I just got a call from our older son, who is half way around the world doing research. It's night for him, and I was about to set off with the dogs for our morning constitutional. The bonus I get when I talk to him is it's as if I'm talking to my dad. I grew up in a household where heated arguments at the dinner table were de rigor. We liked arguing for the sake of argument, and our older son is never happier than when he's debating with someone. Yes, he was on the debate teams at school, and he still loves a good tussle. I'm at that stage of life where the picture gets bigger and wider - like a 3D film and IMAX and the planetarium combined. AN infinite universe. But we argued for an hour, which is challenging and inventive since we both think pretty much identically about politics. We covered the health bill, regulations for banks, civil discourse and all the "shoulda, would have" scenarios. There is no "winning". It's fencing without judgment. We are refreshing our critical thinking minds, just to keep them sharp.
He's so particularly into ideas and action and change, and I am about passing the mantle onto his generation. I'm in a supportive role now. I'm not saying I never march or email my representatives, but I've got this feeling that it's their turn. And I don't have the requisite certainties. To me there is little black and white, just a lot of gray cloudy area. Unpredictable weather. I don't know what actions should be taken now, or what the results are likely to be, because I've been surprised enough times to know what I can't know. I'm interested in people's intentions, and not so worried about the results. From this life stage it looks like everything is cyclical, and before you know it the change you wish for appears, but then it looks like "progress" goes backwards for a while and you have to take a long hard overview to see changes in consciousness that really stick.
What I honor in him and our other kids and ones like them is the passion to make the world a better, more just and kindly place. I honor their intentions. That's enough for me.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Old Age Day by Day March 30, 2010
I was only in a wedding once. I was five years old and it was my cousin's wedding. She was eighteen and just graduated from high school and she married a farmer and converted to Catholicism. This was my mother's side of the family, all Baptist, but I don't remember anyone making a deal out of it. Of course, at five, I was mainly concerned with my dotted swiss overlay yellow dress and the ring bearer. He had blond curls and was as confused as my younger brother, so I bossed him around. There was a wedding breakfast, and the wedding and mass, then luncheon, followed by photographs all afternoon then dinner and dancing. It was like being a princess in a fairy tale for me. I guess my aunt must have paid for the whole shebang, and she was a widow, so I don't quite know how she managed. However, my father, who gave away the bride, thereafter took to whispering when my mother was not around that he'd give us a thousand dollars if we eloped. I don't know that there was a lot of danger of that at two and five, but he repeated the offer at least yearly until, well, first I eloped, then my brother. My dad and my mom were married in a courthouse. Dad must have liked it, and whatever my mother thought, it was wartime and they were poor. There was not much choice. Mom wore a navy blue suit with a corsage, and dad his uniform. I know Mom would have loved to make my dress and have a fuss, but I never knew if my dad regretted his tactic. If I hadn't gotten a divorce and later remarried, my parents would never have been able to attend one of their kid's weddings. Since my second was only fifteen people, it was extremely inexpensive and manageable, and my father got to wear his tuxedo and take home the flowers. I believe the whole thing cost around three hundred dollars. Ah, the good old days. Now you can't get the wedding shoes for that price, and the dresses are the cost of new cars and the whole celebration would pay outright for a nice house.
I forgot the bouquet. I loved my bouquet of baby yellow roses. I made certain that my daughter, who was three at the time, had a tiny bouquet of pink roses when she walked up the isle ahead of me. My son, who was five, wanted to go in the car with my husband and I from the church to my parents' house. He started sobbing on the church steps, but my dad lured him into his car with the promise of ice cream. That's still a good way to get him to do something.
I don't know why I've never been the maid of honor or matron of honor. I've been invited to plenty of weddings, but since I was already married at nineteen, I think I was not bridal party material. That is, up until now. Who knows what the future holds? And if not, I've got a black and white photo of my cousin, the groom, the six of each gender attendants and myself and the ring bearer, immortalized. I am grinning like the cat who swallowed the canary.
I forgot the bouquet. I loved my bouquet of baby yellow roses. I made certain that my daughter, who was three at the time, had a tiny bouquet of pink roses when she walked up the isle ahead of me. My son, who was five, wanted to go in the car with my husband and I from the church to my parents' house. He started sobbing on the church steps, but my dad lured him into his car with the promise of ice cream. That's still a good way to get him to do something.
I don't know why I've never been the maid of honor or matron of honor. I've been invited to plenty of weddings, but since I was already married at nineteen, I think I was not bridal party material. That is, up until now. Who knows what the future holds? And if not, I've got a black and white photo of my cousin, the groom, the six of each gender attendants and myself and the ring bearer, immortalized. I am grinning like the cat who swallowed the canary.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Old Age Day by Day March 29, 2010
Today it was misty/rainy and my knees ached every time I went up and down the stairs. I really don't love this my-body-as-weather report phenomenon. I'd like my body to shut up and stop nagging me to lose weight, go to the gym and take up pilates again. I have enough trouble coping with busy mind without chatty cathy body piping up every chance it gets. My body having a mind of its own means two minds trying to out yell each other, and I'd like a little peace and quiet, thank you very much. I do love the rain, though, and my foster granddaughter said the air smelled like flowers, and we traipsed around without raincoats or umbrellas (she refusing and me in solidarity). We colored as if our life depended on it, played the match up game many times (she beat me legitimately - old age memory loss) and dyed eggs. I now have extremely lovely pastel fingers, and she has an interesting spotted effect on her hands from markers.
So maybe I need a bath tonight, as hot as I can make it, and the old knees will sigh with relief, and fall into a doze. I'll not go up and down the stairs tonight to give them a break. But if that doesn't work, I'm going to pull out all the stops tomorrow and pretend I'm a twenty year old training for a long distance race. I can't take all this self expression from my body parts. They need to get in line, shape up or ship out. Oops! Maybe not ship out, as I do need them all, I just want them to grin and bear it. We're alive aren't we? Give me break! No, I didn't mean it, really I didn't.
So maybe I need a bath tonight, as hot as I can make it, and the old knees will sigh with relief, and fall into a doze. I'll not go up and down the stairs tonight to give them a break. But if that doesn't work, I'm going to pull out all the stops tomorrow and pretend I'm a twenty year old training for a long distance race. I can't take all this self expression from my body parts. They need to get in line, shape up or ship out. Oops! Maybe not ship out, as I do need them all, I just want them to grin and bear it. We're alive aren't we? Give me break! No, I didn't mean it, really I didn't.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Old Age Day by Day March 28, 2010
Last night we had friends over for dinner and during the course of discussing various grandchildren, one of them said, "I hate to admit it, but I've actually seen the chipmunks film, the Sqweakquel". I was so relieved I practically kissed her. I promptly confessed I'd seen it with my foster granddaughter. This was right before I loaned them "Up". Thus is the power of tiny children. I waited decades to watch a movie that wasn't G or PG13, and here I am back to G again, having worked my way up to R. Next we were making playdates between granddaughters. It's a kind of regression, but this time I'm more comfortable with it. At my time of life I understand that it really isn't important if I see the new hot movie or read the bestseller. I no longer attempt to "keep up". When your body slows you down, it's annoying but at the same time a relief, because you can just walk around with a tennis racket without actually having played a game, or even better yet, not carry a racket. Who cares? We've all had friends who, after a squash match keeled over with a heart attack. There are no guarantees. The equation between fitness and luck shifts. You stop taking credit for your health and begin letting go.
It's freeing. It may not be a march downtown with banners, but we often do that as well, because so what if you land in jail? It's going to spoil your career? Hah! Call me a felon, an unsophisticated moviegoer, an inactive senior, a socialist. Label me any old way you want. 'Cause sticks and stones can break my bones, but labels - well, they belong on soup cans. I am way too complex, and also way too simple, for any of the social shortcuts. No self justification necessary.
It's freeing. It may not be a march downtown with banners, but we often do that as well, because so what if you land in jail? It's going to spoil your career? Hah! Call me a felon, an unsophisticated moviegoer, an inactive senior, a socialist. Label me any old way you want. 'Cause sticks and stones can break my bones, but labels - well, they belong on soup cans. I am way too complex, and also way too simple, for any of the social shortcuts. No self justification necessary.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Old Age Day by Day March 26,2010
You ever hear of the war of the baby pictures? Well, it's silent, it runs deep, and it's only known to grandmothers. My best friend and I are sharing photos, and thank goodness her granddaughter is blond and blue eyed and mine is dark haired with dark eyes. Both are, of course, unbelievably adorable, and even if the ordinary citizen cannot see their uniqueness, we know, we really know. There is a pact among us grandmothers: to ooh and aah over each photo, description and developmental milestone with as much vigor and commitment as our declining strength allows (maybe a little jealousy here and there, but we repulse such immature feelings) and to basically wallow in the joys of grandparenthood with someone who is equally committed (maybe in several senses of the word) to worship and adoration.
It actually rubs off on all encounters with babies and children. I used to think some were ill behaved and tiresome. Now they all seem irresistible, even in their wee little grocery store tantrums. I prefer speaking with little people nowadays - I find their mispronounced words and thoughts on the nature of the universe cute and even, dare I say it, profound.
The textbooks talk about baby love when referring to the bond between parent and child, but hey, they ain't seen nothin yet. It's like entering a Disney cartoon and all the little critters are so squeezably soft you would follow them anywhere - down a coal mine; into the vortex at the bottom of the well. Their chirping is music to your ears, and by the way, soon you are singing Whistle While You Work and Down Under the Sea. Yes, it does have it's frightening aspect, but at our age, we must try new things. My friends and I are trying out a religion of the babyhood. So if you see us, run. We have many, many photos in our bags, and if we get your email address, we'll be sending you videos of the little geniuses. Run screaming from us. We are extremely determined and we're retired, so we have a lot of time to pursue you.
