/* var quicktagsL10n = {
quickLinks: “(Quick Links)”,
wordLookup: “Enter a word to look up:”,
dictionaryLookup: “Dictionary lookup”,
lookup: “lookup”,
closeAllOpenTags: “Close all open tags”,
closeTags: “close

tags”,
enterURL: “Enter the URL”,
enterImageURL: “Enter the URL of the image”,
enterImageDescription: “Enter a description of the image”
};
try{convertEntities(quicktagsL10n);}catch(e){};
/* ]]> */

edToolbar()

On Monday morning, I took my mother, Dottie Kislingbury, to a bank in Millbrae, Calif. Dottie wanted me to have future access to her safe deposit box. Just a quick signature, and we would move on to grocery shopping.

We waited as the banker helping us took a phone call. She then put the caller on hold, looked at Dottie’s safe deposit records and said, “Graham is already on the account.”

The banker, who appeared to be in her late 20s or early 30s, then looked at me and said, “Born in 1909?”

I celebrated my 59th birthday a few weeks ago, and to most people I probably look older than that. But 103? The year I was born, 1953, is a ways off from 1909.

“That would have been my dad, who was also named Graham,” I told the banker. He died 28 years ago this month. If my dad were still alive, he would turn 103 on July 26.

That funny moment at the bank reminded me of the day four years ago when we celebrated my mother’s 85th birthday and my Uncle John’s 90th birthday at the Burlingame, Calif., Recreation Center.

Uncle John and I were standing in a hallway at one point when we were approached by a 60ish-looking woman attending a Quinceneara for her granddaughter in the large hall next door.

“Is one of you the gentleman celebrating his 90th birthday today?” she asked. Uncle John proudly pointed to me. We had a good laugh.

I’m used to all this aging stuff. Whenever someone

remarks about the color of my hair — and it happens all the time — I simply say, “I’ve finally grown into my name – GRAY-ham.”

edCanvas = document.getElementById(‘content’);