Eight Years and Many Events Later

Hello Dear Readers:

It has been almost eight years since my last post in 2011.  I was sixty-seven then and today, I am seventy-five.   Eight years in the life of a senior can be exciting, humdrum,  heartbreaking, painful, disappointing, plodding, loving or any combination of these seven things.  I hereby rule out exciting and go for the last six.

Humdrum:  the days go on, punctuated by heartbreaking events that you somehow slightly recover from but go on living to meet the demands of your life and your loved ones.  In my case, the humdrum was the everyday rhythm of going to work Monday through Friday, tolerating the ignominy of being older (for the most part) than the people who were my bosses and being told what to do, when to do it and where to go.  Not that I minded the instructions that much since I had the privilege of working with older people who needed my help to find places to live, see doctors, be rushed to emergency rooms or apply for benefits to conserve what little funds they had left.

Humdrum is doing housework, shopping for groceries, paying bills, worrying about bank balances.  Humdrum is picking up the daily newspaper and reading about the tremendous changes that convulsed our country and changed the face of the city of Denver, a city I have known and loved my whole life.

Humdrum is reading about our earth hurtling toward environmental disaster and knowing there is little I can do about it, except recycle what I can and drive less and continue to love and appreciate animals, loamy earth and towering trees and donate what little I can to the organizations that are striving mightily to protect our earth and its living things.

Heartbreaking:  the death of seven dear friends in the past five years.  First, Tom Holland.  My dear friend Linda's religious, outspoken, gruff, loving, moral husband.  Lost control of his car probably due to some medical event, crashed into a tree.  Died at the scene.

Next, Pat Corazza-McNamara-Nielsen.  My best friend since age 11.  Smart, capable, neurotic, afraid to be alone.  Her last marriage, miserable.  Developed Multiple Systems Atrophy (MSA), first thought to be Parkinson's, but far worse.  Her muscles failed, her vision faded, her speech turned into jumble.  Her last words to me "Jackie, this is so hard", as she quit her medications and died under hospice care in a nursing home.

Gil Hersh:  my friend since I met him at Brandeis in 1963.  Married (and divorced) from my from my dear friend, Nina.  Interesting researcher, business owner, charmer, intellect, father of five.  Dropped dead at kitchen table, eating pizza with some of his grandchildren.

Sheila Bugdanowitz:  Sheila had it all: looks, money, intellect, vitality, city-wide recognition for her role as Executive Director of the Rose Community Foundation.  Has a pain in her chest; goes to Rose Hospital, thinking it's a chest cold, dies of a blood clot in her lung.  Never any indication this could happen.

Sherry Mendelsburg:  Always smiling; always answering queries about her status with "all's well."  Played golf and tennis.  Great companion to her grandchildren.  Sherry worried about her step-sons contesting the will she had drafted to leave her money to her boys and grandchildren.  Told me that on phone Saturday night.  Found unresponsive in her condo on Monday, lived unconscious for four more days, possible brain bleed.  Died without waking up.

Sandy Waldman:  A great teacher whose students adored her.  Great sense of humor.  Utterly devoted grandmother.   Bitter, angry, jealous.  Refused to talk to me for months at a time because I had a man in my life.  Lifetime smoker; described cigarettes as "her friends."  Smoked while using oxygen.  Died of rampant lung infection.  Her burial site next to mine at Rose Hill.  I wonder how many years I will lie next to her before she concedes to talk to me?

Barbara Pepper:  My college roommate.  Married Allan, my ex-husband's best friend.  Both lawyers; both made lots of money.   Allan led a secret life of prostitutes, money to mistresses.  He died and left Barbara to pick up the pieces.  Barbara battled ovarian cancer.  She once said to me she would live till ninety but  died right after her seventy-fifth birthday.  As her son Robbie said to me:  "My mom never made her illness other people's problem."  Barbara was brave and accepting and grateful for her help in her condo in Vermont.

All but two of my dear friends gone.  I live with the emptiness of their phone calls and company and e-mails.  I live with the knowledge that my death could be around the corner.

Painful:  I wake up in the morning, bones creaking with arthritis, tired because my sleep is profoundly disturbed by the CPAP-breathing machine for sleep apnea.  I rehearse death each night when I go to sleep strapped up like a mummy, lying face up with a mask on my face.  I fall often, losing my balance as my dog pulls me over in her quest to catch a squirrel or rabbit.