It actually rubs off on all encounters with babies and children. I used to think some were ill behaved and tiresome. Now they all seem irresistible, even in their wee little grocery store tantrums. I prefer speaking with little people nowadays - I find their mispronounced words and thoughts on the nature of the universe cute and even, dare I say it, profound.
The textbooks talk about baby love when referring to the bond between parent and child, but hey, they ain't seen nothin yet. It's like entering a Disney cartoon and all the little critters are so squeezably soft you would follow them anywhere - down a coal mine; into the vortex at the bottom of the well. Their chirping is music to your ears, and by the way, soon you are singing Whistle While You Work and Down Under the Sea. Yes, it does have it's frightening aspect, but at our age, we must try new things. My friends and I are trying out a religion of the babyhood. So if you see us, run. We have many, many photos in our bags, and if we get your email address, we'll be sending you videos of the little geniuses. Run screaming from us. We are extremely determined and we're retired, so we have a lot of time to pursue you.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Old Age Day by Day March 25, 2010
You know you're getting old when you can't take advantage of short layovers between planes. I USED to be able to get off one flight and rush toward the baggage claim and smile and nod through customs and make the gate with time to spare. Now the two hours is no longer enough, and I need more like five hours, but will book a flight with three hours between. Mind you, this is all post 9/11. This IS old age. A couple of years ago my friend and I were attempting to catch a flight from Paris back home, and we had come from Florence (I know, what a rough life I lead) and I attempted speed walking while my friend yelled (well, I won't repeat it, it was not her best moment) and said she'd catch up. I was purple in the face, dragging my carry on which weighed more than I did, and when I reached the gate it was deserted. Luckily, it was Paris, so the flight had just been delayed, and I swore to my friend it was not worth a heart attack to get home. And what kind of dumb were we anyway? We wanted to leave Paris? Well, we had run out of money, so it was best to catch the flight.
A few months later my husband and I were returning from visiting our daughter abroad, and we hit the vortex called JFK. Risking permanent injury to knees and joints we panted our way through baggage, customs and the 17 miles to the other gate to discover our seats had been sold 50 minutes before the flight. We were mad, we were indignant, but who cared? Not the airline. So we flopped on the dirty floor at a gate waiting for standby, but not before fortifying ourselves with a beer (it's healthy for the elderly). After every other passenger had been seated, they graciously allowed us on the plane, where we waited for two hours to lift off. We were number 79th in line. I can still remember the number. Now, if we were younger, we could have chatted inanely on our cell phones, but we're not of that generation. We were tired, hungry, my sciatic nerve was paralyzing my right leg, and we needed hospitalization.
There need to be special flights for us older customers, where you are on a conveyer belt reserved for those of us to whom marathons are a thing of the past. Well, past fantasies. While we're lying there on the belt they can x ray us, slide off our shoes, look in our ears and throat - kind of a travel cum health check up kind of deal. Just don't make me walk.
A few months later my husband and I were returning from visiting our daughter abroad, and we hit the vortex called JFK. Risking permanent injury to knees and joints we panted our way through baggage, customs and the 17 miles to the other gate to discover our seats had been sold 50 minutes before the flight. We were mad, we were indignant, but who cared? Not the airline. So we flopped on the dirty floor at a gate waiting for standby, but not before fortifying ourselves with a beer (it's healthy for the elderly). After every other passenger had been seated, they graciously allowed us on the plane, where we waited for two hours to lift off. We were number 79th in line. I can still remember the number. Now, if we were younger, we could have chatted inanely on our cell phones, but we're not of that generation. We were tired, hungry, my sciatic nerve was paralyzing my right leg, and we needed hospitalization.
There need to be special flights for us older customers, where you are on a conveyer belt reserved for those of us to whom marathons are a thing of the past. Well, past fantasies. While we're lying there on the belt they can x ray us, slide off our shoes, look in our ears and throat - kind of a travel cum health check up kind of deal. Just don't make me walk.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Old Age Day by Day March 24, 2010
There was an article in the paper this morning about how older women need to exercise an hour a day because it's hard to lose weight when you're our age. Hello!? For whom is this supposed to be news? Not me and my whiny friends, who have been aware of this phenomenon for quite some time. Basically, you need to run behind a Nascar and eat one quarter cup of food per day, but don't drink anything with calories in it or the weight loss won't happen.
Why is it that science lags behind common knowledge every single time. If the scientists would just ask some real people, they would save a great deal of grant money for other purposes, like eradicating cancer. It's also true that mixing six drugs is not beneficial to your health, even if each and every one of them addresses a health problem, and that lying on the couch watching TV is bad for the brain. Unless you can earn a living reciting commercial jingles. And so few of us can. Also, stuffing rats with cosmetics is detrimental to their health, as is having rats in a lab without doing anything to them. My husband, who is a scientist, but wisely sticks to microscopic critters, once liberated all the frogs about to be dissected in his high school lab. He is usually found torturing something like wheat or corn, which I can live with.
I need to revamp my house so that all the floors are a treadmill and the plates and cups weight five pounds each, and the refrigerator is locked and only can be opened by voice recognition or thumbprint (but not mine). However, there would still be restaurants, and even getting rid of the car wouldn't help, because there are enough places to eat within (easy, not calorie burning) walking distance.
You know what that means - WILLPOWER. The dreaded W word (I don't mean the retired guy in Texas). I think I'll just have to continue losing a pound a year, and upping the fiber - my new snacks will be bamboo and small pebbles, dipped in spray-on chocolate. I'll get slim and fit, just you wait and see. Actually, better not, this could take a really long time.
Why is it that science lags behind common knowledge every single time. If the scientists would just ask some real people, they would save a great deal of grant money for other purposes, like eradicating cancer. It's also true that mixing six drugs is not beneficial to your health, even if each and every one of them addresses a health problem, and that lying on the couch watching TV is bad for the brain. Unless you can earn a living reciting commercial jingles. And so few of us can. Also, stuffing rats with cosmetics is detrimental to their health, as is having rats in a lab without doing anything to them. My husband, who is a scientist, but wisely sticks to microscopic critters, once liberated all the frogs about to be dissected in his high school lab. He is usually found torturing something like wheat or corn, which I can live with.
I need to revamp my house so that all the floors are a treadmill and the plates and cups weight five pounds each, and the refrigerator is locked and only can be opened by voice recognition or thumbprint (but not mine). However, there would still be restaurants, and even getting rid of the car wouldn't help, because there are enough places to eat within (easy, not calorie burning) walking distance.
You know what that means - WILLPOWER. The dreaded W word (I don't mean the retired guy in Texas). I think I'll just have to continue losing a pound a year, and upping the fiber - my new snacks will be bamboo and small pebbles, dipped in spray-on chocolate. I'll get slim and fit, just you wait and see. Actually, better not, this could take a really long time.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Old Age Day by Day March 23,2010
There are a bundle of birds chirping in my back yard this morning. I've got the door open to hear them better. The dogs occasionally jump up and attempt to catch one, which, trust me, is not going to happen. There are more birds this spring because the crow that liked to plop himself in the tree next door has moved on. Not a pleasant sound, the crow, but they can mimic other sounds, and I like their substantial quality. They don't move an inch if the dogs come close. I'm part native American, so I admire a trickster. When we went to Death Valley a few years ago (we were thinking of having our 30th wedding anniversary celebration there but the name seemed ominous) we were driving one morning to Scotty's Castle from Indian Wells, and my husband was forced to brake because a coyote was smack in the middle of the road. He stopped, honked and the coyote eyeballed us but didn't move. We rolled down the windows and talked to him. No budging. We yelled. We were afraid another car would hit him. Was he hurt? I looked to my left and there were two crows on the side, just watching the whole production. After a standoff of ten minutes or so, my husband managed to drive on the right shoulder and continue on down the road. We figured there must be road kill somewhere, but we couldn't spot it.
When we got to the Castle, my husband asked a ranger about it. The ranger said he wished we'd run over the damn coyote. Evidently the coyote and the two crows were a team, and it was the coyote's job to get people to throw food out of the car and take all the risk, and the crows generously split the proceeds. We had been so stupid we spoiled their game.
I like crows and ravens so much I've read a whole book about them. I like their bigness, those shiny black feathers, the way they can laugh and make fun of me, and I like being outsmarted by a being in a natural world that we are supposed to rule. I appreciate that they've been on this continent as long as Indians, at least ten thousand years, and though they may be invisible to a lot of people, they exist, they thrive, they enjoy a good joke, they make the best out of whatever environment they're in. If life is short, hard and brutal, it is also filled with delightful adventures. The cosmic joke is not treasuring every minute of it. Natives, both of us; oldies but goodies.
When we got to the Castle, my husband asked a ranger about it. The ranger said he wished we'd run over the damn coyote. Evidently the coyote and the two crows were a team, and it was the coyote's job to get people to throw food out of the car and take all the risk, and the crows generously split the proceeds. We had been so stupid we spoiled their game.
I like crows and ravens so much I've read a whole book about them. I like their bigness, those shiny black feathers, the way they can laugh and make fun of me, and I like being outsmarted by a being in a natural world that we are supposed to rule. I appreciate that they've been on this continent as long as Indians, at least ten thousand years, and though they may be invisible to a lot of people, they exist, they thrive, they enjoy a good joke, they make the best out of whatever environment they're in. If life is short, hard and brutal, it is also filled with delightful adventures. The cosmic joke is not treasuring every minute of it. Natives, both of us; oldies but goodies.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Old Age Day by Day March 22,2010
A week ago my husband and I went to meet a relative's fiancee and have dinner with the family. She was delightful, and he just glowing with happiness. I had lugged along four photo albums to show my older two kids' weddings, and also pictures of a trip to India (the bride is from Mumbai). We females, as is our wont, began giggling the minute I pulled the albums out of the bag. The fiancee plopped down on one side of me on the sofa and her sister took the other side. Let the laughing begin. We oohed and aahed over dresses and flowers, I identified people and they did their best to keep everyone straight. Then the groom's mother got into the spirit and pulled out baby and childhood pictures of the groom and his brother which caused a mass of protests and groans. Pretty soon we were all on our knees around the coffee table squeezing in to look.
