Mizpah*

Remember the ragpicker Nits? I thought of him the other day and I went to my bookshelf and picked up The Return of the Ragpicker, rather than The Greatest Miracle in the World.

Why?

Because I remembered Mizpah, and I wanted to remember what it said. All those years ago, when I stumbled across Greatest Miracle, devoured it, bought God knows how many copies to give out to my friends. The warmth of that story, the old man, which brought tears to our eyes and we read and re-read that bit at the end. For 100 days? Who knows.

But as I was reading, I came across this excerpt about how to live longer. The message, so simple. Practise altruism. But I'l let Simon tell you about it, shall I?

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"Now," I said softly, "let me get a good look at you."

After several minutes of silent embracing, I had taken the old man's hand and led him toward a portion of the pound's wall, running parallel to Blueberry Lane, that stood only two boulders high. What had been the third and and top tier of stones from that section lay on the ground inside the pound, half-buried in decaying oak and maple leaves, probably dislodged from their original position by men or boys with little else to do.

Now Simon sat facing me on the low wall, our feet resting on the fallen boulders. I reached out, gently caressed his wrinkled cheeks, and shook my head in wonder. "Amazing! It's been - how long? -- fifteen years since I last saw you and except for...forgive me...except for a little less hair on top, you haven't changed at all. Your birthday...the one that we celebrated in Chicago...help me...which one was that?"

He smiled and those warm, brown eyes opened wider. "You mean on that very special occasion when you and I planted your gift of a glass geranium outside in the cold in my second story window box?

"That's the one."

"The year was 1974 and that was my seventy-ninth birthday."

"My God, that means you are now...ninety-five years old! Look at you! What a miracle you are! Your eyes are clear, you stand just as tall and proud as back then, you felt as strong as an ironworker when you hugged me, and that beautiful voice still sounds like ti should be performing at the Metropolitan Opera. What's your secret?"

"We are all surviving longer than our parents and grandparents, Mister Og. In 1900 only one in twenty-five lived to celebrate his or her sixty-fifth birthday. Today, one in eight in this country is beyond that age. A child born back around the turn of the century could expect to live, on average, only forty years. Today's babies, with any luck at all, will make it to seventy-five. America is indeed turning gray. Already we 'over sixty-fivers' outnumber our teenagers. You want my secret for my long, long life? There is no secret. My reaching this very advanced age, so many years beyond even today's improved death rate, seems to be some sort of mysterious bonus granted to nearly all of God's ragpickers...to just about every individual who willingly renders aid and comfort and caring to those less fortunate. Now this great benefit for acting as one's brother's or sister's keeper, in volunteer work without pay, may still be a secret but I can assure you it will not remain so very long. Many reputable journals, such as Psychology Today, Longevity, and even my old favorite, Better Homes and Gardens, are already calling the public's attention to this mysterious connection between being what I would call a ragpicker...a giver of oneself, if you will...and additional years of life."

Simon Potter reading Better Homes and Gardens? That was a picture difficult to imagine until I reminded myself that the old man's quest for truth had always been unlimited in its range and passion. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees while he studied his folded hands.

"Mister Og, as you know, my profession, my avocation, my hobby, my life's mission for several decades has been that of a ragpicker. However, unlike other ragpickers, I salvage not empty beer and pop containers and old newspapers and cast-off clothes, but people...individuals who have fallen on bad times and find themselves, at last, on life's rubbish heaps. With much patience and work and the help of God I have been truly fortunate to rescue many lives and thus provide them with another chance to fulfill their true destinies, including many who have nearly drowned in the terrible whirpool of alcohol and drugs, two deadly enemies that are now penetrating every level of our society."

The old man patted my knee. "I believe I have even been able to make some contributions to your life. You are a much better man today, Mister Og, than you were back in the mid-seventies when we would meet and chat in my small apartment in Chicago, near your office, after you had spent long and difficult days as president of W. Clement Stone's excellent magazine, Success Unlimited. Your many books and your countless speeches on success, around the world, have contributed much to humanity since you resigned your position, in 1976, to devote, as you said, all your time to writing, lecturing....and golfing."

"You know what I've been doing?"

