My father-in-law was right: “People are funnier than anyone.”

Carol called him “Pops,” and so did I. He enjoyed being with people, and even in his days in assisted living and then a nursing home gravitated to the dining room or the solarium to be with people, listen to their stories, and share a few of his own.

Pops would have loved meeting Jerry Latham, Nancy Mead and William Doboszynski. All have stories.

You may have seen the picture of Jerry on the front page of Thursday’s paper. He was sitting with his daughter, Nancy Cornish, and wife, Doris. All three had good reason to be smiling. It was Jerry’s 106th birthday. Jerry would have been up, but as Nancy explained, he’d hit a rough patch and the family had arranged for a bed in the living room until he could get around more easily. The way Jerry reacted, I figured it wouldn’t be long before he was puttering around the house.

I remember celebrating Jerry’s 100th birthday at the Pilgrim Senior Center and asking the question where he lived. He answered Governor Francis Farms and then went on to reveal that Doris lived on Warwick Neck.

He could tell I thought this somewhat unusual, so he said he visited her daily, staying for dinner, before heading back to the farms, although he would spend the night sometimes. He would also pick up Doris and drive her to the senior center or take her shopping. I was still at a loss. The two had been married for almost 70 years at that point. What was this arrangement and how had it come about?

Was there a secret to longevity, to a marriage?

Jerry told me. While he and Doris have a wonderful relationship, there was a sticking point and it was resolved by living in different houses. Jerry confessed to having difficulty throwing anything out, thinking it could be of use at some future time. As a result, Jerry had difficulty parting with newspapers, not to mention all kinds of documents from prior tax bills to insurance policies and correspondences. Doris can’t stand clutter and, as Nancy pointed out to me Wednesday when I visited and enjoyed a slice of Jerry’s chocolate birthday cake, the morning Journal was in the recycling bin by noon. Indeed, their – well, “her” – house was pin neat, although she had allowed for a collection of birthday cards at Jerry’s side. Wrapping paper wasn’t to be seen anywhere.

Nancy Mead is an institution for shoppers at the Wilde’s Corner Benny’s. She’s one of those people you expect to be there, so when Arnold Bromberg called last week, I never would have guessed the reason was to let me know she plans to retire.

“When are you going to be doing something special?”

Arnold wasn’t sure when the event was going to happen, but he thought I’d be interested seeing she’s worked at Benny’s for more than 50 years and is 91 years old.

“Certainly,” I told Bromberg, “let us know and we’ll be there.”

Two days later, Nancy’s daughter stopped by the office. The word had gotten back to the store and Nancy. Her pending retirement was posted on Facebook and scores of people had posted their well wishes. Her daughter wanted me to see them.

I suggested stopping over to see her at the store, but was advised to wait until Monday.

“She’s getting her hair done.”

That gave me a chuckle.

“So, she’s retiring Monday?”

Her daughter wasn’t sure. “Probably not until after Memorial Day and the extra pay; she wouldn’t miss that,” she said with a laugh.

I told her the story of Doboszynski, whose daughter Barbara Chrabaszcz I’d spoken with the week before. She’d called to inquire whether we could get a photograph of her father on his 90th birthday into the Johnston Sun Rise. I asked her to send the picture and some background information on her father, who retired as a Providence Police captain, as well as his number should I have additional questions.

I had the email in half an hour. When it came to writing the caption, I called the number. There was no answer, so I left my name and number. The following afternoon, I got the call. Doboszynski was apologetic for not being there for the initial call.

“Tuesday is dancing,” he told me. I wasn’t sure how this was relevant, but I didn’t ask. “I didn’t get home; spent the night at my girlfriend’s.”

“Wow,” I exclaimed, “I had no idea being 90 was so much fun.”

“Yes,” he said with delight, “you’ll find out.”

Pops would have loved that story. Like Jerry and Nancy, Bill has discovered age has little to do with years and a lot with attitude.