My husband and I came home exhausted and happy, knowing our family had expanded still further, and that one of the great things about getting older is this inclusion and excitement of fresh, new faces to get to know. I teased the groom's mother about having to be patient quite a time to get a daughter, but here it was. A daughter. Such joy comes to those who wait; we who are lucky enough to be around to see who the younger generations marry, what they chose as their professions, whether their children inherit red hair or the grandmother's singing voice are witnesses to the wonder of life. It's a fascinating process, and it will go on and on after we're gone and the pictures have disintegrated.
We've had a lot of family die, but in their place come new members, and we will be replaced as well. I find this fact comforting. I can imagine my granddaughter's life after my death, and it looks good. I'm grateful.
My husband and I came home exhausted and happy, knowing our family had expanded still further, and that one of the great things about getting older is this inclusion and excitement of fresh, new faces to get to know. I teased the groom's mother about having to be patient quite a time to get a daughter, but here it was. A daughter. Such joy comes to those who wait; we who are lucky enough to be around to see who the younger generations marry, what they chose as their professions, whether their children inherit red hair or the grandmother's singing voice are witnesses to the wonder of life. It's a fascinating process, and it will go on and on after we're gone and the pictures have disintegrated.
We've had a lot of family die, but in their place come new members, and we will be replaced as well. I find this fact comforting. I can imagine my granddaughter's life after my death, and it looks good. I'm grateful.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Old Age Day by Day March 21, 2010
The first day of spring, and even if it's cloudy and cooler than last week, the whole idea of it is so cheery that I feel like celebrating. When I was a kid, our tiny school (K through 12th grade in one building - the other building was the gym cum cafeteria) had a huge May Day festival that was the highlight of every school year. There was a May Queen (we didn't have football, so no homecoming queen - basketball was the big sport) and skits and marching, singing, and lunch out on the field. One year our class enacted Alice in Wonderland, and I was the Mad Hatter (this was considered typecasting, I'm afraid). I had a top hat, tie, shirt and vest, and had rigged a tube through my clothes so the March Hare (my good friend who had extremely rabbity teeth) could pour tea from a teapot down my collar and it would come out my cuff directly into a teacup. I consider this the highlight of my creative life, and regret only there were no videos to immortalize my triumph. We were too young then to be in the running for May Queen but later my best friend was chosen, and the production around the dress rivaled a Plaza Hotel wedding. Yes, we danced around a May Pole, holding on to pastel colored streamers, and it was giddy and delightful fun.
We knew summer was not far away, and in those ancient days we maybe, if we were lucky, we went to camp for a week or two, but the summer was basically free. We rushed outside every day and came home at dark. We were not scheduled, there were no lessons or summer school classes, it was just bike to the river and jump in. I think something has been lost, with all this booked-solid summer routine. Even the educational trips to Costa Rica and Italy are strange. How can you anticipate anything in life if you've seen it all by seventeen? We got to know ourselves in the summertime. We played Monopoly, Gin Rummy and Hearts for days, and it meant learning to prolong the game instead of cashing out and winning. We had fights and made up. We made our dogs and cats wear hats and bows on their tails. We tried on our mothers' clothes and jewelry while they were away. We organized dances, and read books to each other. TV was turned off until after dinner, and even then, a lot of us read propped up in a corner. I took long, moony walks in the woods, and spent time contemplating the meaning of the universe and Fabian in my own way, not because I had a reading list and a test. That spaciousness just seems to be gone. Yes, maybe life is more dangerous, and the neighborly watch system is defunct, and to "get ahead" you have to have 2 years worth of college credits to get into a college. Parents could say no. They could cut off the TV, computer and games; but those are the new sitters. I guess the culture has changed, and there is no way to go back. I just hope people see what's been lost. Because dancing around a pole has no redeeming value, but here I am, half a century later, recalling it and smiling ear to ear.
We knew summer was not far away, and in those ancient days we maybe, if we were lucky, we went to camp for a week or two, but the summer was basically free. We rushed outside every day and came home at dark. We were not scheduled, there were no lessons or summer school classes, it was just bike to the river and jump in. I think something has been lost, with all this booked-solid summer routine. Even the educational trips to Costa Rica and Italy are strange. How can you anticipate anything in life if you've seen it all by seventeen? We got to know ourselves in the summertime. We played Monopoly, Gin Rummy and Hearts for days, and it meant learning to prolong the game instead of cashing out and winning. We had fights and made up. We made our dogs and cats wear hats and bows on their tails. We tried on our mothers' clothes and jewelry while they were away. We organized dances, and read books to each other. TV was turned off until after dinner, and even then, a lot of us read propped up in a corner. I took long, moony walks in the woods, and spent time contemplating the meaning of the universe and Fabian in my own way, not because I had a reading list and a test. That spaciousness just seems to be gone. Yes, maybe life is more dangerous, and the neighborly watch system is defunct, and to "get ahead" you have to have 2 years worth of college credits to get into a college. Parents could say no. They could cut off the TV, computer and games; but those are the new sitters. I guess the culture has changed, and there is no way to go back. I just hope people see what's been lost. Because dancing around a pole has no redeeming value, but here I am, half a century later, recalling it and smiling ear to ear.
Friday, March 19, 2010
Old Age Day by Day March 19,2010
I just read a book about the financial collapse by Michael Lewis called "Short". It made me realize how much trading is like gambling. The same traits are necessary. This explains why my mother could care less about stocks; she'd have rather had a savings account, but my father loved his broker (by that I mean he loved shouting at his broker on the phone). When they went to Vegas or Reno my mother would play only the slot machines, and when she hit a jackpot, she plowed it all into her purse and stopped playing. As kids, my brother and I loved it when she'd bring back all these quarters or dollar coins and give us a few. We were rich, rich, rich! I usually spent it on ceramic figurines from Woolworth's. I'm pretty sure those cats and dogs would be worth a fortune by now (well, okay, actually valueless). My brother no doubt bought candy or baseball cards (which could be worth a lot if he still had them). My father, however, played at the tables, and you could tell by his mood whether he'd won or lost. But my bet is he lost often, because he loved to play. His daring made him a great businessman - he could see the game, not just the facts. But it had a tinge of addiction in it.
Luckily, I inherited my mother's disinterest in making money. I am certain I will lose, and that means down to winning the raffle at Trader Joe's. I have never bought a lottery ticket, because I know it will simply pad the wallet of a complete stranger. Luck will not be a lady for me any night. My mother's family was so poor they never had any money. They ate okay, because they had a farm, but no cash. So my mother thought security was growing your own food and animals. My father, on the other hand, was haunted by the depression in the worst way: his dad lost the family home, and he and his parents and brother often went hungry, as his dad worked in Montgomery Ward's and his mom had lost her teaching job. So I think he saw gambling as what the smart guys did, while the chumps got taken. He wanted to be sure he knew what side he was on.
Nowadays, everyone seems to be a chump, and the ways in are closed. The brokers and banks are playing a game that won't let an ordinary person in - they withhold information and act in their own interests, not their customers. There is no ethics or pretense of it. Being fearless, or taking risks no longer matter, because there is no one to trust. We're all hoping Obama sets some regulations, and protects us chumps, but it's like Fay Wray fighting King Kong (no surprise this movie was made in the depression). It may be that the banks are too big to wrestle. But I'd like to see our government try. Because we've cleaned up and straightened our path before in our history, and we're so off course now we need a whole lot of Lady Luck to get back on track. I'd like to be trusting enough to think like dad - that a person could win with enough diligence and smarts. No cheating allowed. I am old enough to remember when most people felt the cards weren't stacked against them. I'd like to think my children and grandchildren have a fair playing field and somebody is protecting their interests. End of soapbox!
Luckily, I inherited my mother's disinterest in making money. I am certain I will lose, and that means down to winning the raffle at Trader Joe's. I have never bought a lottery ticket, because I know it will simply pad the wallet of a complete stranger. Luck will not be a lady for me any night. My mother's family was so poor they never had any money. They ate okay, because they had a farm, but no cash. So my mother thought security was growing your own food and animals. My father, on the other hand, was haunted by the depression in the worst way: his dad lost the family home, and he and his parents and brother often went hungry, as his dad worked in Montgomery Ward's and his mom had lost her teaching job. So I think he saw gambling as what the smart guys did, while the chumps got taken. He wanted to be sure he knew what side he was on.
Nowadays, everyone seems to be a chump, and the ways in are closed. The brokers and banks are playing a game that won't let an ordinary person in - they withhold information and act in their own interests, not their customers. There is no ethics or pretense of it. Being fearless, or taking risks no longer matter, because there is no one to trust. We're all hoping Obama sets some regulations, and protects us chumps, but it's like Fay Wray fighting King Kong (no surprise this movie was made in the depression). It may be that the banks are too big to wrestle. But I'd like to see our government try. Because we've cleaned up and straightened our path before in our history, and we're so off course now we need a whole lot of Lady Luck to get back on track. I'd like to be trusting enough to think like dad - that a person could win with enough diligence and smarts. No cheating allowed. I am old enough to remember when most people felt the cards weren't stacked against them. I'd like to think my children and grandchildren have a fair playing field and somebody is protecting their interests. End of soapbox!
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Old Age Day by Day March 18, 2010
Since last week my car has had the "check engine" light on when I drive. I brought it to the shop last Friday, and it spent a spa weekend in the shop, but as soon as I picked it up Monday afternoon the light came on again. I guess it wanted to remain on vacation longer. Today I drove it to the shop, and the light didn't come on for the first time since Monday. This light is driving me crazy. I keep thinking it's a message about checking my own engine. Is someone trying to tell me something? If I want to feel totally inadequate, I have a conversation with a mechanic. Then I have my husband call, and it all gets cleared up, except I can't understand my husband either. I'm inclined to the kicking the bumper and cursing mode of response. I've talked to the car softly, reasoned with it, threatened to junk it, and said sadly I was disappointed in it's behavior. I love, my car, but not it's behavior. And time outs have not helped.
