Here I am, turning 77 this month (no presents, please), and I’ve accumulated enough years to advise young folks approaching adulthood who wonder: How do I find a respectable job that lets me enjoy life and be financially secure?

Here’s an idea — honest journalism, which is the only profession guaranteed protection by the First Amendment to the Constitution. Technically, it’s not a profession, which usually requires a degree and a license. But who cares? Give it a try and you’ll be indispensable agents of a free society. How else can citizens keep abreast of everything from local tax rates to climate change to crime to America’s place on the tumultuous world stage? Real journalists aren’t the cable shouters, right and left, who gobble up so much time bloviating on TV. Nor are they denizens of the social media swamp, where editing for balance and accuracy — musts in reputable newspapers — is vanishingly rare.

Reporters call on near-obsessive curiosity, love of travel, and the sheer pleasure of interacting with fascinating people in sports, politics, science, engineering, education, religion, you name it. What’s more, after a few years or a few decades as a scribbler, there’s always money to be made in public relations, which prizes communication skills.

Many reporters and editors move from job to job because their skills are easily transferable. I’ve had eight jobs at newspapers, newsletters, and magazines, and memories of the characters I interviewed and worked with tell me I’ve had a life well lived. Simply put, the journey doesn’t have to be a cautious undertaking an hour or so away from your birthplace. There’s nothing wrong with stability, but I love this quote by the 19th-century Danish philosopher Soren Kierkegaard: “To dare is to lose your footing temporarily. Not to dare is to lose yourself.”

Most reporters and editors I’ve known take pride in their role in self-government. Well off that mark was a senior official at Bowdoin College who, when asked about starting a journalism major, responded, “What’s next, plumbing?” Maybe that attitude is where elitism gets its bad name.

On to less weighty matters:

At what age do males sporting the backward baseball cap go from being “bros” to paunchy middle-aged men and seniors looking like waddling penguins with rigid feathers sticking out the backs of their heads?

Thanks to the freshman from Bates who’s been helping out at the High Street Congregational Church food pantry in Auburn. Turns out she’s on the college’s highly regarded crew that practices on the Androscoggin. I tried crew at the University of Virginia and almost drowned three times — not actually rowing but trying to get from the dock into the racing shell.

The other day I was staring at my cat staring at me, and it occurred to me that his expression was what you’d see on a friend’s face if you asked for a ride to the airport.

Here’s an intriguing definition for arthritis — early-onset rigor mortis. Having dealt with arthritis and several joint replacements, I think that’s hilarious, what you’d call dark humor. The great actress Bette Davis was spot on when she said, “Getting old ain’t for sissies.” Only she used a different word than sissies.

Lastly, as Veterans Day nears, look for men my age wearing “Vietnam Veteran” hats. Being allergic to public attention, I wear the much less common Black Horse hat of the 11th Armored Cavalry Regiment in hopes of coming across former comrades. When you see a more general Vietnam hat, just tell the old dude, “Welcome Home,” and watch a creased, much-lived-in face break into a grin.

Dave Griffiths of Mechanic Falls is a retired journalist.