“The old men know, when an old man dies.” That’s a line from an Ogden Nash poem. And it’s come to mind lately, as I’ve encountered a series of funerals and health problems for people in my circle.

I’m not really an old man yet. At 63, I’m still “middle aged” in the minds of many Americans who, according to polls, see 65 as middle aged. And it’s certainly true that nowadays when someone dies in their seventies, the reaction is more likely to be “so young!” than “well, of course.”

But.

While by life-stage that may be right – people 65 and under usually haven’t retired, are often still raising kids (people have kids later, and extended childhood means extended parenthood, too) – still, 65 is really only the middle of life if you expect to live to 130. There may well be people alive today who’ll live to 130 or beyond, but they’re probably younger than 65, and anyway, that’s all conjectural. (My – late – friend Mark Hopkins told me he’d done the longevity-research math and ours would be the last generation to die.)