I did have a nice conversation with the kid who drove me back to the house after I'd dropped off the car. Somehow we got on the subject of Kakatoa, and I was delighted he'd never heard of that event, in the 1880's, and I proceeded to relate the explosion, the darkening of the sky around the world for three years, and other juicy details. I was just getting to the storm off Galveston in the early twentieth century when we arrived at my house. By then I knew he's been traveling with a band for two years, and they played Galveston, and that people there are blaise about boarding up their houses during hurricane warnings, and that he too believed in global warming. Then we parted, never to meet again. Well, the way the car is acting, we might.
A little encounter, but fun, between the old and the young. If you pick the right stories to tell, you can hook even a grunge/rocker and hopefully send him to the library. Once an English teacher, always an addict. Read, young world, read. Me, I'm going to read consumer reports on my car and see what I can get to trade it in.
I did have a nice conversation with the kid who drove me back to the house after I'd dropped off the car. Somehow we got on the subject of Kakatoa, and I was delighted he'd never heard of that event, in the 1880's, and I proceeded to relate the explosion, the darkening of the sky around the world for three years, and other juicy details. I was just getting to the storm off Galveston in the early twentieth century when we arrived at my house. By then I knew he's been traveling with a band for two years, and they played Galveston, and that people there are blaise about boarding up their houses during hurricane warnings, and that he too believed in global warming. Then we parted, never to meet again. Well, the way the car is acting, we might.
A little encounter, but fun, between the old and the young. If you pick the right stories to tell, you can hook even a grunge/rocker and hopefully send him to the library. Once an English teacher, always an addict. Read, young world, read. Me, I'm going to read consumer reports on my car and see what I can get to trade it in.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Old Age Day by Day March 17, 2010
I've lived in the town I'm in now at three different points in my life. And many buildings and streets look virtually the same. I sometimes feel I bump into my other selves around town. There is the student who lived in a dorm, then a coop, then married and lived in different apartments. There is the woman with two toddlers living as a single mom, then living with the man she later married. Then there is the person who lived six blocks away, and walks by her old house, her old apartments, the dorm, the coop. I sometimes feel like those other selves have more in common with people their age than me now. In fact, I feel certain of it. When I sit in a park I see myself forty, thirty twenty years ago and wonder. Who was she?
Our oldest son and his wife live in a nearby town where my first husband and I lived after he was born, and where his sister was born. It's also a place I taught college for years when our youngest was in elementary and junior high. So I drive by the hospital where our older daughter was born and for a second it's nighttime and I am hoping I'll make it to the hospital (she was born 29 minutes after we rushed through the doors). I breeze by the campus where friends still work and am back at a staff meeting restless in my chair, I glance at the JC Penney's where I worked one Christmas season and feel my tired feet.
How our lives spin around, circling certain spots on earth, hovering, the moving on. And in every place we leave a part of ourselves, rooted, living out our alternate lives, moving and breathing, and once in a great while I can recognize for a second, the young confused student, the girl in love who is mourning a boyfriend's leaving, the tears of the lost woman looking for a path, the laughter of the one who danced to Joy of Cooking, the woman coping with the dying of her father, the one seeing her children fly the nest one by one. They did the best they could with the skills and knowledge they had, and I bless them all. When I cross paths with them now, I feel nothing but tenderness.
Our oldest son and his wife live in a nearby town where my first husband and I lived after he was born, and where his sister was born. It's also a place I taught college for years when our youngest was in elementary and junior high. So I drive by the hospital where our older daughter was born and for a second it's nighttime and I am hoping I'll make it to the hospital (she was born 29 minutes after we rushed through the doors). I breeze by the campus where friends still work and am back at a staff meeting restless in my chair, I glance at the JC Penney's where I worked one Christmas season and feel my tired feet.
How our lives spin around, circling certain spots on earth, hovering, the moving on. And in every place we leave a part of ourselves, rooted, living out our alternate lives, moving and breathing, and once in a great while I can recognize for a second, the young confused student, the girl in love who is mourning a boyfriend's leaving, the tears of the lost woman looking for a path, the laughter of the one who danced to Joy of Cooking, the woman coping with the dying of her father, the one seeing her children fly the nest one by one. They did the best they could with the skills and knowledge they had, and I bless them all. When I cross paths with them now, I feel nothing but tenderness.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Old Age Day by Day March 16,2010
I just received a video of our granddaughter singing. We miss her so much; it is delightful to have this great technology that can keep us connected. And when I see her, I remember my mother telling me that I sang "Candy Kisses" (whatever that song is) and threw Hersey's kisses to the audience when I was two. She also loved to relay the information about me coming up to strangers on a bus and asking if they wanted to see me sing and dance. I still have that aspect to my nature, and have recently allowed myself to get back to "showing off" a bit. When you're young it's considered adorable, but later you can be made to feel embarassed, as if you're grasping for undeserved limelight. I let that kind of thinking rule me for decades, but I now permit myself to belt out songs, sing as I walk the dogs, take voice lessons and I'm about to sing in a choir. We should feel just as dellighted when we see a grown up singing for joy as we do a child.
In my old age, I no longer care about what "they" think of me. I feel I only need to check my own motivation, and make certain it is not harmful to others. My passion about this right now comes partly from seeing these old musicals (I bought a boxed set) with Jane Powell and Debbie Reynolds when they were teenagers, or close to it. They were kind of the Deanna Durbins of the late forties and early fifties, and their playful fun keeps me watching some pretty dumb plots and actor's lines. Everybody loved Shirley Temple until she became a teenager, but Jane Powell and Debbie Reynolds arrived as teenagers and then lost their power later, mainly due to the demise of musicals. That's why people love Mamma Mia and Tony and Tina's Wedding and sing alongs of the Sound of Music. Our voices have been silenced and we need that outlet. If a person has stopped attending church, ask them what they miss most and they say "the singing". We're all fools during Christmas carol season, and who doesn't sing at a ball game.
I'm glad I'm recovering some of the joy I lost after school choruses and church choir was behind me. If you see me tap dancing down the street with two labs or wonder if I'm talking to myself, don't call the police. I'm fine, I'm feeling great, and I'm SINGING to myself.
In my old age, I no longer care about what "they" think of me. I feel I only need to check my own motivation, and make certain it is not harmful to others. My passion about this right now comes partly from seeing these old musicals (I bought a boxed set) with Jane Powell and Debbie Reynolds when they were teenagers, or close to it. They were kind of the Deanna Durbins of the late forties and early fifties, and their playful fun keeps me watching some pretty dumb plots and actor's lines. Everybody loved Shirley Temple until she became a teenager, but Jane Powell and Debbie Reynolds arrived as teenagers and then lost their power later, mainly due to the demise of musicals. That's why people love Mamma Mia and Tony and Tina's Wedding and sing alongs of the Sound of Music. Our voices have been silenced and we need that outlet. If a person has stopped attending church, ask them what they miss most and they say "the singing". We're all fools during Christmas carol season, and who doesn't sing at a ball game.
I'm glad I'm recovering some of the joy I lost after school choruses and church choir was behind me. If you see me tap dancing down the street with two labs or wonder if I'm talking to myself, don't call the police. I'm fine, I'm feeling great, and I'm SINGING to myself.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Old Age Day by Day March 15, 2010
Daylight savings time switched over the weekend, and it was confusing having the alarm ring when it was still dark this morning. I automatically reached for my bags to head to the airport, but there were none. It was disillusioning. I was not going to Paris or Portland or (best case) Hawaii. I had to stumble downstairs and find my way to the driveway to search for newspapers. I did a little prayer of gratitude that the paper deliverers had gotten their acts together and thrown the weapons of mass destruction at the foot of the steps. A dark morning and no paper; that would have been dismal indeed. At least the dogs were thrilled yesterday when they believed we'd fed them an hour early. I've given up trying to explain to them the intricacies of saving time. I don't even understand it myself.
But as I've gotten older, this time thing has become harder to adjust to, and by the time I sleep again until the alarm goes off and can get to bed early enough for eight hours sleep, the time has switched again and I'm back to square one. What is weird is on trips now I seem to handle the time being ten or eight hours different with no ill effects. It's like being Alice through the rabbit hole - it's an alternate reality so I just go with the flow. Sometimes I can't sleep, but still manage to have a good time. I once went several weeks in India without actually sleeping. I just lay there and had very rapid thoughts. I believe the drug they give for malaria had a lot to do with this, but I seemed to do fine without rest. I carried my bag down dusty roads when the train broke down, I observed calmly our rickshaw coming within inches of smashing us into soup (this experience of course happened many times), I trudged uphill to shrines and fought off monkeys trying to grab my backpack at the same time.
But at home this teeny tiny hour change disrupts me for many weeks. However, I do not wish to complain, because it signals longer, lighter days, and like everyone else I love the light. I adore being able to take a walk after dinner. My husband was saying this morning how nice it will be to go to chorus rehearsal after work and it will still be light. He will actually be able to see where he's parking and avoid driveways and fire stations. At our age we need every drop of light to navigate our world, and we're about to get a dollop more of it.
But as I've gotten older, this time thing has become harder to adjust to, and by the time I sleep again until the alarm goes off and can get to bed early enough for eight hours sleep, the time has switched again and I'm back to square one. What is weird is on trips now I seem to handle the time being ten or eight hours different with no ill effects. It's like being Alice through the rabbit hole - it's an alternate reality so I just go with the flow. Sometimes I can't sleep, but still manage to have a good time. I once went several weeks in India without actually sleeping. I just lay there and had very rapid thoughts. I believe the drug they give for malaria had a lot to do with this, but I seemed to do fine without rest. I carried my bag down dusty roads when the train broke down, I observed calmly our rickshaw coming within inches of smashing us into soup (this experience of course happened many times), I trudged uphill to shrines and fought off monkeys trying to grab my backpack at the same time.
