Wisdom for the Aged from Lolly Willowes

                                                   

    

 I continue to move through the house, thinning out a bookshelf here, a drawer there. As I was reading Sylvia Townsend Warner's Lolly Willowes, one passage really spoke to me:

She had lived for twenty-eight years in a house where there was no lack of cupboard room and a tradition of hoarding, so the accumulation was considerable. There were old toys, letters, stones of strange shapes or bright colours, lesson books, watercolor sketches of the dogs and the garden, a bunch of dance programs kept for the sake of the little pencils, and all the little pencils tangled into an inextricable knot; pieces of unfinished needlework, scraps cut out of newspapers, and inexplicable objects that could only be remembrances of things she'd forgotten.

                                    

Oh, my, how exceedingly accurate this is for me. Except I've been in this house for fifty years, not twenty-eight, and I never had dance programs with little pencils. If I had, I'm sure I would have saved them. And Lolly didn't have an accumulation of mysterious cords and chargers to deal with.

                                         

  

There was another passage I loved, quite zen-like--but I'm not likely to manage it:

It is best as one grows older to strip oneself of possessions, to shed oneself downward like a tree, to be wholly earth before one die. 

                                             

Aging Amaryllis

I'm always captivated by fading flowers and the changes in color and texture. They seem to age more gracefully than most people.

Some folks fight age for all they're worth--diet, exercise, dye, cosmetic surgery, makeup, denial. I, all too obviously, just succumb to nature, gravity, and my inner swamp witch.

After spending the first half of my twenties wearing uncomfortable clothes (heels, stockings, panty girdles, mandated by the prep school where I taught,) as well as makeup and coiffed hair (rollers and a hairdryer,) it was a relief to spend a summer wearing jeans and riding on the back of a motorcycle. And then to teach at a school where the dress code was quite relaxed.

And then to move to rural western North Carolina where there was no dress code. I had found my spiritual home.

And I'm still in that state of grace.

Note: who knows what the power situation will be for the next several days. Don't be surprised if I don't post.

 

Super Agers--Who, Me?

 Yesterday, my usual perusal of The New York Times introduced me to a concept of which I was not aware--Super Agers.

Super Agers are folks over 80 who remain cognitively healthy and still have good memories. Despite occasionally wandering into a room and then wondering what I was looking for, I think I still have a good memory.

The article identified strong social connections and an extroverted personality as contributing to the mental agility of Super Agers. Hmm. Does Facebook count? What about dogs and cats? Aside from John every day and Josie three times a week, quick visits from her folks,  and the occasional dinner with friends, my social life is pretty quiet--and I like it that way. 

And  it's too late for me to become an extrovert.

HERE  is an article about super agers. It's not the NYT one, as it's behind a paywall, but it's similar.

Ay, Law!

                                                    

A few years ago I read about an innovative way of helping caregivers understand the challenges faced by geriatric patients. It was a suit that forced the wearer into a stooped gait and added weights to slow that gait. There were gloves to limit digital dexterity, constraints to limit range of motion, goggles to simulate various problems with vision, ear muffs to deaden sound. 

The idea, of course, is to encourage empathy for geezer clients. I wonder how widely these are used. You can see one HERE.

When our old friends (he is our age; she is maybe ten years younger--a veritable spring chicken) were her for supper, we got to talking, as one does, of the challenges of aging. I began to tell them about the geriatric suit . . .

Then I realized--I'm in the suit!

Well, not entirely, But bad hearing and compromised gait are daily realities. My fingers still work on a keyboard, but my vision isn't as sharp as it once was.

Could be worse. And probably will be, before it's all over.

From a Member of the Silent Generation

                                                                                      

At the Easter Party this year (and last,) I sat on the sidelines as Hostess Emeritus and left the decisions and hard work to Justin, Claui, and a host of younger family and friends who have moved into the hosting role seamlessly.

