Jackie Starr's A Senior

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

2011-05-24T08:48:00.000-06:00

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

2011-05-21T13:30:00.000-06:00

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

2011-04-23T23:33:00.001-06:00

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"

2011-04-08T17:38:00.000-06:00

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

2010-07-08T21:52:00.000-06:00

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

2010-06-24T19:37:00.000-06:00

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.

What Objects Tell the Best Stories in Antique Shops?

2010-06-05T12:15:00.000-06:00

Old Chairs? Pots and Pans? Books? Kitchenware? Paintings? Linens and Lace?

I love to amble down the aisles of all kinds of antique shops. Some shops are musty; the objects lie akimbo, dusty and forgotten and jumbled on shelves.

In other antique shops, it feels like you've entered a world of elegant rooms from the past. There are finely displayed antiques in beautiful old china cabinets alongside elegant diningroom tables and upholstered chairs. The bedrooms show heavy walnut beds with canopies and marble tables with pitchers and bowls used for sponge baths. Or you might find kitchen tables from the 1950's with steel legs, formica tops and chrome sides and matching chairs upholstered in plastic to match the formica on the table. You get to see lemonade sets or those wonderful metal tumblers that made cold drinks seem colder-my favorite colors were the red or purple ones.

In fine antique stores, the objects are labeled-to tell country or region of origin, when they were created, perhaps even who created them. But that is only part of the story. You don't know anything about the lives of previous owners, unless of course, the items are museum quality.

But in the jewelry cases of antique shops, I like to look at charm bracelets because they give a hint of the owner's past-where that person traveled or when she graduated high school or attended the senior prom or what her prizes or hobbies were. Then I wonder why such personal items ended up in a store instead of in the hands of people who loved and cared for her. Did she marry? Have children? Or did she lead a single life? Did she give up her own charm bracelet because she has repudiated her own past? Interesting questions to ponder.

Last week, I visited several antique stores with my son and daughter-in-law. And in each one, I gazed at the charm bracelets and was bothered by these questions. So I went home and retrieved the charm bracelet I have been keeping for at least forty years. I got it out and reviewed every object on it and recalled the memories each charm brought up.

There is the longhorned steer (trips to Texas with my father as he bought cattle), the armadillo (we saw them on the roads in Texas), a bicycle (for the hundreds of bike races I watched Oliver and Ephraim compete in), a squirrel (Ephraim's favorite animal was squirrels and he particularly loved the book called "The Adventures of Squirrel Nutkin"), the ship's lantern (for the numerous times we returned to my beloved New England after living there for five years), the pine cone I found in a little store in West Yellowstone Montana, a howling wolf that reminds me of the wolf dogs Oliver and Joseph raised, a dog and turtle because dogs have been my most constant companions and Cozy, my turtle, whom Spencer adopted in 1980 and who still hangs out with me.

There is a rowboat and oars I found after rowing down wonderful little streams in Michigan, and two charms from Mexico because I loved the trips I took down there with Eli, and a little boy charm, purchased when my first grandson, Isaac, was born, and finally, an old-fashioned, coal-burning stove that looks just like the one I watched my grandmother cook the very best food in the world on every Friday until her death at age 78.

There is still a little room left to hang some more charms. I think I'll find one that shows an open book because.....oh, well. You can guess that one. And I do hope that when I go, one of my kids will retrieve the bracelet and not let it end up forgotten, in some antique store.

Of Idaho Spud Bars and Little Red Pillows

2010-04-21T21:49:00.000-06:00

A little yellow suitcase sits in the basement: inside it, a little red pillow. Traveler’s gear for a child of long ago. If I open it, I hear echoes.

I also search for Idaho Spud Bars at the most rural and isolated places. You can't find them at your convenience store operated by a big chain or franchise. The bar hasn’t changed since 1909: the same shiny dark wrapping, same chocolate-coated, coconut-encrusted potato-shaped bar with yummy, pillowy, light chocolaty marshmallow inside, created to mimic the famous Idaho spuds. They melt in my mouth. They comfort me.

I used to travel with my mother and father when my dad went to Wyoming to buy cattle.

Napping quietly on the little red pillow in my mother’s lap, I’d awaken when the car stopped in front of the ramshackle grocery store with its towering roof-top sign, Hell’s Half Acre, held up by the devil himself, with his pointy ears, pointy beard, pointy rake and his pointy red boots.

We arrived at the scariest place in my world: a huge breach in the earth, a hole hundreds of feet deep with caves, ravines, frightful skeletal rock formations and a flat ominous bed at its bottom with the bones of buffalo and stone arrowheads.

The only thing separating me from certain death was a flimsy wire fence. My dad would laugh and yell yoo hoo, his echoes bouncing back to me, until I too yelled yoo hoo. My mother didn’t laugh; didn’t yell. Hung back. Till we got returned to the safety of the grocery store, a coke, and an Idaho Spud Bar.

Hell’s Half Acre, the emptiness of vast prairies with sudden rainstorms, old, cold hotel rooms, isolated country roads. My father laughing, battered felt cowboy hat on his head, disappearing on horseback through the prairie or into crowded, smoky bars or scary-looking ramshackle ranch houses. He, always smiling, my mother grim, frightened, angry, occasional tears.

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Life is like that.

Snippets

2009-10-05T07:21:00.000-06:00

I often am inspired to write little snippets of poetry (? or whatever else you prefer to call them) on the inspiration of a moment. Here are two:

Monsoon (or Lights Out)

The thunder rolls in

Baritone scales

of different tones and intensities,

A huge pianist

With strong and determined fingers

While the raindrops plink

In the treble notes of a harp

Their rhythms and tones

Altered by the whimsy

Of the wind, a big tuba

Who blows their fragile notes around

While the crickets

Silly fiddlers,

Keep up their steady

Monotone

And I compose by a quartet of candles.