But at home this teeny tiny hour change disrupts me for many weeks. However, I do not wish to complain, because it signals longer, lighter days, and like everyone else I love the light. I adore being able to take a walk after dinner. My husband was saying this morning how nice it will be to go to chorus rehearsal after work and it will still be light. He will actually be able to see where he's parking and avoid driveways and fire stations. At our age we need every drop of light to navigate our world, and we're about to get a dollop more of it.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Old Age Day by Day March 13, 2010
I need a cook! I have made every meal, meal after meal for tooooo long. There are no kind of salads left to make. My friend tried to suggest some good ones, but I'd made them all, repeatedly. Deja vu vu. I want to eat healthily. I know about processed foods and eating out, and have read all Michael Pollan's books religiously. But no matter how many times I see Julie and Julia the enthusiasm for cooking has not been transmitted to me. Besides, French cooking's secret is all about adding a pound of butter in anything you cook, and that would seal my arteries right up and cause an explosion. I married a man who could not cook, and due to a tidalwave of hormones coursing through my body, I didn't quite realize how difficult it would be. I tried to teach him to cook, but it didn't take. And now, if I don't want to make dinner myself it is either eating out or eating one of the three things he cooks: grilled cheese sandwich with Campbell's chicken noodle soup, bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich with chips, or pancakes. It's unappetizing and severely limiting.
And if we go out, I have to avoid fries, hamburgers, desserts, too much wine. It's a minefield out there, folks. I just want Oprah's cook to make me light, delicious meals that improve my heart, give me vim and vigor and make me so full I don't want those bad, bad foods. Little quesadillas that have no calories, cakes with no sugar or fat, sparkly drinks with no calories but loads of alcohol. Is that asking too much? Don't I deserve a reward after preparing millions of meals, most of which used to be good, before I balked. I USED TO bake bread, make my own pastry, whip up a great chocolate mousse, do Chicken Kiev. Of course, my younger children have no memory of this, but if pressed, the older two can confirm what I say. I was never a cake baker. I made them, but the top layer often slipped off the bottom layer, or the cake cracked in the middle and had to be filled with triple the icing. Thank goodness for bundt cakes. I loved it when they became fashionable. I could just slop something in the center and didn't need to frost. Cakes with holes in them were invented for me. I kid you not.
But now, each week, we have baked sweet potatoes and fish, chicken and veggies, curry, salad nicoise, and round things out with delivered pizza, crispy chicken tacos from the local taqueria, and middle eastern mediterranean plate. We're so predictable, I won't be surprised if the pizza guy delivers without us ordering. I love to eat, but it's become such a CHORE. I may have to go back to what I do under stress - just eat tuna sandwiches day after day until my mercury level hospitalizes me. At this point, that institutional food is looking mighty good.
And if we go out, I have to avoid fries, hamburgers, desserts, too much wine. It's a minefield out there, folks. I just want Oprah's cook to make me light, delicious meals that improve my heart, give me vim and vigor and make me so full I don't want those bad, bad foods. Little quesadillas that have no calories, cakes with no sugar or fat, sparkly drinks with no calories but loads of alcohol. Is that asking too much? Don't I deserve a reward after preparing millions of meals, most of which used to be good, before I balked. I USED TO bake bread, make my own pastry, whip up a great chocolate mousse, do Chicken Kiev. Of course, my younger children have no memory of this, but if pressed, the older two can confirm what I say. I was never a cake baker. I made them, but the top layer often slipped off the bottom layer, or the cake cracked in the middle and had to be filled with triple the icing. Thank goodness for bundt cakes. I loved it when they became fashionable. I could just slop something in the center and didn't need to frost. Cakes with holes in them were invented for me. I kid you not.
But now, each week, we have baked sweet potatoes and fish, chicken and veggies, curry, salad nicoise, and round things out with delivered pizza, crispy chicken tacos from the local taqueria, and middle eastern mediterranean plate. We're so predictable, I won't be surprised if the pizza guy delivers without us ordering. I love to eat, but it's become such a CHORE. I may have to go back to what I do under stress - just eat tuna sandwiches day after day until my mercury level hospitalizes me. At this point, that institutional food is looking mighty good.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Old Age Day by Day March 12, 2010
This week, something went wrong with the Mulan DVD when my foster granddaughter (she will be five in a couple of months) and I were attempting to watch it. When I pressed play, nothing. I tried various buttons, to unplug the TV, to take the DVD out and put it back in. I refrained from throwing it across the room. Finally, my granddaughter suggested putting in another video, and it worked. I could have kissed her feet. How tolerant she is about my ineptitude, how forgiving. We both like Mulan a lot. Her favorite part is when the matchmaking lady tries to gussie up Mulan, and I like the scene where she figures out how to bury the invaders in snow. We have watched this movie at least three dozen times. I know, it's frightening. But if I let myself be on her wavelength it's actually quite soothing.
However, when Mulan didn't work, she requested Shrek, and I hate those films, so I surreptiously dozed when she wasn't demanding crackers or ice cream. Pretty soon I'll be in a nursing home, and boring an attendant in similar ways so I'm trying to get a feel for it from the attendant's point of view.
My granddaughter is going to kindergarten in the fall. So, for me, there's this feeling of enjoying her now, because I won't have her as long or as often when she is in school, and she'll have made that transition to her peers, and it won't be such a treat to be with me. This is as it should be, but I already miss her scribbly coloring (now she colors within the lines) and her mispronounciations, long gone. I hope there will be a place for me, and I figure as long as we have the soda fountain nearby I can entice her for grilled cheese, potato chips and a vanilla shake. But now I sit beside her and we smile occasionally, and critique the films, and discuss what she did on the weekend, and just hang.
As I age further, if I get babbly and disoriented, and start calling for Mulan, or Belle, or Elastagirl, just remember, what I'm really longing for is a little girl, fresh as a crocus, and the companionship of feeling, not words. The old and the young do operate often on the same wavelength, and we have the time to be together without agendas or plans. It's lovely. Wanna watch The Rescuers with me?
However, when Mulan didn't work, she requested Shrek, and I hate those films, so I surreptiously dozed when she wasn't demanding crackers or ice cream. Pretty soon I'll be in a nursing home, and boring an attendant in similar ways so I'm trying to get a feel for it from the attendant's point of view.
My granddaughter is going to kindergarten in the fall. So, for me, there's this feeling of enjoying her now, because I won't have her as long or as often when she is in school, and she'll have made that transition to her peers, and it won't be such a treat to be with me. This is as it should be, but I already miss her scribbly coloring (now she colors within the lines) and her mispronounciations, long gone. I hope there will be a place for me, and I figure as long as we have the soda fountain nearby I can entice her for grilled cheese, potato chips and a vanilla shake. But now I sit beside her and we smile occasionally, and critique the films, and discuss what she did on the weekend, and just hang.
As I age further, if I get babbly and disoriented, and start calling for Mulan, or Belle, or Elastagirl, just remember, what I'm really longing for is a little girl, fresh as a crocus, and the companionship of feeling, not words. The old and the young do operate often on the same wavelength, and we have the time to be together without agendas or plans. It's lovely. Wanna watch The Rescuers with me?
Thursday, March 11, 2010
ld Age Day by Day March 11, 2010
I picked up a book the other day, by an author I enjoy, and as I cosied down with it last night in bed I realized I'd already read it. The really frightening thing is I had to read the entire first chapter before it occurred to me. I had read this book not long ago, maybe a year or two. Practically no titles of books stick in my head anymore. Next thing you know I'll be saying - "A book about four daughters during the Civil War, who worry about money and one wants to write, sounds good". I only read Little Women dozens of times and we used to act out the parts after school. Everyone wanted to be Jo, so we had to scrupulously take turns or violence would have erupted. I remember tearing off my friend's mother's hydrangea bush blossoms to make bouquets. For the weddings of course. It's interesting how nobody wanted to be Amy, even though she ends up with the rich guy. Perhaps we were more noble than not. None of us did end up with a rich husband, so maybe we were just psychic.
I now have all these little notebooks: one for films, one for books, one for ideas (that book is very blank) and one for art exhibits. Unfortunately, I forget to take them with me or fill them in except every six months or so, and then I can no longer remember what I've read or seen. In the film book you have to write in the date you saw it, but I am lucky if I can guess which year. Anything more specific is beyond me. You can find me some nights with the art book trying to think when I've last been to an art show, and when and did I like it or hate it? It's as torturous as those dream journals everyone kept in the seventies - I'd be racking my brain for details, but all I could remember was a bed with my whole family on their knees beside it. Tantalizing, but without further plot, impossible to describe. I was considered an extremely boring person due to this unvivid, unscandalous dream life. I gave up those groups and now allow myself to forget what I dreamt instantly and for eternity. My theory is the dream has done it's work in the unconscious, and it's like analyzing an accident after the event. It ain't gonna change nothin. I know, extremely convenient.
Now it's fine to reread Dickens or Dostoevsky, but it should be deliberate, not accidental. Some times I just read the darn book anyway. After all, I can't remember who did what, and the end is still a surprise. Waste not, want not. Or: remember not, waste not. I wish I could say I save on books this way, but I believe I keep rebuying the same four books, so it's not really efficient. It's especially tricky when I've read the hardback, and recognize the cover, but then it comes out in paperback, and looks entirely different, and the author photo is new (she usually looks younger with time not older, which is amazing) and they just switch the details enough to fool me and my aged ilk. I hope Obama extends consumer rights to eliminate these underhanded practices. If he were only a little older, he'd understand how important it is.
