"Grow old along with me!" wrote the poet Robert Browning. "The best is yet to be ..."

As it turned out, Mr. Browning's optimism was justified. He lived to age 77, which in the 1800s was no small feat, and had his greatest successes late in life.

When you get to my age _ I'm middle-aged as long as I live to be 112 _ you tend to look for inspiration anywhere you can find it.

I found the mother lode not long ago watching two old guys perform a skit up on a stage.

Easily in their 80s, they were sitting and talking while their wives were offstage, presumably in the kitchen.

The first fellow enthusiastically tells the second about this great restaurant he and his wife ate at last night.

His friend asks for the name of the restaurant, but the first guy just can't remember. Suddenly, his elderly mind seems to clear. He's almost got it. He says to his friend, "Hey ... what's the name of that flower ... you know, the one that's red and has thorns and you give it to a girl if you really like her?"

The second guy says, "A rose?"

"That's it! That's it!" the first man exclaims, then calls offstage to his wife, "Hey Rose, what's the name of that restaurant we ate at last night?"

It was funny. Moreover, it was terrific that they and the audience could find humor in those lapses of memories that used to flow (as Mr. Browning put it) "silverly o'er the tongue."

My brother, Mike, is a gifted piano player who each year is the musical director and accompanist for a talent show put on by residents of a housing development in New Jersey.

It's one of those places where you have to be at least 55 to buy a house, but the average age is easily in the upper 70s.

About 50 residents perform every year for two packed houses of more than 400 of their neighbors.

Do you ever want to feel young? Just be part of an audience filled with people in their 70s, 80s and 90s. I attended to see my brother play the piano, but I came away with something I didn't expect.

With far more courage than talent, those old people sang, danced and did comedy skits. They wore costumes, and if they looked a bit silly, that was just too bad.

They were wonderful.

More than that, I found what they were doing and the verve with which they did it so incredibly life-affirming that tears actually welled in my eyes.

They were children during the Depression.

They were soldiers, sailors, Marines, factory workers, mothers and air raid wardens during World War II.

They were young marrieds in split-level houses and city apartments who either liked Ike or Adlai.

They were parents in the wild 1960s whose kids questioned and often (at least temporarily) rejected almost every moral absolute they held dear.

They were the grandparents of young adults whose sexual mores and music they didn't really want to know about, but whose accomplishments they couldn't wait to trumpet to anyone who would listen.

They were widows and widowers living on a budget and taking oh so many medications for their hearts, thyroids and who knows what else.

Some could barely walk. Some were amazingly spry.

As I sat there in the audience, I realized why they are called "The Greatest Generation."

They clearly have something lacking in my often-moody, self-centered generation.

It's an optimistic _ yet tough _ lust for life, for getting the most out of every day, even if that day only entails a trip to the doctor or a gingerly walk to the housing development's clubhouse.

It's a phone call with a "child" my age or a grandchild who may think Grandma is too nosy.

The grandkids may not know it now, but as they get older, they'll miss having someone who cares enough about them to be nosy.

Mike told me sadly that each year a few people who were in the previous show "aren't around anymore."

But those who are still around were having a blast. One performer brought down the house singing a hilarious song he composed. It was called, "I Just Don't Look Good Naked Anymore."

I learned a lot from all those old people that night. They are tough because life is inevitably unkind. They are optimistic because there is really no other choice.

It is perhaps overly optimistic for them _ or me _ to really believe "the best is yet to be."

But those grand geriatric singers, dancers and comedians showed me it's the only way to live.

"God's in his heaven," wrote Mr. Browning. "All's right with the world!"

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Sam Pollak is editor of The Daily Star. He can be reached at spollak@thedailystar.com or at (607) 432-1000, ext. 208.