Walking the Dogs

Squeal-creak of swing

Laughter of child

Smile of Mother

Birdsong in park

Morning.

Of Sticks and Stones and Needles

2009-09-16T21:08:00.000-06:00

When I am walking in the desert with my three dogs, I don't dare take my eyes off the ground directly in front of me except to allow myself a quick glimpse of what the terrain is doing a few feet ahead of me. My vigilance is occasioned by the presence of things very dangerous to dogs-rattlesnakes, Colorado River toads, gila monsters, scorpions, jumping cholla and other assorted cactii, mesquite bushes with sharp needles, lifeless bodies of mice and birds and the detritus of humans- principally shards of glass.

This makes the desert sound like a joyless place and most of the time, I find myself regretting that I am not back in Colorado, with the "green, green grass of home." But every so often, if I allow myself to relax my vigilance, I find amazing things that fill me with the wonder and joy that only nature can occasion.

There is a park several miles from where we live that offers the best of both worlds-lush green grass that the dogs can roll in, and miles and miles of the La Canada wash, a dry river bed that floods in huge downpours. It hasn't rained that much in Tucson this year, so the wash has been relatively dry, its soft sands and dirt a pleasure for the sensitive paws of three dogs. It contains hidden treasures that the dogs and I enjoy every time we walk through it.

There are tiny, tiny lizards that look just like little sticks, except they balance on legs the width of a human hair. McGuire, my Brittany, spots them first. He stands stock still and stares and I stop and stare too. The little lizards usually freeze; little eyes watching us carefully until they decide to make a run for it and then, before you know it, they have totally disappeared under a shrub or bush.

Then there are the little brown pebbles, who sit among the other stones until approached, at which point they hop quickly away, little horny toads who have just had their sunbath interrupted. Arthur, our little dog, is totally delighted when one of these little stones decides to jump.

Tiny ground squirrels dig little tunnels up and down the wash, popping up for an instant then disappearing before Summer, my lovely white Australian-Shepherd-Great Pyrenees mix, can even get her nose down to sniff into these mysterious holes.

The quail are lots of fun. These birds, whose heads are topped off by rounded feathers that look like the hats ladies wore 60 years ago, bob up and down, making humming, cooing sounds as they scamper through the bushes. If we disturb them, they flutter about a foot off the ground and land in a group of bushes just a few feet away. These birds are principally ground-dwellers; they eat seeds and insects. I guess they are the desert "streetsweepers."

Coming home a few weeks ago after one of our walks in the park, I spotted what I thought was a small, dead rattlesnake stretched out in the pebbles alongside the driveway. I lobbed a little stone at it and it didn't move. I got the dogs out of the car and into the house, put on my gardening gloves and prepared to grab the snake and dispose of it. It would have gone well, except for one thing: the snake had vanished. So now, the vigilance I exercise on walks in the desert has been extended to stepping out of my door and into the front or backyard.

Reading the Obituaries

2009-08-02T15:34:00.000-06:00

On a daily basis, I turn to The Denver Post to check the obituaries. This habit began long ago when I contacted my aunt (who herself was the subject of an obituary in the 90's) to ask why she hadn't notified me that a somewhat distant cousin of our large extended family, had passed on. She shocked me with her reply "what's the matter with you-don't you know you are supposed to read the obituaries every day yourself." Since being chastised rather harshly because of that innocent question, I have been hooked on Denver's obituaries ever since.

You might well ask (or wonder), what does she get out of the obituaries? Isn't that practice a little morbid? My answer is "I get a lot out of reading the obituaries and no, it is not morbid, death is a fact of life." Also, being out of town allows me to express my sympathies when necessary, to family members whom I know that have lost a loved one.

Take today's obituaries for example (Sunday, August 2, 2009). I come across one very familiar name "Leona 'Lil' Averch" and "Marijean Frickel" an unknown name, but possibly related to somebody I do remember.

Lil Averch's obituary says "arrangements pending." However, her name sets my mind to whirling. She was the wife of one of my Dad's friends and arch-business rival, Meyer Averch. Meyer was a heavy-set blustery man with a big red face, whose face got redder every time he and my dad argued over the price of cattle my dad should be paid by Meyer for being sent to Meyer's slaughterhouse, Averch Packing. I remember Meyer and Lil, dressed up together for fancy fundraising dinners; I remember their fancy house in the "better" part our our neighborhood and I marvel at the fact that she has managed to live so long when my mother, her contemporary, has been dead since August 5, 1975. I also recall that one of Meyer's sons came to my house to pay his respects when my dad passed away in 1989. That in itself, was a gesture of profound respect for a longstanding relationship.

So seeing Lil Averch's name brings up a whole host of memories, some funny, some not so pleasant (i.e. that my dad was the instrument of slaughter for thousands of cattle so we could all eat beef, my dad and Meyer in their perpetual argument, my mother long dead).

Marijean Frickel is not a name I recognized, but I scanned her obituary and sure enough, she is listed as the wife of Ron Frickel. I gasp. We lived across the street from Ron and Ardie Frickel in 1967-1970, on a bucolic rural street in Lakewood, Colorado where our first two sons, Oliver and Joseph were born.

The Frickels were lovely neighbors. They had two beautiful little blonde daughters and the

thing I remember most was Ardie's big role in the first fundraisers ever for Public Television. She dressed up as Big Bird so Channel 6 could do fundraising for Sesame Street. I was so impressed by Ardie's enthusiasm and her commitment-after all, I was the mother of two little boys and could hardly manage to get out of the house and here was Ardie, running around as Big Bird.