I now have all these little notebooks: one for films, one for books, one for ideas (that book is very blank) and one for art exhibits. Unfortunately, I forget to take them with me or fill them in except every six months or so, and then I can no longer remember what I've read or seen. In the film book you have to write in the date you saw it, but I am lucky if I can guess which year. Anything more specific is beyond me. You can find me some nights with the art book trying to think when I've last been to an art show, and when and did I like it or hate it? It's as torturous as those dream journals everyone kept in the seventies - I'd be racking my brain for details, but all I could remember was a bed with my whole family on their knees beside it. Tantalizing, but without further plot, impossible to describe. I was considered an extremely boring person due to this unvivid, unscandalous dream life. I gave up those groups and now allow myself to forget what I dreamt instantly and for eternity. My theory is the dream has done it's work in the unconscious, and it's like analyzing an accident after the event. It ain't gonna change nothin. I know, extremely convenient.
Now it's fine to reread Dickens or Dostoevsky, but it should be deliberate, not accidental. Some times I just read the darn book anyway. After all, I can't remember who did what, and the end is still a surprise. Waste not, want not. Or: remember not, waste not. I wish I could say I save on books this way, but I believe I keep rebuying the same four books, so it's not really efficient. It's especially tricky when I've read the hardback, and recognize the cover, but then it comes out in paperback, and looks entirely different, and the author photo is new (she usually looks younger with time not older, which is amazing) and they just switch the details enough to fool me and my aged ilk. I hope Obama extends consumer rights to eliminate these underhanded practices. If he were only a little older, he'd understand how important it is.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Old Age Day by Day March 10,2010
I have a couple of medical tests to do this morning. Both are routine, and yet, and yet I've worked myself into a tizzy. My blood pressure is up, I have a pain in my chest in my right heart (I have a right heart and a left heart), and all I can think of is my friends who have gone for a routine test and stepped onto a roller coaster than took them for a terrifying ride. I don't like heights, I can't abide roller coasters, I got sick on the swings at the county fair when I was fourteen and never rode anything again. Okay, I'd just had a corn dog and that may have had something to do with it, but I really hate heights. I tell people I don't like views. Views mean you have a down part or an up part, or both. I had to do some major talking myself down when we camped on the North Rim of the Grand Canyon. While everyone else was leaning over the edge I was looking at postcards to see what they were seeing.
I'm old. I've been so lucky, never had a surgery or too much trouble medically, and there is no reason for this luck, I've done absolutely nothing to deserve it, so how long can it last? At least I eventually force myself to do the right thing and have the test, though now I discover I've exposed myself to a ton of radiation for mammograms which I didn't need and don't do much good. If you live long enough, this is the kind of thing that happens. The test or medication that was supposedly saving your life is killing you. The medical people change their mind every ten years and reverse their advice. Remember ointment and burns? Estrogen for a healthy heart? An apple a day? Well, the apple is still okay. And now coffee and chocolate are, too, which is a neat thing about living so long.
So shortly I will be sitting in a room full of terrified people, each of us reading People Magazine upside down, trying to slow our breathing and fingering beads. Misery loves company, and at least the ride is open to all and does not discriminate. I thought finals were bad in school - these tests are sometimes very final, and when they're over, you know it doesn't exactly mean you're fine. It means that one little aspect of our bodies is not showing anything dramatic. The rest of the machine - well, who knows? Certainly not the doctors. We're all in the dark here, and I can either think of it as crowded or cosy.
I'm old. I've been so lucky, never had a surgery or too much trouble medically, and there is no reason for this luck, I've done absolutely nothing to deserve it, so how long can it last? At least I eventually force myself to do the right thing and have the test, though now I discover I've exposed myself to a ton of radiation for mammograms which I didn't need and don't do much good. If you live long enough, this is the kind of thing that happens. The test or medication that was supposedly saving your life is killing you. The medical people change their mind every ten years and reverse their advice. Remember ointment and burns? Estrogen for a healthy heart? An apple a day? Well, the apple is still okay. And now coffee and chocolate are, too, which is a neat thing about living so long.
So shortly I will be sitting in a room full of terrified people, each of us reading People Magazine upside down, trying to slow our breathing and fingering beads. Misery loves company, and at least the ride is open to all and does not discriminate. I thought finals were bad in school - these tests are sometimes very final, and when they're over, you know it doesn't exactly mean you're fine. It means that one little aspect of our bodies is not showing anything dramatic. The rest of the machine - well, who knows? Certainly not the doctors. We're all in the dark here, and I can either think of it as crowded or cosy.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Old Age Day by Day March 9, 2010
I had to call my best friend last night. Nothing for me is quite real until we've discussed it. I needed advice, and as usual, hers was excellent. What I find especially charming is how she refrains from calling me an idiot or saying this is the 89th time I've complained about such and such. I find that to be a noble quality in a friend. Of course, there are times when she is forced to say "Are you out of your everlovin mind?!" But those are wake up calls that must be heard. At that point I know I've strayed far from the path of righteousness or even my own nature. We all lose our bearings, and a navigator other than ourselves is a must. Sometimes my husband fulfills that duty, but really, girlfriends are the best course.
It's girlfriends that tell you, when you are thirteen and looking at fashion magazines that your best and only good feature is your eyebrows. This is harsh, but necessary if you are not going to waste time in painful rollers or green face masks. Later, it is the friend, who tells you the guy you are dating is a jerk and you deserve better, even if he is cute. She pumps you up for a job interview and makes you change your outfit three times. So when you march into that office you know you are lookin good. And when you or your kids is sick, she doesn't say it will be fine, she says this totally sucks, you must be scared. So then you know you are not a whiner, you are merely human, and should cry buckets, it'll make you feel better.
So this friend has seen me be a young mommy, making a wide range of choices, some not so smart. She's been there when I've struggled with a failure, a dream dashed, a betrayal of a friend. She doesn't think I'm wonderful, or bad, she thinks I'm strong. She reminds me I'm strong, and that usually I've been in this place before, or close to it, and the world didn't end, and don't take myself too seriously, because you win some and you lose some, and you're not really in control anyway.
This kind of friend must be treasured. She's the faithful witness to your life. You must in turn do your part to be honest and figure out not what you would do, but what is best for your friend. That takes a lot of years of experience, and it's the best secret of aging I know. You've had these friends for so long, that a phrase can get you back on track, and a joke can be enlightening, and actually, just her voice grounds you. No lightening can strike, because there you are, feet in the earth, and she's making sure you hold steady, no matter what.
It's girlfriends that tell you, when you are thirteen and looking at fashion magazines that your best and only good feature is your eyebrows. This is harsh, but necessary if you are not going to waste time in painful rollers or green face masks. Later, it is the friend, who tells you the guy you are dating is a jerk and you deserve better, even if he is cute. She pumps you up for a job interview and makes you change your outfit three times. So when you march into that office you know you are lookin good. And when you or your kids is sick, she doesn't say it will be fine, she says this totally sucks, you must be scared. So then you know you are not a whiner, you are merely human, and should cry buckets, it'll make you feel better.
So this friend has seen me be a young mommy, making a wide range of choices, some not so smart. She's been there when I've struggled with a failure, a dream dashed, a betrayal of a friend. She doesn't think I'm wonderful, or bad, she thinks I'm strong. She reminds me I'm strong, and that usually I've been in this place before, or close to it, and the world didn't end, and don't take myself too seriously, because you win some and you lose some, and you're not really in control anyway.
This kind of friend must be treasured. She's the faithful witness to your life. You must in turn do your part to be honest and figure out not what you would do, but what is best for your friend. That takes a lot of years of experience, and it's the best secret of aging I know. You've had these friends for so long, that a phrase can get you back on track, and a joke can be enlightening, and actually, just her voice grounds you. No lightening can strike, because there you are, feet in the earth, and she's making sure you hold steady, no matter what.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Old Age Day by Day March 8, 2010
I skipped blogging this weekend. I was accompanying my husband to get rat traps on Saturday (such are our weekend outings these days), and Sunday was, of course, devoted to the Oscars and the Oscar food. Our daughter and her boyfriend came over to watch, and we munched on peanuts, corn puffs and olives, with pizza delivered. It was like the Platonic ideal of the couch potato. I could feel my muscles atrophying minute by minute. We were all pretty satisfied. We like it when Pixar wins (the local guys) and a woman actually won for director. The geezer factor was high, which was satisfying to us old folks. There were Mirren and Streep, looking pretty amazing and representing the highest level of acting, and Bridges is no spring chicken, and hey, there was Streisand, a director herself, who took a lot of flack and in the end, got to hand the Oscar to a woman. Martin and Baldwin, no callow youths themselves, did pretty well, and all and all, the oldies held up well next to the Twilight teens.
Of course, my pick of the nominees, A Serious Man, had no chance. But that was okay, because I wanted Paris to win, and it's a French movie, so it could only have been nominated in the Foreign film category. I adore Michael Hanake, Code Unknown is one of my favorite films of all time, and I adore Cache as well, so I wished The White Ribbon would win, but I haven't even seen the other nominees, so what do I know? At my age, it's amazing what I manage to see, and that I can SEE it.
What I want to know is where do Streep and Mirren find these dresses with sleeves? In the real world, there are no dresses with sleeves, and at my age, the arms are not to be revealed, unless in a horror film. I have to buy these sleeveless dresses, and then find a jacket or sweater that must never, ever, ever be removed. This causes me to sweat a lot. At both of the older kids' weddings, I sweltered in jackets that made me feel like I'd been locked in a closet with a psycho outside the door.
And Mirren and Streep are so radiant! Is it makeup artistry, or surgery or both? Why can't I look like that? At least one night a year. At least under soft lighting. And now that my husband has new glasses, he can probably see me again. This is not good. Maybe I need to have bangs again, and long hair hanging forward over my cheeks (all four of them), and wear turtleneck pjs with a scarf. It's going to be warm, very warm, if I have to sleep with all that hair and clothing. Who am I kidding? He knows what I look like, during flu, after birthing, with a rash, and with a mini me inside my skin. I'll just have to be more sparkly. And maybe get rid of a few light bulbs and lamps.
