Lake Martin is calm. There aren’t many people here. Spring break is over. All the bikinis and beer kegs have gone home, never to return again until this summer.

I am watching the still water, thinking about how much I’ve changed.

I’m older. I’m stiffer in the mornings. I don’t have the metabolism I used to. Used to, I could eat a Big Mac and finish the day like a hummingbird. Now I become akin to a gorilla hit with a tranquilizer dart.

Time seems to move faster, too. I don’t know why. When I was a 10-year-old one day lasted a hundred years. At this age, a day is only a few minutes.

Life, my granddaddy used to say, is not unlike a roll of toilet paper; the closer you get to the end, the faster it goes. And oftentimes, the roll is finished long before you are.

Wisdom.

Sometimes I wish we could slow down the aging process, but the only way we could do that is to get Congress involved. And what would be the point?

Old age used to be coveted. Old age used to be a big deal. Sadly, it’s not cool to be old anymore. When was the last time you saw an elderly person in a car commercial?

My grandmother used to always say old age is a privilege denied to many. She ought to have known. It was denied to her. She wasn’t 70 when she died.

My aunt Irma was 77 when she went. She was a tough woman. She buried three husbands, and two of them were just napping.

I bring all this up because I made a speech yesterday at an old folks home. Yes, I know you’re not supposed to call them old folks homes, they’re “assisted living facilities.”

But the old folks were calling it an “old folks home” because old folks don’t get worked up about political correctness the way my generation does.

At the home, I sang a few songs and told a few humorous stories.

There was an elderly woman on the front row using a wheelchair. She kept asking if I was Benny. She kept shouting, “Benny! Benny! I have missed you!”

She was confused. I’m not Benny. Never have been. But she held my hand and kissed my cheek and said “I love you, Benny. I miss you.”

Then she started crying. And we hugged for a little while.

Later, one of the nurses told me that Benny died in a car accident some 30 years ago. The old woman calls every younger man Benny.

I met a guy named Bill, who had no teeth, but claimed to know all the lyrics to “Boy Named Sue.” I had to take his word for it.

I met another old man. He was wearing a World War II ballcap, and they called him the “General,” even though he retired as a major. He was 99.

I asked what it was like being in one’s late 90s.

He said, “It’s wonderful. Every day is like living on a cruise ship. They feed you. Make your bed. They even have pretty girls here who bathe you.” Then he bounced his eyebrows.

I asked what it was like being elderly. I really wanted to know. My greatest ambition is to become an old man someday.

He said, “It’s like living with kindergarteners. You’re older than everyone and no one ever know who or what you’re talking about. All your friends are gone. All your memories are alive. But you know what?

“Whenever I start missing my loved ones, whenever I get down; whenever I feel unsatisfied with my age, and find myself wanting to be young again, know what I do?

“What?”

“I just think of algebra.”

Wisdom.