The Column: Hope this spring, springs eternal

Once, I was walking in Prospect Park, Brooklyn, when a short, bearded man in baggy sweatpants jogged by and shouted to no one in particular: "I’m 70, I’m 70."

I did not know if this was a distress call — the fellow pleading with strangers to corral him like a runaway steed before, at 70, he reached his limit and fell over dead, or if he was cautioning himself not to go another lap ("You’re 70, awready!") or, most likely, declaring himself as fit as any youngster in orange sneakers and Under Armour sportswear hoofing around the inner loop.

Right on, grand-dude, whatever your intentions, I thought to myself. Lovely to be alive — at least for the moment — and in general circulation.

That was the attitude of a memorable Newsday pal, Don Myers, who, given half a chance would announce his age, declare himself a "geezer," say that he was proud of his aches and pains (considering the alternative), and close with a clenched-fist salute. Power to the Persistent.

Even when interviewing someone for a story, Don would turn longevity to advantage.

"I’m no spring chicken myself," he would say on the phone if speaking to a subject past 60. "But feeling pretty frisky, you bet."

Don was cleverly establishing rapport with his source and made no excuses for the approach. Interrogating Joe Biden, 78, Don might have opened with a discussion of vitamin supplements and joint discomfort.

"I know, I know, Mr. President, have you ever tried Bengay?"

While never accepting age as eagerly as Don, I knew he was smart to embrace the obvious.

"We’re just a couple old warhorses, Freddie," he’d say.

"Yup," I’d reply. "That’s us."

"Onward."

"I guess."

All this brings me to spring, season of renewal and hope. Boy, we could use plenty of each, especially those of us who don’t have a fat supply of spare decades.

Depending on age, it may be hard contracting spring fever in the middle of a pandemic.

"Masks Required! Please," says a sign in the deli window. "Covid is still kicking!"

That’s the reality, folks. You want a roast beef on rye, lettuce, tomato, salt, pepper, extra mayo? Cover up. Keep a distance. This thing is far from over.

Looking beyond, that’s the trick. It is our generational duty. Show some spunk. Gotta’ believe, say the Mets. Not a bad idea for any franchise.

OK, then, I’m psyching up, shoving age aside, engaging my inner optimist.

My wife, Wink, planted pansies — cheery Technicolor cherubs — and we saw our latest grandchild for the first time, an assertive little fellow named Owen. Sitting in some snazzy baby contraption, Owen eyed us, demanded another meal, ate heartily and corked off. Three months and priorities already in order.

I thought of spring in other places.

Thanks to an indulgent admissions committee that bestowed mercy on a semi-dropout from Brooklyn who finished high school at night, I ended up going to college in Denver for a couple of years.

Near school, cherry blossoms bloomed in early April.

The Rockies — shadowy, snow-capped, beguiling — stood over the city. Far from home, surrounded by beauty, my heart pounded.

Wink and I met in Denver. We transferred to the University of Missouri so I could go to the journalism school. One June, Wink and I drove our ’55 Ford hardtop to the dog shelter and went home with a little Sheltie mix. I called him George after a beloved professor. Good dog, George, long of life, worthy of the name.

Yes, yes, but what about now?

I was in Prospect Park again recently during a light rain. A boy, 12 or so, glided by on one of those single-wheel, electric skateboards. Keeping balance, he hoisted a blue umbrella above his head. Misty morning, trees in bloom, boy with blue umbrella. Too bad the French Impressionists have retired.

There was no sign that day of the dowdy senior who, impromptu, announced his age.

Don Myers, my Newsday friend, would have loved him.

"I’m 80, I’m 80," Don might have called out in solidarity, raising a gnarly fist.

Still snorting, the old warhorse died a few years ago, obstinate and unafraid.

Don missed the pandemic, but I have a hunch what he’d say.

Spring’s here. So are we. Onward.