Of course, my pick of the nominees, A Serious Man, had no chance. But that was okay, because I wanted Paris to win, and it's a French movie, so it could only have been nominated in the Foreign film category. I adore Michael Hanake, Code Unknown is one of my favorite films of all time, and I adore Cache as well, so I wished The White Ribbon would win, but I haven't even seen the other nominees, so what do I know? At my age, it's amazing what I manage to see, and that I can SEE it.
What I want to know is where do Streep and Mirren find these dresses with sleeves? In the real world, there are no dresses with sleeves, and at my age, the arms are not to be revealed, unless in a horror film. I have to buy these sleeveless dresses, and then find a jacket or sweater that must never, ever, ever be removed. This causes me to sweat a lot. At both of the older kids' weddings, I sweltered in jackets that made me feel like I'd been locked in a closet with a psycho outside the door.
And Mirren and Streep are so radiant! Is it makeup artistry, or surgery or both? Why can't I look like that? At least one night a year. At least under soft lighting. And now that my husband has new glasses, he can probably see me again. This is not good. Maybe I need to have bangs again, and long hair hanging forward over my cheeks (all four of them), and wear turtleneck pjs with a scarf. It's going to be warm, very warm, if I have to sleep with all that hair and clothing. Who am I kidding? He knows what I look like, during flu, after birthing, with a rash, and with a mini me inside my skin. I'll just have to be more sparkly. And maybe get rid of a few light bulbs and lamps.
Friday, March 5, 2010
Old Age Day by Day March 5,2010
I love this season. Daffodils are my favorite flower, and I can buy armloads at Trader Joe's and the scent is just perfect: rained-on earth. Nothing is cheerier than yellow, but daffodils move and dance with every breath of wind. I love a flower that does the funky chicken. When I was a kid in Virginia they popped up in the yard every spring, along with violets and snowdrops. Sometimes the rain or late snow bent them to the ground, but they always stood back up in a few hours (heavy symbolism here). The bulbs must have been very old, because my mother was no gardener, and we never had anybody to help out. Dad mowed the lawn and weeded. We had three sheep who ate the hillside. The tidewater area of Virginia has a mild winter, but still, the daffodils meant May Day was coming, then a summer of swimming and catching crabs in the river. Yippee!
So the other day, my foster granddaughter, who is four, complimented me on my wreath of daffodils on the front door. They are fake, of course, from Target, but the fakes these days are pretty amazing. I've spent countless minutes feeling fake plants in dentist offices and restaurants. Yes, I am the suspicious type, and my husband is too, because if I'm not feeling up strange plants, he is. When I was a kid, there were hard plastic flowers, mainly on graves, but also in homes, including my parents and relatives. These unnatural creations needed to be dusted and washed occasionally with soap and water. I was a snob. I though plastic flowers were tacky, like plastic covers over sofas and doilies on armchairs. I'd read enough books to know fresh flowers and arrangements were the sign of class, and swore I'd never have fake. Perhaps I believed I'd have the conservatory and large English garden from which to pick my bouquets for my drawing room.
Flash forward a few decades, and I'm fakin' it out, big time. Of course, my dream of changing classes and being considered elegant and cultured - or as my brother would say, suave and dee bone, has not materialized. I'm still my working class parents' working class girl. And I no longer care much about what other people think of my tastes, and have given myself permission to just (great lord almighty!) like what a like. What a concept. So I've got some fresh, real daffodils in a pitcher in my kitchen, a dollar a bunch, and the fake thing at my entrance. That door announces that I'm not too fancy to appreciate a well made fake object. It also says I'm not fake myself. What you see is what you get.
So the other day, my foster granddaughter, who is four, complimented me on my wreath of daffodils on the front door. They are fake, of course, from Target, but the fakes these days are pretty amazing. I've spent countless minutes feeling fake plants in dentist offices and restaurants. Yes, I am the suspicious type, and my husband is too, because if I'm not feeling up strange plants, he is. When I was a kid, there were hard plastic flowers, mainly on graves, but also in homes, including my parents and relatives. These unnatural creations needed to be dusted and washed occasionally with soap and water. I was a snob. I though plastic flowers were tacky, like plastic covers over sofas and doilies on armchairs. I'd read enough books to know fresh flowers and arrangements were the sign of class, and swore I'd never have fake. Perhaps I believed I'd have the conservatory and large English garden from which to pick my bouquets for my drawing room.
Flash forward a few decades, and I'm fakin' it out, big time. Of course, my dream of changing classes and being considered elegant and cultured - or as my brother would say, suave and dee bone, has not materialized. I'm still my working class parents' working class girl. And I no longer care much about what other people think of my tastes, and have given myself permission to just (great lord almighty!) like what a like. What a concept. So I've got some fresh, real daffodils in a pitcher in my kitchen, a dollar a bunch, and the fake thing at my entrance. That door announces that I'm not too fancy to appreciate a well made fake object. It also says I'm not fake myself. What you see is what you get.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Old Age Day by Day March 4, 2010
I tried watching the 2012 DVD last night, but I wasn't in the mood for catastrophe, I guess. After Haiti and Chile, it seems just another way for feel anxious, and after all, if I want that feeling I could look at the news or think about my retirement plans. I realized there is no water in the bin in the garage, and anyway I've forgotten how much clorine bleach you're supposed to put in. I have an earthquake bag but it's not complete, and will probably be buried under rubble. For a minute as I was watching, I got fixated on the lack of water bottles in the car. Then I realized there was no John Cusack to drive the car, so probably we'd never be able to weave and bob past falling buildings and overpasses anyway.
The earth's crust seems pretty unstable without the scifi input, and I prefer to live with a certain amount of denial about the uncertainty of our existence and our lifestyle. Yeah, I should be prepared, but no one is ever really prepared for sudden changes. When the 89 earthquake hit, I was without supplies or even the ability to identify the gas meter, and couldn't find my daughter for a couple of panicky minutes. She turned out to be sitting on her dad's motorcycle with her little friend, pretending to be gang members. Miraculously, the bike didn't fall over in the driveway, pinning them to the ground. Since I couldn't even imagine them sneaking out of the house, and riding the bike, which was forbidden, I had not placed padding in the driveway, nor installed bolt locks to keep them from leaving the back deck, and by the time I found them, my son (who had been watching TV upstairs) and the cats, it was too late to stand in the doorway. Did we have a plan to reach each other? Of course not, so it took me a while to reach our older daughter, my husband, and then hours to hear from our son at the epicenter.
All were well, but only because we were lucky. I had maybe better be buying stock in four leaf clovers. In my old age, I feel there is just too much coordinating to be done to be on top of catastrophes. It's exhausting just thinking about it. Besides, if I was all stocked up, the looters would probably take it from me in a nanosecond, and I absolutely refuse to carry weapons or defend my supplies. I'd have locked myself in the bathroom yelling "take what you want". I feel an absolute certainty that I am a coward. I'll cling to that truth. It's reassuring, because it tells me the effort on preparedness is wasted on the old.
These days the only dependents we are responsible for are the dogs. They don't need stockpiled dog food. They are labs, so they eat socks, rocks, acorns, green persimmons, paper from the wastebasket and other delicacies. They're survivors. I think we'll just wander the streets aimlessly, with the rest of our neighbors. They're all about our age, and the last disaster planning meeting was canceled and they never get the email notice to my right address, so I haven't a lot of confidence in them either. If you see a herd of elderly people with cats and dogs wandering in your area, don't worry, we're not out of Night of the Living Dead. We're just still trying to get our cell phones to work, and waiting for someone to come and get us organized.
The earth's crust seems pretty unstable without the scifi input, and I prefer to live with a certain amount of denial about the uncertainty of our existence and our lifestyle. Yeah, I should be prepared, but no one is ever really prepared for sudden changes. When the 89 earthquake hit, I was without supplies or even the ability to identify the gas meter, and couldn't find my daughter for a couple of panicky minutes. She turned out to be sitting on her dad's motorcycle with her little friend, pretending to be gang members. Miraculously, the bike didn't fall over in the driveway, pinning them to the ground. Since I couldn't even imagine them sneaking out of the house, and riding the bike, which was forbidden, I had not placed padding in the driveway, nor installed bolt locks to keep them from leaving the back deck, and by the time I found them, my son (who had been watching TV upstairs) and the cats, it was too late to stand in the doorway. Did we have a plan to reach each other? Of course not, so it took me a while to reach our older daughter, my husband, and then hours to hear from our son at the epicenter.
All were well, but only because we were lucky. I had maybe better be buying stock in four leaf clovers. In my old age, I feel there is just too much coordinating to be done to be on top of catastrophes. It's exhausting just thinking about it. Besides, if I was all stocked up, the looters would probably take it from me in a nanosecond, and I absolutely refuse to carry weapons or defend my supplies. I'd have locked myself in the bathroom yelling "take what you want". I feel an absolute certainty that I am a coward. I'll cling to that truth. It's reassuring, because it tells me the effort on preparedness is wasted on the old.
These days the only dependents we are responsible for are the dogs. They don't need stockpiled dog food. They are labs, so they eat socks, rocks, acorns, green persimmons, paper from the wastebasket and other delicacies. They're survivors. I think we'll just wander the streets aimlessly, with the rest of our neighbors. They're all about our age, and the last disaster planning meeting was canceled and they never get the email notice to my right address, so I haven't a lot of confidence in them either. If you see a herd of elderly people with cats and dogs wandering in your area, don't worry, we're not out of Night of the Living Dead. We're just still trying to get our cell phones to work, and waiting for someone to come and get us organized.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Old Age Day by Day March 3,2010
Ironically, the skills I rejected as a child are the skills I most appreciate now. My mother, having worked in a factory from the age of fifteen, and having no education (she left school at third grade), was glad to be a stay at home wife and mother. She sewed our clothes, including hats and coats, upholstered furniture, knitted us sweaters, made the curtains. I didn't appreciate any of it. I longed for store bought clothes. I can still see my parents, my brother and I shopping in a department store (must have been for shoes) and both parents looking inside garments at the seams, disgusted by the shabby quality. My mother taught me to knit, crochet, embroider, sew a zipper in a skirt.
