As we get a little older — or downright ancient — it’s tempting to go sit in the corner and bemoan the latest memory lapse or health woe. But resist we must; no one likes a grump.

My dad, a nationally renown bridge player, played in tournaments around the country well into his 90s. At age 97, a week before he died, he played in a local game with a young man in his 30s; he always delighted in passing on his wisdom and a few corny jokes.

My mother took the side of the downtrodden and neglected all her life. At age 89, a week before she died, she tutored an elderly Asian woman in the rudiments of English. She couldn’t remember where she put her hearing aid, but she never forgot a tutoring appointment.

My 78-year-old sister inherited their stay-in-the-game gene. She serves as a leader in the National Education Association; takes painting lessons, runs her own travel business and organizes monthly Creights tournaments. (Creights is one of many card games we learned from our dad.)

I’m doing my bit to compensate for sagging physical skills, limited patience (it wasn’t good in the best of years) and inability to remember things like where the coffee filters belong or the name of my dental hygienist who’s treated me for 10 years. In fairness, I might be able to pick her name out of a list.

Working on the New York Times crossword puzzle helps. So does doing the daily Ken Ken or Sudoku puzzles. But for some odd reason, these mental diversions seem to get harder as time goes by.

They say that you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. “They” have a point. But here’s one stubborn old cur who won’t give up. I started taking piano lessons a few months ago, for example, from a supremely talented Bowdoin student. I wish I’d kept up the lessons I took as a kid, but Little League baseball took precedence at the time. Anyway, it’s been an interesting challenge — with emphasize on the word “challenge” — to try to learn a new skill at an advanced age.

My teacher Matt is patient, though, offering just the right blend of instruction, encouragement, and humor. One time when I was struggling he said, “Playing the piano is hard work.” Another time after we’d ended the lesson a few minutes early, he asked if I minded if he played a piece he had to perform for his advanced piano class the next day. I assured him that I didn’t. After he had finished with dramatic flourishes and trills that covered the entire keyboard, I thought, “Why am I doing this?” Because, I guess, every once in a while I play something that sounds halfway decent, and I can remember the soothing sounds of my dad playing Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata” (his mother was a piano teacher). I mentioned that piece to my teacher, and he said, “That’s a great challenge piece for you.” So … I’m working on it.

And then there’s the newly formed Bowdoin Bridge Club, which allows interested adults to join the students. I’ve only played a few times since my college days 55 years ago, but I thought it would be good to get back in the game. Calling my game “rusty” is a stretch. Plus there are so many bidding conventions to learn if you’re to be viewed as more than a mere novice. Ah well….I’m out there.

And that, I guess, is the point. It’s good to stay in the game. They say about the lottery that you have to play to win. I think you have to play to live. And to play well you have to practice hard. Time to end this column: I hear Beethoven calling.

David Treadwell, a Brunswick writer, welcomes commentary or suggestions for future “Just a Little Old” columns at [email protected].