My mind spins again: why did Ardie and Ron divorce (or had Ardie passed on)? They seemed like such a happy couple. What has happened to those beautiful little girls?

Obituaries: the reality of the present, reminders of our past, providing emotional moments or memories that always live with us and can be retrieved in a second with a glance at a familiar name. My aunt was right after all.

A Jar of Buttons

2009-06-14T09:10:00.000-06:00

Yesterday, I bought two jars of buttons in an antique shop. My intention is to use the buttons to decorate cards and bookmarks that I am making. When I opened the jar and spilled out the contents (hundreds of buttons cascading across my coffee table), lots of thoughts tumbled around in my mind and so did many sensations.

You would expect the sensations to be those of touch (the different textures of the buttons) and sight (the many different colors and shapes), but ever so subtle smells wafted out of the jar too.

I caught whiffs of perfume in the jar and mingled odors that reminded me of how my mother's clothes smelled in her closet and dresser drawers-good smells of perfume, bath powder and sachets.

It was a real revelation-here was a jar of buttons collected by an unknown woman that revealed what kinds of clothes she wore, (big buttons for coats; plastic buttons for old-fashioned housedresses, men's shirt buttons, etc) what colors she preferred, what perfumes she used and that her husband wore lots of dress shirts. You could even guess at her age from the styles of buttons in the jar. She was obviously a thrifty person, saving hundreds and hundreds of buttons. There were even left-over needles and some buttons with many different-colored threads in them, suggesting they were used and re-used.

I found it very interesting that in one way or another, we all leave little tracks of ourselves behind, so often so unintentionally.

A Different Point of View

2009-06-05T18:31:00.000-06:00

I have been feeling sorry for myself because, out of economic necessity, I decided to stay in Tucson for most of this summer to work rather than head back to Denver as I usually do to spend the summer with lots of friends and family.

Many retired people (or people who thought they were about to retire) have found themselves in this same unexpected position of continuing to work, going back to work and/or cutting way back on expenses in order to survive the effects of this recession which, for most of us "baby boomers", is the most serious one we have ever experienced.

Shortly after my decision to spend the summer in Tucson, I saw a headline in a magazine (I think it was "Time"), which said something to the effect of "Your job is your most important asset". That article was change number one in my point of view. While I have valued my job as a geriatric care manager from the day I started working , my job was something I loved and got to do, rather than something I had to do. Now suddenly, I felt profoundly lucky to have this job and it went from loving to do it to also having to do it. Lucky me... I often think of how many people would love to have my job.

Next, I have been feeling sorry for myself, missing the nice green grass of home and the wonderful scenery of the Rocky Mountains. Mostly, I miss the great 235 acres of dog park literally at my back door in Denver. The dogs would be overjoyed to be there, splashing in the creek and running on its sandy shores, but they say "dogs live in the present", so the truth is that they are not actively missing that wonderful place as much as I am.

This morning, after the chaos of my freezer and refrigerator completely shutting down and then rushing to dress for work and finding my car battery totally dead, I took a few minutes to sit in the front of our home here in Tucson (first time I've done so this year) to wait for AAA to come jump-start my battery. As I sat there, a slight breeze came up and I glanced up from the "to do" list I was writing to behold the beautiful scene you are looking at. Wow, I thought. I've been here for seven months, and never did sit down to look at my current environment from a "different point of view." So here it is, leafy mesquite tree, desert plants in full bloom and healthy cactus, all this in my front yard.

Next time you walk out your front door, take a moment, and see if you too, can come up with "a different point of view."

The Regulars

2009-02-06T19:39:00.000-07:00

While driving to work, riding my bike or just walking the dogs, I have always seemed to come across folks I think of as "the regulars", people I encounter on a fairly steady basis while undertaking one of my usual activities. My regulars are not people I know, only folks that have become a familiar part my landscape and play an active role in my imagination. The regulars give me something to look forward to and something out of the ordinary to ponder. Today, I wanted to share some of my Tucson regulars with you.

We were driving from our home through long stretches of desert road that, five years ago, contained little traffic. Out of the blue, on a blistery hot day I saw a woman walking down the side of the road. She carried a parasol, wore a large straw hat that obscured her face, was wearing a long skirt, worn knee-high leather boots and a rabbit-skin cape, which draped her back. She looked like an apparition-the kind of figure you see in Western movies walking resignedly alongside the wagon train. "Hot dog," I thought to my self, "the Old West is really still alive out here".

Coming home from our errand, but still in the city limits, we saw Delta Dawn again. She had walked about ten miles in the few hours we saw her. Several days later, we were with friends on another stretch of the same road and there she was again. Our friend said "Oh, there goes Delta Dawn." Intrigued, I asked how she knew her. She replied that she didn't know her at all, but had knicknamed her because of the song "Delta Dawn, what's that flower you've got on, is it a faded rose from days gone by......"

Five years later, I still see Delta Dawn. I estimate that she easily walks twenty-four miles, round trip, most days. Is she living in the past, mourning a lost lover like Miss Haversham in Dicken's Great Expectations or does she have an allergy to the sun, doesn't own a car and is too proud to ask for a ride? I don't want to know the answer; I'd rather have my fantasies.

Then, there is the very colorful older gentleman who regularly walks along my route to work. He wears a big red bow tie, sport coat, bermuda shorts and dark dress shoes with socks. (A few weeks ago, it was cool and rainy and he had on red and white striped tights under those bermudas!) My fancy leads me to think he is a brilliant, retired professor who walks to take his daily regimen and to escape from his wife, who nags on and on since he is now home all day.