I wanted to be like my Dad, who had the power, got to travel, gave speeches, and felt comfortable pontificating on all subjects. And I carry within me the ability to speak publicly, a gift for storytelling and a powerful judging voice (which I'm working on eradicating).
But what sustains me in my elder years is remembering the way, every day, my mother's invisible skills made each day more beautiful. Work made beauty, and she wasn't afraid to tackle anything in the arts arena. She painted in oils, did crewel work pictures, worked elaborate smocking into a robe for me. She made amazing dresses out of sari material, and arranged every room so that it was balanced and tranquil and beautiful. She created our home, which was filled with hand crafted quilts, painted bookshelves, and bedspreads with fringe.
Long before she died I had unconsciously taken up her traditions. Making Christmas ornaments, embroidering jeans jackets for my kids, making play clothes out of Mickey Mouse fabric, sewing pillows, curtains, quilting baby blankets. Did I thank her? No. She died when I was forty, and I hadn't quite grown up enough yet to appreciate her. I still didn't value what she did. I felt trivial when I spent my time on painting or collaging. I felt I should be reading or tackling work from my job.
But now I make a beeline for the textiles in a museum, have copied quilt designs from the Gee's Bend exhibit, will stand alone admiring painted teacups. Women's work, it seems to me now, is the heart work that keeps loving others from dying out, and her lack of employment is revealed for what it is: the constant, steady, sometimes back breaking work of women creating when and where they can out of what materials are available. If you look closely enough, a wealth of story is in those objects. For the rest of my life I intend to bear witness to these ordinary, extraordinary creators of functional beauty. Beauty that greets us in the morning, keeps us warm at night.
I wanted to be like my Dad, who had the power, got to travel, gave speeches, and felt comfortable pontificating on all subjects. And I carry within me the ability to speak publicly, a gift for storytelling and a powerful judging voice (which I'm working on eradicating).
But what sustains me in my elder years is remembering the way, every day, my mother's invisible skills made each day more beautiful. Work made beauty, and she wasn't afraid to tackle anything in the arts arena. She painted in oils, did crewel work pictures, worked elaborate smocking into a robe for me. She made amazing dresses out of sari material, and arranged every room so that it was balanced and tranquil and beautiful. She created our home, which was filled with hand crafted quilts, painted bookshelves, and bedspreads with fringe.
Long before she died I had unconsciously taken up her traditions. Making Christmas ornaments, embroidering jeans jackets for my kids, making play clothes out of Mickey Mouse fabric, sewing pillows, curtains, quilting baby blankets. Did I thank her? No. She died when I was forty, and I hadn't quite grown up enough yet to appreciate her. I still didn't value what she did. I felt trivial when I spent my time on painting or collaging. I felt I should be reading or tackling work from my job.
But now I make a beeline for the textiles in a museum, have copied quilt designs from the Gee's Bend exhibit, will stand alone admiring painted teacups. Women's work, it seems to me now, is the heart work that keeps loving others from dying out, and her lack of employment is revealed for what it is: the constant, steady, sometimes back breaking work of women creating when and where they can out of what materials are available. If you look closely enough, a wealth of story is in those objects. For the rest of my life I intend to bear witness to these ordinary, extraordinary creators of functional beauty. Beauty that greets us in the morning, keeps us warm at night.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Old Age Day by Day March 2, 2010
I have to go to the metaphysical bookstore today. It's urgent. No I don't have any premonition of eminent death, but I need to find a book for my next study group, and the Buddhist bookstore is defunct, and lots of my friends (the independent bookstores) have closed their eyes. Borders and Barnes are not deeply concerned with spirituality, unless it is a cult member renouncing his past or ten ways to become compassionate in ten minutes. Yes, I will probably have to order the book, but first I will try my dusty, dark and dingy local place. I am so old I actually like to linger over tables of books, and read the backflaps and listen to recommendations from the owners. I like to BE IN bookstores. As a child and young person, I lived in places where there were no bookstores and no libraries except for the school's, and it is not a pretty picture. I lived for two years in another country where there were zero bookstores, and the one library was stuffed with British colonial glorifications and a few gems. That was when I read the complete works of Dickens and Henry James as well as, I'm afraid, Ian Fleming and Nevil Shute.
So I consider bookstores like art museums. And by the way, I never miss the bookstore in an art museum. Wouldn't think of it. Luckily, a couple of our local indies are doing quite well, and I try to buy all the books I can at those places. But my kids wouldn't. And their kids will be reading kindles. So a bookstore tells me I am old, and it's up to me to treasure such a dying artifactal tomb. I love the old, out of print tables and the sections where I am in the dark about what to seek, and just have to feel the book to see if it's telling me anything.
I have a great bookstore seven houses from me, a mystery/scifi/fantasy place where you can barely squeeze in the front door, and books litter the floor, and the narrow isle with side pockets keeps going back and back and back. I half expect to see a black shrouded figure slipping behind a shelf. At the end there is a stairs to the loft, stuffed with more epistles and a delightful selection of children's books. I've been known to go in and forget to come out. I have my authors I seek, but love most the front section, where new paperbacks and some hardbacks are easily perused without stumbling, and I can risk it all to try a new author. And on a weeknight once a month, you can come to a mystery reading group and have complete strangers recommend something you'd never otherwise know about. Yes, some of the chains have book groups, but they are reading what the publishers have placed in the store, not what is glorious and strange and magical. Yes, eventually Murakami became mainstream, but not Natalie Nocomb. So much will be lost. Or maybe not. I sound gruzzly.
Next time you're in an independent bookstore, notice us geezers, we are legion, and we don't want our sanctuaries exterminated.
So I consider bookstores like art museums. And by the way, I never miss the bookstore in an art museum. Wouldn't think of it. Luckily, a couple of our local indies are doing quite well, and I try to buy all the books I can at those places. But my kids wouldn't. And their kids will be reading kindles. So a bookstore tells me I am old, and it's up to me to treasure such a dying artifactal tomb. I love the old, out of print tables and the sections where I am in the dark about what to seek, and just have to feel the book to see if it's telling me anything.
I have a great bookstore seven houses from me, a mystery/scifi/fantasy place where you can barely squeeze in the front door, and books litter the floor, and the narrow isle with side pockets keeps going back and back and back. I half expect to see a black shrouded figure slipping behind a shelf. At the end there is a stairs to the loft, stuffed with more epistles and a delightful selection of children's books. I've been known to go in and forget to come out. I have my authors I seek, but love most the front section, where new paperbacks and some hardbacks are easily perused without stumbling, and I can risk it all to try a new author. And on a weeknight once a month, you can come to a mystery reading group and have complete strangers recommend something you'd never otherwise know about. Yes, some of the chains have book groups, but they are reading what the publishers have placed in the store, not what is glorious and strange and magical. Yes, eventually Murakami became mainstream, but not Natalie Nocomb. So much will be lost. Or maybe not. I sound gruzzly.
Next time you're in an independent bookstore, notice us geezers, we are legion, and we don't want our sanctuaries exterminated.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Old Age Day by Day March 1, 2010
So last night I got carded! I'm 64, so I can only assume that the darkness (this was a club) and my shortness and my glasses (the pink ones with tortoise shell) disguised my advanced state of decay. My younger daughter had gotten us tickets to see a preview of a new indie documentary about Stephen Merritt and Magnetic Fields. Thus I found myself with a herd of callow youth, and loving every minute. My older daughter discovered Magnetic Fields and she passed it on to my younger son, and a few years ago he said, "Mom, I think you'd like them" and helped me pick out 69 Love Songs. It was love at first listen. I don't care how old I am, you're never too old to have crushes and fall in love with bands and songs. It's too much fun. The film was terrific, and two of my favorite songs were part of the film - Papa Was a Rodeo and The Book of Love. I know all the words to these two songs and a few more, and try to harmonize while I listen at home. I use my bass voice as Merritt's voice is so low. Merritt's take on love is ironic and deadpan. But it's really wise, as well. He's a sharp lyricist, and since I admire words, the music really delights.
This irresponsible behavior in me began long ago. As a preteen I was part of a local Elvis Presley fan club, and we made up cheers about him. I screamed standing on my seat to Chuck Berry and the Elverly Brothers in a Richmond, Virginia auditorium when I was in my early teens. I mourned Buddy Holly. I read fan magazines and wrote letters. My life was a one blank after another between sock hops. A few years ago my best friend from those years sent me a note she'd found in a trunk. One of those notes that got me poor citizenship marks on my report card. It made me realize I was one silly, trivial girl, and I waited to see if she was going to threaten blackmail, but I guess she thought it hopeless at this late date. I did have some deep thoughts, but sparingly, between gossiping and mooning over boys. Given the huge rollers my hair was pinned in at night, it's amazing my brain could do any activity. It must have been yelling in pain continuously.
Music makes the world bearable, and the surest way to a hit of joy is to turn on a song you love (the volume must be quite high) and sing along. I don't intend to ever give this practice up.
This irresponsible behavior in me began long ago. As a preteen I was part of a local Elvis Presley fan club, and we made up cheers about him. I screamed standing on my seat to Chuck Berry and the Elverly Brothers in a Richmond, Virginia auditorium when I was in my early teens. I mourned Buddy Holly. I read fan magazines and wrote letters. My life was a one blank after another between sock hops. A few years ago my best friend from those years sent me a note she'd found in a trunk. One of those notes that got me poor citizenship marks on my report card. It made me realize I was one silly, trivial girl, and I waited to see if she was going to threaten blackmail, but I guess she thought it hopeless at this late date. I did have some deep thoughts, but sparingly, between gossiping and mooning over boys. Given the huge rollers my hair was pinned in at night, it's amazing my brain could do any activity. It must have been yelling in pain continuously.
Music makes the world bearable, and the surest way to a hit of joy is to turn on a song you love (the volume must be quite high) and sing along. I don't intend to ever give this practice up.
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