Old Age Day by Day May 31, 2011

Well, I lost my blog for a while, or rather I could read my old blogs, but not post a new one. Of course, since I'm an idiot about these things, all the tricks I tried did not work, including calling my older son and getting some help from him. He gave me a lecture on not reading about my computer, which I have done, but never mind, he was exasperated with my lack of savvy (Jack Sparrow, I am not). By the way, did you know that savvy has two v's? What a strange word! I am feeling rather joyous just to see the old blog back up, though perhaps it has been a well deserved vacation for those few, those precious few of you who read it.

I was rationalizing to myself that since I am now writing a book again, maybe I didn't need the blog, but all the while I felt like a limb had been amputated. Evidently, I have an unlimited ability to rattle on about nothing and a pressing desire to do so.

My husband and I went to the cabin to clean and get a new bed and figure out what needs doing. It was crappy weather, and I am not exaggerating. It must have hailed twelve different times, it rained, it snowed numerous times, there was sleet, there was cold, there was vast unpleasantness. We only sat out on the deck a little while yesterday, in our jackets. What few people were camping (though the campground was booked full) had most left after Saturday. They gave up. We made fires and huddled. I read the biography of Ann Dunham, Obama's Mama. It was fascinating and I cried buckets at the end. I read about the beginning of the Civil War "1861", I cleaned the cupboards, I rearranged the linens and towels and we moved from the loft to the middle bedroom. This is because as I announced to my year younger husband - "We are too old to be climbing up and down the ladder". Someone younger will have to assume the bird's nest above our living room. An era has ended.

I am so thrilled that we have new beds at the cabin. The last two eighty year old beds were hauled away Monday amid protests of the guys, who were willing to take the mattresses but baulked at the iron bed frames and springs that weigh a ton. Dear reader, we bribed them. They went away happy. And we have a full size bed that makes the room look bigger and YOU CAN GET IN THE BED FROM EITHER SIDE! No more hurling oneself from the end of the beds to the center. We are now practically a bed and breakfast except for the service, which being me, is lousy.

So keep your fingers crossed that I can find my blog tomorrow (or if you hope I can't, fine, I understand).

Old Age Day by Day May 25, 2011

Yesterday my friend and I ate at a tea room, and then saw the Stein collection. It is such a huge show that we were exhausted, and sort of breezed through the last rooms, swearing to return another time. It is super well curated, and easy to follow the collecting, the places were the paintings resided and what happened to them. It is also chock a block with photos of the family and personal items. The family members come alive, and you feel you understand who they are from their choices. I will be back to see it again, but I bought the catalog so I could refresh my memory from yesterday. Art addresses all the senses and awakens them. I felt jolted into a new level of interaction with my environment and the people in it. I know I'm alive more fully when I've just seen some art.

My friend was talking about Vermeers she'd seen and where, and I remembered a show I'd seen in New York years ago - and there we were - excited, having that interior world called up. We discussed how the Netherlands with it's idea of separate houses for one family, caused women to be in these rooms, solitary, and able to reflect. And we recognized that feeling of inhabiting a room by yourself for even a few moments, without children or duty or obligation. So the room becomes your field and resonance chamber. What was a woman in a room without a task? What was a woman in a room with a window?

Art is glorious to see, but it's almost as much fun to discuss. My art buddies and I have had some of the most insightful and passionate talks of my life. Which leads me to be believe that art is central to who we are as human beings.

Old Age Day by Day May 24, 2011

My friend and I are off to see the Stein Collection show, in our Gertrude Stein frenzy. There will be some wonderful art, and it will be another love-fest for Gertrude. In the intervening week, I have read my two books about her, and am ready to discover more reading material. She is my very favorite author, and there is a joy in imagining her being more widely read because of these two shows. People tend to read books about her, not by her, but there will be some stawarts who plunge in, I'm sure. Her humor is the most delightful aspect of her writing for me, but I am in awe of her accomplishments in freshening up the English language and shaking us free of normal expectation and view of life. She made me see through new eyes. How many writers can you say that about?

So my buddy and I, who both wrote independent study papers on "The Making of Americans" in graduate school in the dark ages, though we were at different universities and didn't know each other until fifteen years later, discovered this synchronicity a few years ago, and have been enjoying discussing Stein ever since. We paltry few, we sisteren, we Steinians, we bellyians. Onward!

Old Age Day by Day May 23, 2011

Thus ends a very busy weekend for us. I even talked to by friend for an hour on the phone and briefly checked in with my daughter. Our granddaughter had gotten head lice from her preschool, and it took a week to get her well and clean the whole house and laundry everything. I managed to get by without my kids getting lice until the fourth child, who got it twice. But talking to my daughter reminded me that one of those times, my Uncle had died (the husband of my favorite aunt) and I had flown out to the midwest alone for the funeral and to spend a few days with my aunt. On a Sunday my head began itching and driving me crazy. I tried to comb out the lice. We were in a tiny town where the one pharmacy was closed that day. I was horribly embarrassed and didn't want to tell my Aunt. I went to a big family reunion potluck trying not to jump every time a louse bit me. I was in agony that night, but couldn't get myself to tell my Aunt. I left on the plane the next morning and was writhing in agony the whole flight back. I probably gave the passengers and crew lice. But I would have been even more mortified to tell them or have my flight delayed. When I landed, I couldn't wait to get to the store and doctor my head. Lice hurt! The treatment is awful, if you have long hair, and I did. I haven't thought about that incident in many years. My Aunt is long dead, and I've missed my chance to tell her and laugh. I was in my forties when this happened, and didn't have the confidence to confide in her. Now I probably would have called my cousin who owns a drug store in a nearby town and asked him to unlock his pharmacy, run in and pick up some medicine for me. But I was too humiliated back then.