It was such a pleasure to just sit and take pictures without having constantly to be on the alert for problems. Do we need more pork? Who will hide the eggs? Have the napkins run out? WHAT are those dogs doing now?

I also realized that I was now the type of rather wobbly, somewhat deaf partygoer that our late dear friends Paul and Grace had been. They attended the party well up into their eighties and beyond, assisted by kind neighbors. Everyone knew them—a local couple who had welcomed all the new people. And everyone wanted to have a word.

                                                     

As I sat in my chair near the barn, strategically located for taking pictures, various folks would stop by and chat a bit--especially folks I probably hadn't seen since last year. Funny thing--these days, the innocuous question “How are you?” especially when there’s an emphasis on the middle word, sounds a little to me like “What, still here?”

Rather than go into the saga of my funky right knee and my never-be-the-same left ankle, (not to mention the deafness which they can probably surmise from my repeated use of the word What?), I rather think I’ll start saying, “Not dead and I haven’t bitten anyone today.”

It was a wonderful, multi-generational gathering, and all the kids running about felt like hope for the future. 

My hope is that their future isn't a grim as current trends might indicate.

                                                       

Gifts of Age

                                                     

After putting it off for years, I finally took myself to the dermatologist to have a couple of suspicious spots looked at. 

"Gifts of age," she told me, after a biopsy revealed nothing sinister.  "Seborrhiac keratoses." Ditto for any number of little bumps here and there. I am blessed with gifts of age.

Her phrase, however, set me thinking about other gifts of age. Oh, sure, there's diminished strength, endurance, eyesight, hearing and many other gifts I'd just as soon not have. But there are other gifts of age that deserve appreciation.

There's an increased appreciation for little things like the smell of new mown grass, the flash of a yellow swallowtail against the spring green, the delicious cool of night air and the caressing warmth of the morning sun. Even simple things like scrambled eggs or sliding into bed between clean sheets are sensory delights.

I'd like to think too that another of my gifts of age is a philosophical tolerance. Increasingly, I find myself thinking, Not my circus, not my monkeys in reaction to some manufactured flap in the news or on social media.

Pronouns? Have at it. I'll do my best to honor your preferences. Lifestyle choices--clothing, hairstyles, body modifications--I'll nod, semi-appreciatively, and be glad I don't feel compelled to keep up.

I remember back when I was a teen, (that time when fitting in seems so important) one of my friends, who was very popular and attractive, confided that she looked forward to being an old lady so she could sit in a rocking chair and smoke a pipe.

That was never my ambition, but I do rejoice in the thought that I'll never wear high heels or panty hose again. 

                                                   

Fear of Falling

Back when I was very young and my grandmother was very old (a reasonably vigorous seventy-something,) it seemed that her friends were all too often falling and breaking a hip. And all too often the outcome was not good. Later I remember my grandmother fussing when the cat would get underfoot (as cats will do) and try to trip her.

And now here I am. But it's not so much the hip breaking that scares me--hip replacements seem to be pretty routine these days. No, after hearing that a friend fell, hit her head, suffered a brain bleed, ended up in the ICU, and is now in rehab (aka a nursing home,) I'm extra cautious. And then there's the FB friend slowly recovering from a brain injury caused by a fall. 

Dang! Both of these folks are considerably younger than I. 

When I had a bout of vertigo a year ago, I made the decision to use a walking stick anytime I was outside on uneven or slippery surfaces. I had already had several falls, due to my wonky knee and crummy balance so it seemed like a reasonable precaution. It felt weird at first but it's become second nature. 

And I yell at Jenny and Otter when they rough house around me.

Yes, I've become my grandmother. She died at 92 after a stroke but she never broke her hip.

 

Walking Each Other Home

We had friends over for dinner the other night and, after dinner, while the guys removed to the porch to smoke cigars, the ladies remained inside. We talked of quilts and gardens and then the talk turned to aging and related problems. 

