Like most of us, Jerry Kramer sometimes forgets where he put his cellphone. He misplaces his car keys. He runs into an old acquaintance and draws a blank on the name.

Minor memory lapses are the norm for people of all ages, researchers say.

Each time it happens to the 78-year-old Kramer, however, a chill goes down his spine.

"I go, 'Is this it?'" he says. "'Is it here?'"

Alzheimer's disease runs in his family. His mother had it. An uncle. His brother.

It runs in his other family, too. Nobody likes to talk about it, but many members of the 1960s Green Bay Packers teams are struggling with various stages of dementia.

Willie Wood lives with the ever-thickening fog of Alzheimer's in an assisted living facility in Washington, D.C. Bob Skoronski candidly admits he is having "memory problems." Teammates acknowledge that Bart Starr, recovering from a pair of strokes and a heart attack, is dealing with cognitive issues. They whisper that Paul Hornung has become forgetful, too.

"Doug Hart has it now," says Kramer, Vince Lombardi's exceptional right guard and still a loquacious spokesman for those iconic Packers teams. "He's been diagnosed with early stage Alzheimer's. And goddamnit. We used to fish and hunt and golf. We had some great times. It's just painful to see it coming.

"If I get a chance to talk to the big fella upstairs I'm going to tell him, 'This is a (expletive) way to run things.'"

They were the Glory Years Packers, perhaps the greatest collection of talent in football history. They won five National Football League titles in a seven-year span, the first two Super Bowls, the hearts of millions of fans. They were larger-than-life figures, athletes who transcended a game and an era.

Their names would become synonymous with excellence. Starr. Hornung. Willie Davis. Forrest Gregg. Jim Taylor. Ray Nitschke.

"We have 11 players in the Hall of Fame," says Bob Long, a Packers receiver from 1964 to '67. "That's half the starting team."

Fifty years later, however, those towering pillars of strength, those nimble and skilled players who graced gridirons past, are ... old men. They limp on bad knees and hips, take medications for bad hearts and shudder with dread when they walk into a room and momentarily forget why they're there.

"All this stuff, it's very discouraging," says Long, who suffered a debilitating stroke in the 1990s that affected his speech and balance. "It's kind of disheartening watching guys get sick, and you can't do a thing about it."

In our mind's eye, we see the Packers sweep, that perfect combination of power and precision. We see the iconic black and white photos of purpose-driven men whose lives intersected in the perfect place, at the perfect time. That's how we want to remember them. Frozen in time.

Forever young. Forever strong. Forever invincible.

But at some point, while we weren't paying attention, while we were watching Don Majkowski and then Brett Favre and then Aaron Rodgers, the men who built Titletown grew old and stooped and gray. The Glory Years became the Golden Years.

"These players are held on such a high pedestal as legends," says Rick Moncher, a sports memorabilia dealer who specializes in 1960s-era Packers and has exclusive signing rights with Starr and Taylor. "They're thought of so highly that people forget they are mere mortals.

"They may have won five championships, but Father Time is undefeated."

Of the 37 men who played in at least one game on Lombardi's first team in 1959, 19 — more than half — are dead. The youngest living member of that team is 77 and the average age is 79.8.

Of the 43 men who played on Lombardi's last team in 1967, 14 are dead (33%). The average age of those still alive is 72.2.

"I was a rookie in 1964 but most of the guys who played on those first two Super Bowl teams came to the Packers in '56, '57 and '58," Long says. "I am 72 now, so most of those great players are turning 80.

"And once you get to 80, all bets are off."

Some died young. Emlen Tunnell in 1975. Henry Jordan in 1977. Travis Williams in 1991. Ron Kostelnik in 1993. Nitschke, Elijah Pitts and Lionel Aldridge, all in 1998. Max McGee died in 2007.

Just in the last four years, Packer Nation has lost Ron Kramer, Jim Temp, Jesse Whittenton, Gale Gillingham, Claudis James, Lew Carpenter, Joe Francis and Norm Masters.

"Our numbers," says Zeke Bratkowski, "are diminishing."

In 2016, the NFL will celebrate the 50th anniversary of Super Bowl I. Some of the Packers have heard rumors that the league plans to honor the '66 team in some fashion, perhaps by flying the players — and the widows of those who have died — to San Francisco for a reunion.

"It's going to be interesting," Long says, "to see how many players from our Super Bowl I team will still be alive."

•••

Fuzzy Thurston is seated at a desk in a motel room just north of Green Bay. He is staring at a blown-up photograph of the Packers sweep. In it, he and Kramer, the pulling guards, are turning the corner, looking downfield, on a search-and-destroy mission. Hornung is behind them, running to daylight.

It's impossible to know what Thurston, 81, is thinking. Alzheimer's has claimed much of his memory. He stares at the photo, impassively, for 30 seconds.

Moncher and Mike McNeese, who has known Thurston for years, have brought him to the motel from his assisted living facility in Howard. The plan is for him to sign a few dozen photographs and canvases, if he is up to it.

"Some people might look at this and think Fuzzy is being taken advantage of," Moncher says. "The truth is, he enjoys this. He likes just getting out. Sometimes Mike picks him up and they go sit in a bar and have a beer and meet Packer fans."

There is money to be made, too.

The '60s Packers have become a cottage industry of sorts. They are the subjects of dozens of books and are sought-after speakers and much in demand on the autograph circuit, even today, decades after they played.