My third regular is one of the dirtiest, shabbiest people I have seen in my life. He is a young man, probably in his early thirties. His hair is matted, his skin is caked gray with dirt, his pants are an indescribable collection of stains and his jacket is torn and shredded. He carries his belongings in about ten plastic bags, which he arrays in a circle when he sits on the steps outside of a bagel bakery, which is where I usually see him. I have never seen him ask for a handout.

The other night I stopped at a Walgreens near his usual haunt, and he stepped in line behind me. Unfortunately, his odor was indescribable. He bought one bottle of 7-Up and about twenty-five small tea lights. I realized he probably sleeps in dark alleys or other scary places and the tea lights are his version of sitting by a campfire.

Then, there are the times when you quit seeing the regulars and you wonder what happened to them.

For thirteen years, I rode my bicycle around Cherry Creek Reservoir in the Denver area and up until the last three or four years, I would see the same couple drive their older model car up to the parking area which bordered the lake, take their miniature chocolate brown poodle out of the car and go for a long, long walk. We never spoke, but always waved to one another. I thought of the man as "The Captain" because he wore a sea captain's hat every single day.

Then, one day and the next day and the day after that, the Captain, his wife and the chocolate poodle were gone. I still think of them to this day.

When they quit appearing, I missed them and wondered whether their dog had died or something had befallen one of them. My landscape shrunk a lot the day they failed to return.

Separate Homes for the Holidays

2008-12-26T13:49:00.000-07:00

For many individuals who were married in the 1960's, divorce became an all-too common occurrence by the 1980's. Women's liberation, men who set their sights on unlimited earnings or men who failed to earn enough to support their families, all contributed to this trend. Add to this the increased emphasis on sex and the near-glorification of promiscuity that led to some people feeling like failures if they hadn't had more than one sexual partner, and the stress on marriages brought many to the breaking point.

What broke, though it was hard to see at the time, were the hearts of the children whose parents became embroiled in these situations. Some of the wounds have been repaired through counseling or the insight and understanding that comes with adulthood. But many families will never be the same. Ours is certainly one example.

I, as a parent and grandparent, have had the events of the 1970's and 1980's, come home to roost in 2008.

When my divorce became final in 1984, I had four sons. The eldest had already largely separated from the family and gone to live in various places from the age of 14 on. For the other three, I did what I could to keep them together, but the jealousies that developed between my third and fourth son (who were six years apart), eventually led to son number three going to live with his father.

My second son and youngest remained at home and built a close bond that has survived, though now somewhat weakened by marriage and geographical distance. Divorce necessitated my working full-time, so my youngest lost not only the companionship of his father but the wonderful times that a non-working mother can share with her children every single day.

So today is the day after Christmas and I ponder these events and the differences between families who stayed together and those who came apart. It is obvious that each of my sons is working very hard to build his own traditions and his own lifestyle.

I am waiting and hoping for a phone call from my son who is here in Tucson, visiting his father's home with his wife and three children.

As for my other boys, one is in three feet of snow with his wife and three dogs high up in the Colorado mountains; the other is in Los Angeles with his wife and three dogs and the fourth has decided never to talk to me again, but he too is somewhere in Los Angeles.

It has been many, many years since we all were together for the holidays. I remember those days of little boys in pajamas with feet, each trying to decide which gift to open from their pile of eight packages for Chanukah (one for each day) and my parents and extended family coming to eat the traditional potato latkes and brisket.

I had hoped to relive such memories with my grandchildren, but for some families, even the superglue of a mother's love and regret can't put us back together again.

Oops

2008-11-14T01:30:00.000-07:00

I just looked at my little box of toothpicks. It says "made in China". I guess that's the way of the world and a long, long way from Minnesota and Maine, but maybe we're saving a few trees.

This Humble Little Toothpick

2008-11-13T23:45:00.000-07:00

We are surrounded by things, things that make life easier, more decorative, sometimes even things without which our lives would be pretty unbearable. Autos make life easier; beautiful materials on drapes and bedspreads add color and warmth; living day to day without indoor toilets is pretty much unimaginable to those of us who are younger than ninety.

I sometimes think about all these things in my life-who invented them, designed them, built them, all these things we take for granted?

As I was engaging in my daily dental floss and toothpicking routine, I gazed at my little white round toothpick. I could see variations in the color of the wood and I got to thinking about how this little toothpick, one of two hundred fifty in a little box that can be bought for $1.00 (give or take a few cents), came to be. What kind of tree gave up its body, its leaves and its

view of the sky so that I could clean my teeth with its remains?

Turning to the trusty internet, I found excerpts from a 2007 book "The Toothpick", by Henry Petroski, a professor of civil engineering and history at Duke University, who chronicles the history of this little item and in this process, shows the reader how the history of the toothpick is a paradigm of American manufacturing from idea to invention, mass production, marketing, and ultimately, success and failure in a global economy.

Archaeologists analyzing the skulls of Neanderthal man found grooves in their teeth and concluded that once man started eating meat, he needed something to get those annoying shreds out from between his teeth and chewed sticks, bone, ivory, shells, bird claws or walrus whiskers to remove them. Graves in Italy and Switzerland were found with bronze tooth cleaning devices. By the 17th Century, toothpicks were a luxury item, made from precious metals and set with gems. While the wealthy used these exotic toothpicks, the common man generally whittled a stick to care for his dental needs.

But one Charles Forster, a New England chap who worked in his uncle's import-export business in Brazil, noticed that the natives had beautiful teeth and attributed them to their use of handcarved toothpicks. Mr. Forster decided he could mass produce toothpicks and make a fortune. He went back to New England, bought the rights to an invention that was capable of mass producing them and by 1870, he was churning out millions of toothpicks in one day. (One log can produce one million toothpicks.)