 I've been struck at recent gatherings by how much conversation is inextricably tied to one's time of life. Though my friend is almost ten years younger than I, the conversation ranged from our own health and that of our friends to who is moving into smaller/more practical housing, how we see our own futures playing out, our widowed friends and how they are coping, Alzheimer's, cancer . . . and beyond.

It used to be a source of amusement, this predilection of the elderly to turn to the obituaries first, to catalog one's every ache and pain, to obsess, in short, about aging.

But now that I am one -- a senior citizen, a geezer, a golden ager, (yikes, those all sound awful! I don't mind being old but those labels suck) -- I digress -- now that I am of an age where many of my contemporaries are experiencing illness and loss, I realize the truth of Richard Alpert's "We're all just walking each other home."

Just as at any gathering of new parents, the talk will sooner or later turn to babies and their care and feeding, we who are aging have to figure out how to deal with the changes ahead or already present in our lives. We seek, not exactly role models, but some hints on how others are dealing with common problems in aging. We may not yet have experienced these problems, but reason suggests that sooner or later (if that dark fella Death doesn't get there first,) they will be our problems.

So we talk about it, preparing ourselves for the changes to come . . . getting used to the idea of age and loss . . . and walking each other home.  

Stirrings . . .

Yes, it's only early August. Fall is a long way off and we have weeks of hot weather ahead. There's still a bounty of summer fruit at the grocery -- peaches, cherries, blueberries, watermelon.  And our own tomatoes are finally ripening and there are tomato sandwiches to enjoy.

But. 

A rainstorm Wednesday night left cooler air behind as well as a spattering of early-turning maple leaves on the summer grass. The hay that will see our cows through the winter has been delivered and stored in whatever dry spaces John could find. Some of the garden is ready to plow under and sow in a cover crop. Inexorably, our thoughts turn to making ready for the cold months.

And I see a parallel to the stage of life in which I find myself. At seventy-five, I feel a sense of, not winding down, but winding up. It's not that I feel a diminishing but more that I'm aware that, sooner or later, an end is coming, and I'd like to be prepared.

Personally, John and I are in better health than we've been in a long time. But as we've both passed the age at which our parents died and as we've said goodbye to so many folks our age or younger, it's perhaps inevitable that these thoughts arise.

I don't find this depressing. On the contrary, it focuses the mind wonderfully on what's important, on living this  endgame time -- whether measured in days or months or years -- to the fullest.  

Being aware of and prepared for what's to come (as prepared as one can be for the unknown)  is almost a cozy feeling, like looking forward to a fire in the fireplace on the long winter nights, like knowing that there's plenty of food in the pantry and, rather than railing against winter, settling in to enjoy it. 

The Wabi-Sabi of Going to Seed

 

  

Do These Elastic Waisted Pants Make Me Look Older?

There's a fun little quiz over HERE -- 10 Things You Do That Make You Look 10 Years Older.  

Of course I took it . . . 

 I plead guilty to the elastic waist pants (trousers to you Brits) . . . but does it count if no one sees the elastic waist due to the big shirts I always wear?  (Yes, I know, it's really about being overweight and I plead guilty to that as well.)

Comfortable, non-stylish shoes (clogs) -- yep, that's me too. Non- negotiable. Travel clothes (Things that don't wrinkle) -- heck, that's pretty much my standard garb. I'm also a wearer of drugstore glasses. I'm hard on my reading glasses -- scratch them, lose them, break them. . . When the cheap glasses no longer allow me to read, I'll consider the pricey stylish frames at the opticians.

On the positive side, I don't wear my glasses on a chain around my neck; I don't wear wire-rimmed sunglasses; I don't wear animal prints (or any prints at all, come to think of it.) Nor do I wear a Speedo (as if!)

I don't travel with hard cover books, as a general rule. I love the way the Kindle lets me carry around a virtual library.  And I don't consider myself a Luddite -- Luddites don't blog or do Facebook. (I admit I don't have a smart phone or an I-Pad -- that's a matter of economics rather than fear of technology.)