Disappointing:  Lost all my money after the recession of 2008.  Bank took my little shopping center that was way over-priced.  Left me with my house in Tucson and $10,000.

Plodding:  Do the daily things necessary to survive on your own:  feed,walk, train the dogs. Buy the groceries, partially clean the house; pay the bills.  Visit multiple doctors for various conditions including glaucoma, sleep apnea, emphysema, chronic kidney failure, arthritis, dystonia.  Change CozyTurtle's tank often, turn his light off and on, feed him at night.  Worry about who will take him when I die.

Loving:  Lucia, Joe and Alicita's bright, dramatic, insistent, vibrant crazy seven-year old.   We have adventures together at estate sales, museums, movies, book stores, aquariums.   Occasional visits with Isaac, Sylvie and Elliott, Ephraims' three kids whom I love and relate to as I can with conversations and spending time together.

Loving my three dogs. Goldie Lox, my angel and love, who becomes my terror upon sighting of rabbits and squirrels.  Arthur, grouch in his old age and apt to bite if not controlled.  Annie, a whirling dervish dog who is loving but whose spinning, running, jumping, barking spirit needs to be tamed with lots of training.

Loving my three of my four sons at a distance as two are in California and one, in Colorado, is working constantly.  I see Joe for meals and visits; his priority in our relationship is my role as grandmother.  Spencer is my rock:  we exchange phone calls and messages almost daily.

Loving writing.  I have discovered the Lighthouse Writer's Group and take classes there.  I belong to a small writing group. To write again is to keep alive and still communicate some of my essence for the world to take or leave.

Shtekshikh (or for those of you who don't know Yiddish)-Houseslippers

As I slipped into my well-worn slippers this morning to clean the yard from the "presents" my dogs leave me first thing in the morning, I looked down at my slippers-my big toe  had poked up a hole through my right slipper and they slanted in funny directions as I walked.  I thought about how these old, misshapen slippers were really one of my best-loved garments, offering comfort when I wake up and again, at the end of the day.  I can't even bear to think that these slippers may soon have to be replaced.  It takes years to wear in a good pair of house slippers!

Slippers are worn by every culture in every part of the world.  What we know today as slippers take their origin from sandals and sandals in turn go back at least to ancient Egypt.  In European history, the mention of slippers occurs in England in the 15th century and refers to soft shoes that the foot can easily be "slipped" into, as opposed to boots and other footwear that needs to be laced, tied, etc.


So, even my grandparents had "shtekshikh" and I thought about my grandfather's old leather slippers and my mother's more fashionable ones-her Daniel Green "comfies" with room for the toes to stick out and my dad's stiffer leather slippers, that he actually wore far less than the boots he used as he tromped through the cattle pens on our farm.  I've noticed that most men are far more reluctant to wear their houseslippers than women.  Can somebody tell me why?


My son and his wife don't like people to wear their street shoes when they visit their home. So, they have placed Walmart bargain slippers at the front door for guests.  I am reluctant to "slip" these on-they are stiff, don't conform to my foot and I'm afraid I"ll break my neck in them.  So, at their house, I just 
"sock" it.  


What brings you comfort when you come home at the end of the day?  I believe, if you are a homebody ( and probably a woman) you slip on your "shtekshikh" don't you?  

A Poem A Day

I challenged myself to write a poem a day.  Some days are better than others, both in creativity and mood.  Here are a few samples:

A friend asked:
"How Was the Funeral?"

People hugged and signed their names
The seats were filled
The music played
There was some laughter
Elbows prodded
Necks craned
To see who else came.

Some looked older
Others still young
And children whose journey
Had just begun.

The Rabbi spoke
And family too
They said some wonderful
Things about you.

Tears were shed
The folks filed out
The pallbearers lifted
Their burden.

The grave was dug
So squared and stout
The coffin lowered with a creak
The dirt thundered down
In hollow sounds
To put you to eternal sleep.

And your beloved granddaughter wept
Because her heart was broken
Her tears and sobs more eloquent
Than any words that had been spoken.

Something lighter:

Cyber world
of tweets
And posts
and blogs

Fast food world
of sliders
and Grab n' Go

Love world
of Match.com
And winks.