But nobody was buying his toothpicks, as sticks were still readily available to be whittled. So Mr. Forster went to Boston, hired Harvard students to dine at elite restaurants and had them demand wooden toothpicks at the end of their meals. If none were available, the diners threatened not to return. Restaurateurs had to comply with customer demands and started buying Mr. Forster's toothpicks when he visited the restaurants to sell them the next day. The rest, as they say, is history.

The uses for toothpicks have evolved. The humble wooden toothpick still cleans our teeth. But we have fancy plastic toothpicks with which to stab hors d'oeuvres, wooden toothpicks with little papers hats on top to keep sandwiches together and hold olives in martinis and toothpicks are used to test baked goods for perfection before removing them from the oven.

Alas, there is only one toothpick factory, Diamond, left in the United States. American toothpicks are made of cleaned white birch but today, the cost of manufacturing them in the U.S. almost exceeds the sales price so the other brands we see are made in China and Southeast Asia of trees not as sturdy or white as the birch tree.

They say you can see the whole world in a grain of sand or maybe, in this case, in the humble toothpick.

Driving Along in the Country

2008-11-10T14:41:00.000-07:00

Somewhere along Colorado Highway 50 between Buena Vista and Gunnison, I came across the following sign:

"For Sale

400 Acres

Girten Land and Cattle Company"

So I wrote the following:

Dear Mr. Girten:

Can I buy the gold in the Aspen trees?

Can I buy the green in the new spring grass?

Can I buy the silver shadows of the branches

on new-fallen snow or

The diamond drops of dew on the morning's

First sunflower?

What are they worth?

Dear Ms. Starr, he replied:

A Glimpse and a Sigh

As your car goes hurtling by.

Public and Private Places in Your Home

2008-11-08T12:12:00.000-07:00

I once read that things in your home are superfluous if they don't have particular meaning to you. I have tried to take that advice to heart: in my livingroom, the items on display on my large coffee table and on the end tables are special gifts, items that I have purchased at a particularly memorable time and place, family photo albums and books published by my daughter-in-law and son. Of course, you have to make allowances for the things that add a decorative touch or bring some kind of union (in color or shape or kind) into the chaos.

On my bedroom dresser, there is an oval mirror (a wedding gift from 1964) that displays special little decorative things, each with a special meaning or message.

These are my "public spaces." If people inquire as to the item or its origin, I'm happy to explain.

Now, let's go to the "private" places. In the movies, there are frequent scenes depicting a house guest who is in the bathroom, opening up the medicine cabinet to quell his/her curiosity about their hosts or to look for an aspirin, antacid or band-aid. In my book, these are violations of privacy; something we may suspect happens, but don't necessarily take that seriously.

If you have a nightstand with a drawer in it, open it. You may be quite surprised. I decided to do just that today and was surprised by what the contents reveal about me: "Snore Relief", a leg cramps supplement, Tylenol PM, nail files, yellow markers, a collection of paper clips, a plastic dog my kids had many years ago, a collection of buttons that go with clothing long discarded, an old hand brace for dealing with tennis elbow, a note from a friend written in 1984 and ahem, some things even too private to mention.

While I felt surprised, I shouldn't have. As both a senior move manager and a geriatric case manager, I have come across this same thing time and again-nightstand drawers with the most personal of things, some ancient and faded, others still necessary to get you through the night.

It's up to you: are you interested in discarding some of this stuff or at some level, is your nightstand drawer still one of your most private places. Mine is.

HALLOWEEN

2008-10-26T20:03:00.000-06:00

Halloween. A holiday that almost everybody in the U.S. recognizes in some way. Your doctor's office may have spider webs strung across the receptionist's desk and treats in a plastic pumpkin; your neighbor may have three pumpkins on his doorstep; the family next door (who have several young children) may sport blown-up ghosts that light up and wriggle when the sun comes down. And of course there are the haunted houses-your newspaper probably has a special insert featuring haunted houses at churches, community centers or malls. Then, there are the ready-made costumes that you can buy for yourself or your children, many at a hefty price.

I still enjoy Halloween. Yes, I have three pumpkins, two scarecrows, one witch candleholder on my front porch and inside, a stuffed witch grins from the old antique radio, alongside a pumpkin candle and a few ceramic ghosts.

I will go to Costco tomorrow and buy two huge bags of candy. And on Halloween night while the chili is simmering on the stove, I will answer the door and fill the baskets of the goblins, ballerinas and Star Trek characters who come to my door.

But now that I'm a senior and my grandchildren live far away, Halloween has become bittersweet.

From the time I was a child until my own sons were in their teens, our family made an annual trek to the Mahan's farm-a magical place on Highway 34 in Greeley, Colorado, across the road from my dad's cattle feedlot. There, amidst ducks and geese swimming in small ponds, horses in the barn and cattle in their pens, were HUGE piles of pumpkins, colorful ears of Indian corn and bales of hay. In front of the old farmhouse, relaxing on a swing, were the dummies-dressed no doubt, in the old clothes belonging to Mr. and Mrs. Mahan, who presided over their farm, its animals and fields until well into their late eighties.

I've never known whether the Mahan's Halloween enterprise was a moneymaker or done out of out of the joy of giving to young families, but that is of little consequence. What matters is

the memories these wonderful people created for thousands of people.

I can still feel the anticipation my children felt when we finally drove our car up the rutted road of the farm. The kids could hardly wait to jump out of the car and rush headlong in those pumpkin piles to find the perfect pumpkin (however, their choices were limited by one rule we always followed: you had to be able to carry your own pumpkin over to the old wooden scale to be weighed by Mr. Mahan, so your pumpkin was both a triumph in design and proof of your ability to carry something REALLY heavy if you REALLY wanted it).