Big torture comes in little packages. Ants, termites, chiggers, wasps and bees. We do a lot of fending off these creatures, and mainly they move on, we don't get to get rid of them. I'm certainly willing to concede that in the case of me versus the lice, they beat me real good.

Old Age Day by Day May 22, 2011

Last night we went to a party with my husband's lab at the head's house. It was to celebrate my husband's retirement and the graduation (Phd) of three other students. It was awkward, and we both hate parties, but we went with good will. I was determined to be friendly, but no one spoke to us beyond introductions for the first 45 minutes. It's the ageism thing. They think we are boring and not worth speaking to, and don't give us a chance. Finally, we began talking with a guy from the same state as my husband, and then a couple with a dog. Eventually, we found some people to chat with and made it through the party. We both had headaches when we left. The arrogance of the young is painful when observed through the eyes of people our age, people who have traveled, lived many different interesting lives, and actually know quite a lot. But unless it's a professor that they want a position with, they don't see us as worth their while. I'm sure I was the same. But it is painful. And boring.

We were relieved to leave, and watch Antique Road Show on TV. We're antiques, so it was appropriate. In our culture there generally is no striving for wisdom, and the young see nothing that the old can teach them. We are just not interesting. I am interested in them. Part of it is selfish, in that I can learn about my own kids and their generations that way. Part of it is I'm very social. And part is that I'm a writer, and writers are curious about other people, and how they speak and act and what they experience.

Finally, one woman, hearing I was a writer, actually asked my advice for a friend of hers who had an agent who couldn't find her a publisher. She seemed shocked that I had ideas and was helpful. We had a lively discussion for a while and I think she forgot about my age for a bit. I'm old enough to be some of these people's mother, but not their grandmother. Yet I got assigned the category of OLD AGE. I hate labeling, and kick myself when I find I'm doing it. Let this be a lesson for me yet again, not to assume anything about people but remain open and curious. Because it's tough to be on the receiving end of such superficial typing.

Old Age Day by Day May 20, 2011

There is something so safe and secure when I get home from grocery shopping and I know the refrigerator is stuffed and the pantry stocked and I will have a choice tomorrow morning about whether or not I eat Barbara's Shredded Oats. Tomorrow I could have raisin cinnamon bread or eggs, or my fave, scrambled eggs tucked in a tortilla. You would think I'd gone through the Depression in the 30's, the way my brain acts. I personally have never been deprived. Did I pick up this unconsciously from my Dad? He did go hungry. Is food a little teeny bit too important in my life? Well, yeah. There's that. It's good, perhaps, that I can find a spot of joy in such everyday routines. And my choices are healthy, for the most part. No candy or sugary baked goods, not much alcohol, just two bottles for tonight's dinner with my childhood friend and her husband. But why is it I feel safe? It's worth further exploration. But not now. I want to dust and vacuum and pretend the house is well cared for, because, since my friend lives in Florida, she'll never find out the truth. Well, there is only so much I can do before she arrives, so she will know that I live in a slightly run down old house with an out of control garden. She may even notice that the house needs painting badly and the shingles replaced. Unfortunately, it is the time of the year when there will still be ample light when she is here and for a couple of hours afterward. I have very dim lighting, but it won't save me today. Of course, the minute she arrives I won't care about any of the housekeeping issues, because I have a great deal of trouble keeping my attention focused on domestic tasks. I will be happy to see her, catch up, and relax. I could do that now, I suppose, but I do have my traditions.

Old Age Day by Day May 19, 2011

I finished Ann Patchett's memoir "Truth and Beauty" about her friendship with the poet Lucy Grealy. It is a heartbreaker, and also so complex and evocative and gorgeously written that it becomes what she hoped: a tribute to a remarkable person. But it is more it is a tribute to another remarkable person: Ann. It is the most honest and true account of two women's friendship that I have ever read, including all the jealousy, transference, envy, attempts to manage the other's mind, as well as the delight, comfort, history, and deep abiding love that two women can have for each other. She reminds us that friendship is dark as well as light, lost as well as found, cruel as well as kind. It had me impulsively searching through my own history of friendships, and finding little pockets of insight along the way. The book wowed me.

And this morning my dear, dear friend will come over, just back from seeing her dying brother far away, and I will be with her. We will sit in the sadness and talk, maybe even laugh, and I will be sharing a part of her experience right now, right here. This is an immeasurable gift, and I treasure it.