My brother, Ronald Neil Bingham, passed away at age eighty-four. That makes four out of six who have gone on to meet their Maker. Two of us remain to see what more we can do with the Bingham name. I turned eight-seven in September and am still able to move around with relative ease. I will include a poem that I wrote in 1991 and finished a few weeks before my recent birthday. The poem explains how I feel about growing old.