Mr. Mahan's strong, gnarled, chapped hands would weigh pumpkin after pumpkin, while Mrs. Mahan took your cash and made change out of an old metal box. And they always had a special greeting for us and sent best wishes to my dad, who could no longer accompany us on our annual pumpkin trek.

On the afternoon of Halloween night, we would carve the pumpkins, christen them with special names, scoop the seeds and roast them in the oven and set them out on our front porch. The kids would dress up in conglomerations of old cowboy hats, sheets, big shirts, fake beards, old canes, a little face makeup and head out to the neighborhood without the accompaniment of hovering, worried parents. It seems as though they always came home quite cold, usually with the year's first snow frosting their fake beards. We would have hot chocolate with some of the treats gathered in old pillow slips. (I would always find petrified candy at the back of their closets sometime the next spring-still in the old pillowcases).

I guess I savor those memories like the kids savored their treats for months and months. But my memories don't grow stale like old candy; they are still very much alive for me.

Landmarks and Messages

2008-07-29T22:47:00.000-06:00

The other day I was driving from Denver to Pitkin, a very small town outside of Gunnison, Colorado where my son and his wife live, when I came across my own personal landmark, new tree sprouts growing out of a dead tree whose trunk was split in half by lightening. I make this trip frequently and the first time I noticed this unique sight, I took a photo of it because it spoke to me of how life can spring anew from things long dead. Whenever I make the trip, I look for this landmark to see how it changes with the time of day and each season. Passing this tree marks the highlight of my four hour drive.

The dictionary defines "landmark" several ways,

one of which is "a conspicuous object on land that marks a locality". I got to thinking about the landmarks I look forward to as I travel and realized that the ones most important to me define emotional localities, rather than just physical ones. Perhaps the best thing about these emotional localities is that they don't change with the years.

When my children were young, we had a place in the mountains outside of Denver and we traveled there almost every weekend for many years. During our trip, we would pass an old house by the side of the highway that was in an obvious state of decay and had probably been vacant for years. The unique thing about this house was that it was painted a bright blue.

As we drove past, we used to tell each other stories about the little blue people that lived in this little blue house. To this day (and it has been many years since we told our blue people tales) I cannot drive past that house without smiling as I hear my children's voices talking about the little blue house and its occupants.

When I was a child, there was a Denver fire station at the base of a viaduct that extended from our community to downtown Denver. It had "DFD" painted above its large open doors. My cousin explained to me that DFD stood for "De Fire Department." The building is long gone now; the viaduct has been rebuilt, but each time I make that drive from downtown to West Denver, I chuckle when I think of my cousin's well-intended explanation of the initials.

I hope I can continue to compile special landmarks as I journey through life. What are your favorite landmarks? I'd love for you to share them with me.

There Goes the Ashpit

2008-07-04T14:36:00.000-06:00

The Fourth of July was a day the kids on our block always looked forward to. They knew they could count on my Dad to provide us with a fireworks show in our very own backyard. One year, we had the best (and last) show in our backyard.

In the early 1950's, there were no police patrolling the streets to catch and ticket fireworks "offenders"; no ads on TV (hardly any TV come to think of it), by well-intentioned fireman showing horribly maimed hands and faces of those who had been injured by fireworks. Instead, there were fireworks stands all over the city-I think the one we went to was somewhere near Sloan's Lake Park in Denver or in its neighboring suburb of Edgewater.

My dad would take me to the stand where I would pick out "worms" (my favorites), sparklers and brightly colored cylinders promising marvelous explosions. Then, we would go back home and have a family picnic in our backyard.

We had old wooden picnic benches and a table covered with a new coat of green paint (it was my grandmother's ritual to paint the outdoor furniture green every other summer). We would bring out an oilcloth tablecloth; old dishes and best of all, the summer metal glasses-they were ice cold to the touch and came in many colors-green, gold, blue, red, purple. After a dinner of hamburgers cooked on the grill, home-made french fries, kool aid and lemonade in the metal glasses, and homemade applesauce for dessert, my dad would invite the kids next door to come over for fireworks.

First we started with the worms. They were cylindrical tubes that you lit at one end-they burned and curled their way slowly along the sidewalk in our backyard, leaving marks that lasted for years. Next, as it grew dark, Dad passed out the sparklers. We kids twirled and circled in ecstasy as the sparks flew and made ephemeral designs in the air. Then, the folding chairs were lined up; Dad warned us all to move back and he proceeded to his show-fireworks launched from our ashpit.

We oohed and aahed as each salvo went up in the air-colored sparks showered down on us, noise filled the air and the little kids clamped their hands over their ears.

One year, having gone through the same routine, my dad reached his crescendo: he set up a huge firecracker, lit it and backed off quickly. Suddenly, a deafening kaboom filled the air, followed by dust and crashing. The lit firecracker fell into the ashpit and in an instant, reduced it to a pile of rubble and bricks. My grandmother cried, my grandfather vowed that never again would my dad bring fireworks home and the boys in the neighborhood laughed with surprise and delight. From then on, we became spectators at the fireworks shows launched by professionals, but the year of the ashpit lives in my memory as the best 4th of July ever.

P.S. For readers of this blog, do you know what an ashpit is? Those things have gone the way of firecrackers at home and kool aid in metal glasses.

Horses on Wheels

2008-04-17T23:49:00.000-06:00

As I was driving to work recently, my progress up a long hill was slowed by a pickup truck pulling two horses in a trailer. I was struck by the irony of seeing horses transported by wheels powered by engines whose strength is measured in "horsepower" when it used to be that horses once hauled our wagons and goods instead and the wheels only turned because the horses pulled them. These days, we have to haul our horses in trailers just to get to some safe open space where we can enjoy riding them or letting them run free.