"Lombardi is the most popular question I get, and he's been dead almost 45 years," Hornung says. "It really is amazing how popular he was and the imprint he made on pro football. It's very rewarding for us. For everybody who has made a name in Green Bay, it has been rewarding all their lives being part of the Packers."

Kramer, who still makes many appearances and was in Milwaukee and La Crosse recently, shakes his head in awe at the fascination people have for that long-ago dynasty in a tiny frozen outpost.

"I thought that after I retired I would be remembered in Green Bay for a couple years and then I'd drift off into the mists of time and go back to Idaho and god knows what," Kramer says. "Being a lineman, with very limited expectations, I didn't even know if I could get in a game if I came back to Green Bay. I didn't know if I'd have a ticket.

"And then this explosion hit, and (expletive), we've never really understood that."

Moncher, of Santa Monica, Calif., sells high-end Packers pieces on his web site (www.packergreats.com). A full-size helmet signed by all five Packers players who have been named NFL Most Valuable Player — Hornung, Taylor, Starr, Favre and Rodgers — goes for $2,399.

On this day, though, Thurston is having problems concentrating. In addition to dealing with Alzheimer's, he has terminal cancer. Moncher and McNeese have to remind him where to sign each photograph, and to include his jersey number.

"Don't forget to add No. 63, Fuzz," McNeese says softly.

Thurston stares at the spot where he has just signed his name and starts to write it again. Moncher just shrugs; he has brought extra prints.

After 30 minutes of this, the photographs are signed and Moncher tells Thurston a story about visiting a business in Elm Grove, Annex Wealth Management, which occupies one of Fuzzy's old Left Guard restaurants. The company has kept the Left Guard phone number, which ends 6363.

A flicker of recognition.

Thurston beams, his smile lighting up the room.

•••

In the two weeks since that signing, Thurston has taken a turn for the worse. He's in hospice care and has been given just days to live.

"They said he's in the transition period," says Tori Burton, Thurston's daughter. "He's physically here but his spirit has crossed over."

In the late 1970s and early '80s, cancer claimed Thurston's larynx. Three years ago, he was diagnosed with colon cancer and this time, it metastasized in his liver.

"You think you can prepare for something like this," Burton says, "but you can't."

Fuzzy's old teammates knew this day was coming. That doesn't make the blow any easier to take.

"It was a brotherhood," Kramer says. "It was a big family and a love affair. You were so fortunate to be a part of it, to have that many guys you felt strongly about. Now it's like losing a big family. You're losing a brother, a sister, your parents.

"Every bit of it hurts."

In Colorado, Gregg, 81, the Hall of Fame right tackle who played in a then-league record 188 consecutive games, is fighting Parkinson's disease. In Alabama, Starr, 80, is finally home after a two-month hospitalization. He suffered what was described as a mild ischemic stroke on Sept. 2 and a hemorrhagic stroke and mild heart attack five days later.

"We're worried about Bart right now," Hornung says. "He's in my prayers."

Starr faces a long and difficult recovery. His teammates know the periodic updates on his health released through the Packers are sanitized.

"Bart has had his rough times here with this thing in the hospital for two or three months," Taylor says. "I talked to Cherry (Starr's wife) a week or so ago. I hope he can weather this and recover."

Kramer says he gave Starr a Lombardi-esque pep talk.

"Bart couldn't talk the first couple times I called him," Kramer says. "But Cherry told me he could hear me, so I told him to get off his ass, two-a-days are coming and we've got a lot of damn work to get done up here. We need you, so get off your ass, get out of that bed and get back to work."

Bratkowski, Starr's former backup and one of his closest friends, has stayed in close contact with the family.

"He's had a tough time," Bratkowski says. "I've had the chance to talk to him. He hears my voice, I know. I treat him like there's nothing wrong with him. Usually, he answers my first question pretty well but after that it's a little hard for him to come out quickly with an answer.

"He's got a lot of pride and a lot of different things are happening to him physically that I'm sure he doesn't understand, and he fights that a little bit."

Bratkowski, 83, is one of the lucky ones.

"I feel great," he says. "I had a little problem with getting a new pacemaker, but I have more energy now than I've ever had. It just seems like the days go by fast because there's so many things to do."

Kramer probably should have had a hip replaced years ago and limps around like an old cowboy, but otherwise is in good health. Taylor, 79, had open-heart surgery more than a decade ago and underwent another heart procedure in April, but says he is feeling fine.

Hornung, who will turn 79 on Dec. 23, is still the fun-loving Golden Boy, only a lot older and with bad knees.

"I can't stuff a basketball anymore," he says with a laugh.

There are little signs, too, that he is struggling with his memory. During a private signing in Milwaukee, he holds up a large photograph of himself, Kramer and Thurston walking off the field, caked in mud from head to toe, after the 1965 NFL Championship Game against Cleveland.

"I don't remember this," he says.

Told that the photo was taken during the '65 title game against the Browns, Hornung says, "Did Jim Brown play?"

But pity not the Glory Years Packers.

They were ordinary men who together accomplished extraordinary feats. They experienced something few others ever have, or ever will. Nearly all of them were successful after their football careers ended, in business and in life.

"You realize you've influenced a lot of people along the way," Long says. "You've made a lot of people happy. You've done the best you can and lived a pretty clean life. The thing is, these guys were great, great players but they were the nicest guys. They were squeaky clean."

And now, one by one, they are leaving us.

"I remember that old line: 'Ask not for whom the bell tolls. The bell tolls for thee. And every death diminishes me,'" Kramer says. "And it does. It's painful as hell."

Gary D-Amato  wrote: