vincent, but everyone called him Jimmy. No one knows exactly why.

He was compact, and mostly bald, with an impish grin and an infectious laugh. It seemed as if Jimmy was always happy. He raked the leaves, and weeded the beds around his house until his early 90s, when bouts of dizziness, and occasional neck pain prevented him from continuing. Jimmy liked to tell how his father had died, at the age of 89, after falling out of a tree. He had climbed up to prune it, probably over his wife’s objections. But it was, after all, his tree.

“Who else was gonna do it?” Jimmy observed with a shrug and a smile.

He loved the ocean, and fishing from the jetty for scrappy rockfish that we would cut in chunks, dredge in flour, and fry in olive oil to a cinnamon-brown crisp. When things went wrong, like the day I was fishing with him and my line unspooled and got hopelessly tangled, Jimmy had the perfect words for it:

“It’s all wickety wackety. You can’t fix that. Cut the line!”

After his wife died, he refused to go back to the shore house because it held too many memories. So for the last 10 years or so, we could only see him at the home he shared in Nutley with his daughter (now retired herself), and her husband. Every time we visited, Jimmy would sit us down at the kitchen table, pull out the bottle of Drambuie, and insist that I drink shots, even if it was 10 in the morning. He happily joined me for at least one or two, at least until last year when his hands shook so much he spilled most of the liqueur before it got to his mouth.

“Jesus Christ,” he laughed. “Wouldja lookit that. I’m shaky! I got the shakes! Hey, what’re you gonna do?”

He would shrug, and wobble the short shot to his lips anyway, taking a gingerly sip.

“Don’t get old,” he told me, waving his arthritis-twisted finger in mock solemnity. “Have another shot, go ahead!”

The night he died, he complained of head and chest congestion, but he refused to go to the hospital because he hated those places. He just took cold medicine and went to bed early. He awoke at 4 a.m., coughing. He took another dose of cough syrup, and fell back asleep. Between then and 9 a.m., when his daughter went to check on him because he’d missed his usual coffee time, Jimmy had stopped breathing.

The wake was a small, and surprisingly genial affair. After all, he’d lived a long, happy life without major illnesses, and died peacefully, at home, in his sleep.

“I’ll sign a contract for that right now,” was a much-heard mantra during his wake and funeral.

It’s wickety wackety without you, Jimmy. You were well-loved.

I’m pouring the Drambuie now.

Longer Life Means Lifetime Savings in the (Memory) Bank

30 Monday Dec 2013

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memory bowl 2

BY FRANK TERRANELLA

I think that the best thing about being on the right side of 50 is the riches we have accumulated in the memory banks.  People who are in their 20s have so few good memories compared to us. Oh sure, they have some childhood memories, and maybe even a few teenage memories of the golden variety. But we over-50s have those, and much, much more.

We can look back at the lives we have lived, and the choices we have made. Of course there are always some regrets, but as Sinatra sang “too few to mention.” The golden memories we have include not just our weddings, but the births of our children, their first steps, their first day of school, their proms and (for some of us) their weddings. Some of us even have memories of first grandchildren.

But most of all, we over-50s have golden memories of time enjoyed with significant others in our lives. Maybe it was a spouse, maybe it was a good friend, but the memory banks are chockablock with warm recollections of days gone by. Vacations spent in beautiful places are in there, alongside quiet Sundays at home in bed. We have the blessings of having lived and loved; laughed and cried. And we can summon it up anytime we want to. All it takes is for someone to say, “Do you remember when…”

There are lots of good memories associated with this time of year. Some of them, for me, involve enjoying great works of art. Can you remember the first time you heard Handel’s “Messiah”? How about the first time you watched Linus tell us the meaning of Christmas in  “A Charlie Brown Christmas”? I put these in the same paragraph because they both inspire me.

There are tons of Christmas movies around, but some of my favorites are not about Christmas, but just take place at Christmas.  An example is “Home Alone.”  An older example is “It’s A Wonderful Life.”

One of my favorite movies that take place around Christmas, but is not about Christmas is “A Family Man.”  It was made in 2000, and stars Nicolas Cage and Téa Leoni. Writers David Diamond and David Weissman create a sort of It-Could-Have-Been-a Wonderful-Life story.  Instead of getting to see what the world would have been like without him, Cage, a rich, single businessman gets a “glimpse” of what his life could have been like if he had married his girlfriend, Téa Leoni, instead of flying off to London for an internship.

It’s a beautiful and profound romantic comedy set in the holiday season.  It shows the power of choices we make in our lives. It shows how memories are like dominos that can branch off in unexpected directions as life moves us inexorably forward. I recommend watching “A Family Man,” when you’re in a contemplative mood so you can get the full effect. It’s perfect end-of-year viewing.

As another year comes to an end, and something called 2014 begins, those of us who have spent most of our lives in another century can still look forward to making even more golden memories in this one. And those 20-somethings will never catch up to us. When it comes to memories, it’s really an embarrassment of riches for the over 50s.