I guess that's one reason I love driving trips that take me to rural areas and wide open spaces and fields where horses run free. I got caught in an old-fashioned cattle drive last summer and here is what I saw:

Driving in the city and being slowed by a big truck, construction, roadblocks brings my blood pressure up. But being stuck behind a cow and her calf (see the little critter underneath her) makes me realize there are still places left in our country where time moves with the rhythms of nature and peace abides.

"Baby Mine"

2008-04-08T21:56:00.000-06:00

I recently bought a CD by Alison Krauss called "A Hundred Miles or More." I don't know how one would categorize her music (country, folk, light rock, etc) but I was really taken with the beauty of her songs. One in particular brought tears to my eyes.

She sings "Baby Mine" beautifully. Many of us will remember that song-it was part of the soundtrack from "Dumbo", a Disney movie first released in 1941 and beloved by children and their parents ever since.

In the scene where the song appears, Dumbo, the baby elephant with the big ears, has been separated from his mother, who is confined to a cage because she flew into a rage when boys played with her baby's large ears and made fun of him. Dumbo comes to see his mother and although they are separated by iron bars, she sings him this beautiful lullaby. A few if the lines go like this:

"Don't you mind what they say,

From your head to your toes,

You're not much, heaven knows,

You are so precious to me,

Baby of mine."

I think this song evokes strong feelings for me, and probably for many mothers, because we love our children fiercely and want to protect them, as this elephant mother did, but our efforts don't always pay off and we can't always protect our children.

Children grow from beautiful babies to funny, frustrating toddlers to cute grade schoolers and then they enter the awkward, gangly teen years. Before we know it, they are adults, not always as cute and appealing as we would like them to be. But for most mothers, our babies still remain precious.

I have helped seniors clean houses and purge files and yellowed papers. Among the papers, there is often a preschoolers drawings, a scrawled message on a Mother's Day card that says "Mommy, I love you", a wrinkled report card, school pictures of toothless, grinning kids.

Our adult children question why we save those things: it's because we cherish and love the memories of that little, helpless baby, that funny awkward kid, the days of high school proms and solemn college graduations. .."you are so precious to me, baby of mine."

Dust Devils on The Road

2008-04-07T22:59:00.000-06:00

I was driving along a rural desert road on my way to work last week when the car was suddenly engulfed in a maelstrom of swirling dust, cactus debris and weeds. "Yikes, I've been hit by a dust devil," I thought as I clung to the steering wheel for about 15 seconds without seeing where I was going. And then, just like that, the mini-tornado continued on its vortex course across the road and beyond and driving conditions instantly reverted back to normal.

The Arizona Vacation Planner calls dust devils "ephemeral whirlwinds (that) can stir up trouble." They are a weather phenomenon that occurs under sunny conditions during fair weather. They rarely do damage and usually dissipate in less than a minute.

I got to thinking about people who are like dust devils-they whirl in, drop a few choice words on you and whirl back out again, except your "driving conditions' don't revert back to normal instantly. Instead, you are left puzzling over what just happened and feeling quite upset about whatever course of action you were on before the appearance of the "dust devil." You now have lingering doubts about whether or not you are on the right road.

This happens with families a lot. We might be making plans for the future of an older adult or plans for a family reunion and suddenly a "dust devil" who has not been previously involved with decision making, swoops in, makes some suggestion or comment

and leaves again, causing everybody to question previous decisions.

Sometimes, dust devils play a necessary role. They cause you to question or refocus and may have a valid point. At other times, however, they can create brief, but unnecessary chaos.

We all have dust devils around. They may not be on a desert road, but they are there, waiting for just the right conditions to make an appearance. The Navajos believe they are the ghosts or spirits of dead Navajos. Depending upon which direction they spin, they can be good spirits or bad spirits. I suppose it is up to us to determine in which direction our dust devils are spinning!

"But That Car Belonged to my Dad!"

2008-03-31T22:00:00.000-06:00

Today, in my role as a geriatric case manager, I met with the adult children of a gentleman who will be moving to assisted living because his Alzheimer's disease has progressed to the point where his wife can no longer care for him.

As we discussed this gentleman's possessions and what the family wanted done with them, I brought up the 1982 Audi that is sitting abandoned at a home in a rural area of Arizona where our client lived until two years ago. When I visited this largely empty home, I saw the car covered with dust. Children had written "wash me" on the rear window. The driver's door was ajar and the car smelled both musty and dusty. Back at the office, I checked the Kelley Blue Book value and found that at most, this car was worth about $1200.

But when I mentioned the car to the family today, they told me an amazing thing. They estimated the car may be worth up to $100,000 because it was purchased new, in Germany, and is a model that was never made in the United States. Our client's son said his dad had always wanted him to have that car.

So I said, "why don't you sell it, if it's worth that much money". His response, "but that car belonged to my dad." Obviously, he felt he would be violating a special bond between father and son if he sold the car. Perhaps the car reminds this son of the happiness his dad felt at having this new car; of rides they took together and times they shared.

In my own life, I had a similar situation. In 1966, my dad had purchased a 1964 bronze Cadillac Sedan DeVille for my mother from a wealthy friend who was going to trade it in. My mother was so proud of that car. She would drive to our house to pick up my three young sons, and they would bound into that car, eager to sit on the wide leather seats, push the automatic window and seat controls and ride like young princes in the back. Even if they weren't going to be riding in the car that day, the second they saw the car turn the corner onto our block, they whooped it up, because their Grandma was coming to visit.

Well, my mother passed away in 1975. The car couldn't fit into our garage because of its length and massive fins. So it was safely stored until one of my boys went off to college and needed a car. I gave it to him and he loved it, but reality soon outstripped his love affair when he found it was expensive to drive and when it broke, replacement parts were not available.