He nodded. "I have been following your activities closely. But first, let me finish with this longevity matter, because it is so very important and with your great following, perhaps you might choose to spread the word. First, there are four very simple rules that one must live by in order to increase the odds of a longer life and everyone knows what they are although I'm afraid that many lack the necessary fortitude or pride in themselves to observe them. First, just use some common sense in the amounts and types of food you stuff into yourself. You need no calorie or nutritional expert standing by to guide you. Second rule...when it comes to drugs and alcohol turn away, completely, except for perhaps an occasional glass of wine on a special occasion. Third," he said, wincing as he held up his battered and unlit corncob pipe, "put nothing in your mouth that is smoking at its other end. The fourth rule is to exercise moderately, at least three times a week. A thirty-minutes brisk walk will do just fine. Jogging so many miles each day that you are in excruciating pain and ready to drop is not required. Just be certain you remain active and never, never fall slave to that television set. Those who are referred to as 'couch potatoes' are committing the most insidious and saddest form of suicide known to this generation."

Simon then raised both his hands, fingers extended like some great maestro, to emphasize what he was about to say. "Now, my dear friend, any child over the age of ten could have probably given you those four commonsense steps to a longer life, but the fifth and most important step is little known as yet, although its value is so great that it can multiply, perhaps by a factor of two or three, those additional years anyone can add to their life by following the first four rules. Are you ready...?

It was like old times. The master was teaching. The pupil was learning. "I'm ready!"

"Practice altruism!"

"Altruism?"

Simon seemed to be enjoying the puzzled look on my face. "Altruism. Mister Og, according to Webster's, is an unselfish regard for, or devotion to, the welfare of others. For reasons that science and medicine do not even understand as yet, it appears that those who give of their time and energy to assist others, on a volunteer basis and with no expected reward, seem to suffer from far less stress and depression in their lives while enjoying many more invigorating moments of self-satisfaction, pride and a greater capacity for work, along with peace and contentment. Also, anyone fueled by these positive life charges will rarely suffer through the negative jolts of self-pity, hopelessness, and failure that always cause so much damage to anyone's immune system. What is so amazing is that several of the bright minds currently researching this whole area of longevity have come to believe that while we are in the process of helping others unselfishly, our body seems to release pain-relieving chemicals called endorphins, which athletes identify as the element that produces a runner's high."

"What a great recruiting tool for those organizations seeking volunteers, such as the American Red Cross, United Way, and Big Brothers. Join us and live longer!"

Simon scowled at what he probably mistook as my levity. "Mister Og, this is not some crackpot speculation that you might find in your newsstand scandal sheets. As down-to-earth a magazine as Better Homes and Gardens conducted a survey of its readers, asking how they felt when the regularly helped other voluntarily. The responses, turned over to the Institute for the Advancement of Health for analysis and review, indicated that a large percentage of those who assisted others through volunteer work actually became aware of a warm and pleasant physical sensation that has come to be referred to as a 'helper's high.' So you see, sir, less food and alcohol and a lot of practiced altruism, perhaps in your own neighborhood, will contribute greatly toward your chances of hanging around long enough to see your grandchildren grow up. And that, my old friend, probably explains why you think I look so good for my advanced years. I'm a ragpicker, and all ragpickers practice a lot of altruism every day. Anyone can join our club. No dues. No meetings. And financial contributions to worthy causes, I might add, do not seem to have any effect on one's longevity. You've got to give of yourself and your time with no thought of any of any kind...not even a 'thank you.'"

"Albert Schweitzer?"

The old man's face lit up. "A perfect example. Writer, musician, theologian, philosopher...one of the world's all-time men of talent and wisdom, and yet for the last fifty years of his life, as a medical missionary, he ran a hospital in the jungle with his own funds for the natives of French Equatorial Africa...a hospital he literally built with his own hands. They buried him at ninety."

"Simon, I remember reading somewhere that he was in great condition, both mentally and physically, almost to the very end, and he once said that the only thing that made him feel old was all the mail he received that he was unable to answer."

Excerpted from The Return of the Ragpicker by Og Mandino

* The Lord watch between me and thee, when we are absent, one from another.