So, if those ten things make me look ten years older, and I only do four of them, does that just age me four years, making me look a spry 74?

Don't You Hate It When...

It's been happening all too often -- I'm getting mail and phone calls obviously intended for my late grandmother . . . or someone much older than I. Yesterday's mail brought this large print solicitation from The Scooter Store, with a helpful (and FREE)  Personal Mobility Assessment just for me! I mean, it had my name right there. It said I could complete it on my own or with the help of my caregiver or family member.

Care giver! What I want is a gardener. And though my knees are creaky, the scooter isn't going to be a bit of help to me unless it has four wheel drive and a dump bed. 

Oh, wait -- we have one of those.

I'm just being cranky -- but I resent the assumption that because I'm 68, I need large print, a scooter, and may need my caregiver to help me decide stuff.

Then there was the phone call on Tuesday -- a woman with a charming, motherly-sounding voice wanted to know if I was taking my diabetes meds daily.

What? I said. Why would I do that? And she muttered something and hung up.

This wasn't a wrong number -- she called me by name.  Again with the assumptions --  a person in my age group may well have diabetes. I suspect that had I said, Yes, I take them every day, she would have been quick to offer me a better price on meds.

If I had a cane, I'd hit someone with it. Instead, I'll quote Dylan Thomas --

DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rage at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

As the old man in Monty Python's Holy Grail said, when they were trying to toss him on to the cart full of corpses. "I'm not dead yet!"

Romantic Times Recycled

The following is recycled from a post I did last year for the Romantic Times "Fresh Fiction" blog:

No Manolos, No Makeup, and the Romantic Interest is Bald

“She flowed into his arms and they stood silently for a moment: two middle-aged people, much encumbered by heavy winter outerwear and vintage emotional baggage, but, for the moment, in perfect harmony.”

So, I get the invitation to blog on Fresh Fiction and I accept joyfully, especially since the kind folks here at Romantic Times have named my recent release In a Dark Season “Pick of the Day” (5/25/08). I start checking out some past blogs and then I see the covers of featured books. Hmmm. Flowing hair, heaving bosoms, and more six-packs than a convenience store. Oh dear! This isn’t what I write – do they really want me?

Mind you, I have nothing against tempestuous heroines and hunky heroes – I’ve drooled my way through a Judith Krantz title or two before this. But when I began to write in 2000 – at the age of fifty seven – I’d already spent about ten years, looking around for role models -- older women who were aging in the way I hoped to. It seemed as if the media was crawling with gorgeous twenty-somethings and the occasional cute, feisty old lady and in real life there was a great middle ground of women trying desperately to give the illusion of being younger than they really were. I was looking for women who were unapologetic about aging -- un-lifted, un-dyed, and un-Botoxed. I was looking for women who didn’t feel defined by their age – women to whom age was irrelevant.

My Elizabeth Goodweather Appalachian Mysteries have as protagonist a woman ‘of a certain age’ -- not beautiful or even beautifully dressed -- but a woman in her fifties whose long braid of dark hair is shot with silver threads, a woman whose knees aren’t what they once were, and who wouldn’t know a Jimmy Choo if it stomped on her instep. (Wouldn’t feel it either, as she’s usually wearing hiking boots.)

Elizabeth doesn’t dwell on her age or her hot flashes or her weight or her graying hair – she just gets on with solving the mystery – traveling up and down the dark hollows and coves of her mountain county (Signs in the Blood), weaving her way through the quirky art scene of nearby Asheville (Art’s Blood), exploring the world of the Cherokee (Old Wounds), or deciding what to do about the man who wants to marry her (In a Dark Season). And yes, he’s balding.

Really, Elizabeth’s age is peripheral to the story – this is NOT “Geezer Lit.” But she is aging gracefully -- and my greatest pleasure is hearing from the many women who feel like she’s a friend they look forward to visiting every year.

My very favorite email was from a woman who wrote: “Elizabeth makes me want to stop dyeing my hair and be who I really am.”

Amen, sister!