Old slow world
I miss you so.

The Mailbox

I really used to look forward to the arrival of the mailman.  That was before I had to worry about bills and sorting through lots of junk mail to make sure I didn't miss any.  I'd get postcards from my kids if they were traveling; cards from cousins, photos taken by friends and best of all, once in a great while, a letter actually written by hand.  But that was long ago......Today e-mails replace the personal forms of communication so the mail is largely bills and ads.  So I have radically adjusted my excitement quotient when going to the mailbox and figure it's a good day if a magazine I actually ordered arrives, or if I get coupons that save me money at local restaurants.

But going to the mailbox today was a real downer.  I retrieved a magazine, one bill and a cellophane-wrapped packet of cards that looked like it might contain some good coupons.  So I ripped open the cellophane and at first, things didn't look too bad.  There was an ad for people 60+ for a 12-day cruise to the Caribbean, some things about furnace and floor cleaning, but it went rapidly downhill from there.  I WAS THE RECIPIENT OF TARGETED MAIL FOR OLDSTERS!

I kid you not--this is what followed:  I  could order a "hand-painted, fully sculpted holster and revolver replica inspired by the one John Wayne carried in his Classic Westerns OR I could "discover the best of times in Good Old Days magazine with a "free issue."

Then, things started getting somewhat depressing:  I  could "instantly take 10 to 15 pounds off" with "magnetic slimming panties"; order non-binding socks for my chronic foot problems; get "easy beautiful, affordable wigs and hairpiecess s"; and most promising of all (although I am not a man) I could call about the "Vacurect" vacuum erection device which is reimbursable by medicare and comes with a lifetime warranty!

It got worse as the cards starting asking me frightening questions:  "Do you have constant ringing in your ears?"; COPD?  chronic bronchitis? emphysema? asthma? back pain?  Offers followed: mechanical remedies for all these chronic conditions such as "gentle catheters", traveling oxygen, hearing aids and hearing aid batteries, life alert buttons, bathtubs with doors to step in, "Hoveround"power chairs and adjustable beds.  I could also qualify for a free blood pressure or a blood glucose monitor.  What luck, I thought.  This was starting to get good, something for free.

But the best was yet to come--the most ingenious device of all-the "Solution ComfortSeat" which helps you "if you are having trouble wiping" due to physical challenges such as arthritis, parkinson's, obesity, hemorrhoids, strokes, AND MORE.  What more could there be?  This ingenious device "allows users to wash themselves clean with the press of a button.  No plumber required!" (I didn't know I needed a plumber to stand by when I went to the bathroom, although I have known several obese persons who probably could have used one).

Then, just when I couldn't stand to see the next card, peace arrived-cremation for only $880.

Tomorrow is Sunday, for which I am very grateful.  No mail delivery.  Maybe ceasing mail delivery on Saturdays IS a good idea.

"The Looking of His Face"

It's been a very long time since I posted. Lots of changes in my life. Returned to Denver and my house; new job; new dog added (Summer, my white dog, passed away in December, 2009), significant other, gone. How does a 67 year old woman respond? Match.com, JDate, Senior People Meet, OKCupid, Chemistry.com, etc., etc.

My son Oliver suggested I write about seniors and dating. Some things are very funny if you don't cry. Other stories will come, but I thought it appropriate to start with this:

When my son Joseph was two or three years old, there was another little boy that he didn't seem to like. Joseph was a friendly kid, so this attitude about the other little boy was quite surprising. His Dad and I inquired as to why he didn't like this kid, to which Joseph promptly replied: "I don't like the looking of his face."

That honest and innocent statement made us laugh and has stayed with me throughout the years. It contains an insight about human nature that endures whether you are two years old or ninety-two.

Malcolm Gladwell wrote about this in his book, "Blink", where he asserts that humans often make a decision about somebody or something in the wink of an eye. We take in what we see and that first impression becomes something very hard to dispel. It is unconscious, but often the basis for a correct decision. However, because this is an unconscious process. the cultural values and prejudices that reside in our conscious mind often negate the unconscious decision.

This insight is probably applicable to the difficult process of selecting a person to communicate with on these dating sites. I have noticed how this process operates in me and obviously, in the opposite sex.

