The worst thing about getting old is that you become invisible.”

I wasn’t expecting this kind of comment from my spry, happy-go-lucky, 80-something-year-old uncle who still drives, walks everyday and can send me into hiccups of laughter with his wit.

That sobering, slap of a revelation left me speechless.
    
“Just like I’m not there.” Talking about the people in his urban hometown who walk their dogs right into his shins or force him off the sidewalk. The sales clerks who have stopped asking if he needs help finding something. The public transit passengers who stare at their feet to avoid witnessing an elderly person trying to keep their balance. The bartenders who pretend he’s not sitting in their section.
    
His beloved golf clubs sport three years worth of dust. Now that he’s a little slower, his drive a little shorter and his swing a little stiffer, invites to join a foursome have gone by the wayside. In fact, invitations to any event are now few and far between.      

Like so many seniors, he slipped into retirement with great expectations, downsizing to a one-bedroom apartment in the town he raised his family in, where he knew everyone.     

Within a year, everyone seemed to disappear. His wife passed, children moved away, he said final goodbyes to best friends.      

Always active and social, his younger days of Rotary, poker nights, chamber of commerce events and dinner parties have morphed into a crock of chili brought to the senior center pot luck, rounds of bingo and organized bus trips to casinos and shows—with virtual strangers and vague associates.

“But at least you’re around other people. … I have to get out of that little apartment before the four walls close in on me.”
    
The highlight of his year now is spending the winter in Myrtle Beach with his sister, who also happens to be my mother. And yes, they drive here and back, some 1,000 miles each way.

My brother once told me, “I watch them get in the car to head south and they look pale and hunched-over, fearful of the drive, nervously watching The Weather Channel. And when they come back, they’re a little tanned, straighter, stronger, laughing, joking. It’s like they’ve gotten years younger down there.”
    
We all know the obvious magnets that draw thousands of seniors to Myrtle Beach—the ocean, beach, weather, cost of living. But I’m thinking that maybe the Grand Strand offers older people much more. Maybe the life-changing power here is that it paroles them from anonymity.
   
My senior folk love being called “honey.” They soak in the warmth and hospitality of the people here like a hot bubble bath and marvel at the respect they’re given.
    
Since it’s so novel to him now, my uncle actually counts how many smiles, nods and hellos he gets on his daily stroll along the Myrtle Beach Boardwalk. He and my mother hang out at a neighborhood pub for happy hour, chit-chatting with a group of barfly friends, all of whom hugged them goodbye when they had to return home; some even cried.
     
My uncle’s golf clubs got aired out. He and my mother happened upon old friends who were also wintering in Myrtle Beach. They ate dinner with them, catching up on old times. They met others for drinks or to see a show. Somehow, they all came together here, even though they live within a few hours of each other when they’re home.

They rediscovered the joys of shopping—new walking shoes, a pair of earrings, green nail polish for St. Patrick’s Day, a better putter. All of those things you only buy for yourself when they will be used, seen and acknowledged. Otherwise, what’s the point?

Life is for the living and experts have long touted the importance of elders keeping engaged and independent and social, the alternative being endless days of passive television watching, atrophied limbs and a steady decline in health and happiness.
    
A psychologist friend of mine once pointed out that about 25 percent of retirees, slowly but surely, drink themselves to death, out of boredom and loneliness. All of this taught me an important life lesson.
 
I have made it a mission to make Myrtle Beach proud by being an ambassador of a sunny disposition. Everywhere I go, I make a point of engaging with an elderly person, in some way. If the simple of act of smiling at someone is powerful enough to brighten their day, imagine its impact on an “invisible.”
    
Maybe, the real magic of Myrtle Beach lies in its inherent human warmth. And, maybe, the karmic sway of each smile I bestow to an elder will be returned to me when I’m in the gray winter of my life.