When I am given a "match" to check out, I won't respond to anybody that hasn't posted a picture. It is natural to want to see what you are going to get. When I peruse those gentlemen who have posted pictures, I find myself becoming more particular: looking at the faces before I read the profiles. Like everybody else on these dating sites, I want to find the person whose initial appearance appeals to me. But on second thought, that could be very wrong. I usually read the profiles that accompany the pictures and I am often surprised to find that the person I found homely or slovenly is a person I would really like to meet because he sounds like he has similar interests and abilities.

When I find somebody that appeals to me, I try to write an interesting e-mail that points out what about that person is appealing to me and why I think we would have something in common. More often than not, these lively e-mails go unanswered. So I have been asking myself, is it because these men (many of whom certainly don't look or sound like Prince Charming) don't like "the looking of my face."

This experience has saddened me. Very few people who are in the age ranges of 65-75 are still handsome or beautiful, the way we would hope they would be (with the possible exception of a Clint Eastwood or Meryl Streep). Yet, I find pot-bellied men, bald-headed men, men with canes, thick eyeglasses seeking "toned, beautiful athletic woman....." who is "sensuous, adventurous, passionate."

I saw a great question on one of these sites written by a younger woman and repeated by an older man: "where are all the real people?" Most of us are the real people who have made mistakes in their lives or have lost the loves of their lives unexpectedly. But our culture and values are still telling us to search for the beautiful people.

Oh well, guess I'll have to wait until that special man does "like the looking of my face"!

My Days

My days are a study in contrast. When I awake:

DogSongs

Ruff and rush through door

Scatter stones, flutter wings

Rabbit-scurry.  Morning.

When I drive to work:

The Unsung

Walk the paths

Drive the streets

Look around

Dirt and concrete

Weeds and cactii

Brick, adobe

These abound.

 

Occasional dog

Mother and child

Old lady pushing a cart

Group at bus stop

Trucks and cars

Signs and buildings

Relentless heat.

 

Behind the doors

Dark and shuttered

The old squirm

In their diapers

Waiting for some relief

From hunger, boredom

Pain and hopelessness

Their lives have come to grief.

Sign of the Times

Yesterday, I made my usual quick right turn and then an immediate left into the little shopping center where I pick up my morning coffee on my way to work.  I got a parking place right away, which felt great since it was 10 a.m. and already 95 degrees.  I needed that boost of an iced coffee.

I got out of the car and noticed that the three little outside tables and chairs were gone.  I decided it was too hot to sit outside.  I got up to the door of the shop.  A white piece of paper scotch-taped to the inside of the door:  "business is closed" was scrawled in hurried, crooked, printed letters.

I peered inside.  Tables, chairs, armchairs gone.  Display case, bins with coffee beans, serving counter, cappuccino machine, gone.  Some trash near the front door and some cabinetry at the back.  All that remained of the little coffee shop I had faithfully patronized for two years.  Usually, I'd run in, order a coffee and leave but sometimes, I'd steal fifteen minutes, sit down with my drink, do a little writing while inhaling the wonderful fragrance of the coffee being brewed and enjoying the friendly ambiance of staff and customers.

The owner of "It's A Grind" was a pleasant, dark-haired burly young man in his 30's who had tattoos up and down both arms.  I guess the tattoos mistakenly led me to believe he was an employee until I saw him training a new hire.  I always spoke briefly with him but never found out his name.   It was clear he was proud of his business.

Seeing that sign on the door told me that another set of dreams and aspirations was lying on the floor along with the small amount of trash left behind.  What you couldn't see, but only surmise, was the amount of time and money invested and lost.

As the owner of a small commercial building, I thought about all the work that went into this little venture.  Business plans, loan applications, investors being sought out.  Lease negotiations, meetings with contractors, architects and designers, equipment purchases.  Striving to meet health department regulations and nervously watching inspectors, training staff, developing and starting a marketing plan.  Finally, opening the doors.

Planning the new sign for your business is a big deal.  The sign has to meet city or county codes; it has to be properly installed and it has to stand out from the others because it is your calling card.  When a business closes, the big sign is usually left behind because it is attached to the building and becomes the property of the landlord.   

So the traffic continues to drive by and since the sign is there, people stop, only to be shocked by the little handwritten notice "business is closed".  There are lots of little signs like this all over America.  It's the sign of our times.