So he drove it back to Denver and we took it to our family farm in Greeley, Colorado, where we lovingly put it up on blocks and covered it with a $300 car cover, locks included.

Fast forward- it 's several years later. The farm is being sold and we need to move the car out of the barn. When we took off the cover and opened the door, mice scurried to and fro. They had eaten the seats, the wiring and had nested everywhere. The car we had so lovingly preserved (we thought) was virtually worthless. A wealthy car collector from Aspen bought it for $300 and had it towed away. I'm quite sure he restored it.

Sometimes the things we save because they remind us of special times can become a burden. Better the memories than the thing itself. Next time you have to make a choice about whether to keep, sell or give away a "thing", write down your thoughts about it or take a picture of it and send it on to its next life. Nothing lasts forever except the memories and stories we can pass down to the next generation.

Those Old Shirts

2008-03-22T23:21:00.000-06:00

Today, I noticed three older adults, all of whom were wearing very worn shirts. The shirts grabbed my attention because in each case, they were obviously from some athletic event that the person had previously participated in.

The first shirt was worn by a lovely lady, in very great shape, who was visiting the dog park. Her shirt was from a 1992 Marathon in Tucson.

The second was worn by an older gentleman, who walked in a bent position. His t-shirt commemorated a race up Mt. Tamalpais. For those of you who don't know, "Mt. Tam", as it is fondly called by locals in the San Francisco Bay area, is a beautiful peak, north of the Golden Gate Bridge, that rises some 2300 feet. It is a favorite for hikers, bikers and joggers and a very challenging adventure for anybody who tackles it. I once rode it myself!

The third shirt was a cycling shirt worn by a grey-bearded gentleman who was struggling up a steep hill in Tucson on his bicycle. It was from the University of Colorado cycling team in Boulder, CO.

Why do we save and wear these old shirts and discard garments that are much newer? I believe the reason is that these shirts remind us that we were once younger and stronger and could do more than we can today. But they also are a way of identifying with feats that we are very proud of having accomplished.

It's not only us "older folks" who cherish these shirts. One of my sons is a bicycle racer when he's not being a very busy lawyer or a loving father. He's been racing for twenty-seven years. On the days he's around the house, he is likely to appear in a torn and tattered shirt from one of his earliest bike races. The sleeves are usually cut off; the material is worn thin by hundreds of washings, but he certainly loves those shirts. He still races today, but I don't see him wear his "newer" collection of shirts-perhaps they'll make an appearance in another twenty years.

So, even if we ride up the hill more slowly, walk instead of run. hang out in the pool on a "noodle" instead of "doing laps", we are still doing something we love. And those old clothes do come in handy for these activities, except maybe for that bikini some of us girls wore when we were a size 5 or 7!

Living Each Day to the Fullest

2008-03-20T22:27:00.000-06:00

In the last few days, I have lost two women friends, both of whom I will miss very much, even though I have known both people well for less than one year. What they both had in common was that they lived life to the fullest, making each day count in their own way.

My first friend was 92 years old. She was not somebody whose name you would recognize, nor will there be hundreds of people at her memorial service. Her concerns and interests were mostly family, good friends and her faith. She also loved the Broncos.

She inspired me because she carried on with a strength and spirit and spunk that belied her physical ailments and age. She lived in an assisted living community and each evening, she would choose the outfit she planned to wear the next day. She dressed in vivid colors, with pins and scarves to accent whatever she wore. She also had a matching handbag for each outfit. Her hair had grown thin, but she even had a sense of humor about that, calling her wig "my hat", and always wearing it until bedtime.

Shortly after she moved to the assisted living community, she got on the elevator one morning, resplendent as usual, and another resident looked at her and said "Humph, another outfit." To which my friend replied "why thank you very much." The resident looked at her coldly and said "that was not a compliment, it was an observation!"

My friend recounted this story with great good humor. She was a lady who accepted what life gave her; put on her "hat" each day and marched out to greet the world, dressed to the hilt. But even more importantly, she always listened to what others had to say and remembered to ask how they were doing. Wherever she went, people were glad to see her because she always had a cheerful smile and a kind word.

My other friend was only fifty-five years old. Many of you knew her or know of her, Leslie Fishbein, the energetic, bubbly intelligent lady who, along with her husband, owned Kacey Fine Furniture company in Denver. She was a highly accomplished, successful businesswoman.

She had recently joined a book group I have belonged to since 1967. She was a breath of fresh air in our group, a lively contributor who clearly cared about her reading and loved to discuss books with us. One night, after a meeting at our home, all the guests but Leslie had gone home. She spent an hour with me and my significant other, talking about books, about family and sketching my livingroom so I could visit her store and know what kind of furniture to look for.

These two ladies, one who had lived a private life and the other, a very public life, both were inspirational. They made every day count, by approaching life with a positive upbeat attitude and by taking the time to care about other people.

Nobody in Tucson wears shoes

2008-02-25T23:30:00.000-07:00

My shoes needed some repair (a little dog decided he wanted to taste red leather). In my journeys about town, I kept looking for a shoe repair shop. I saw strip mall after strip mall filled with hair salons, nail salons, tanning booths, cell phone stores, fast food. Apparently, nobody in Tucson wears shoes (or their shoes don't get worn out or chewed by little dogs).

I stopped by the local auto repair shop in our little rural community to have the oil changed in my car and asked the proprietor if he knew of a shoe repair shop in Catalina. "Yes, but he had to take his sign down near the road. Look for the little street between Bubb's Grub and Player's Pub and turn left. You'll see his house in the middle of the street."

First of all, Bubb's Grub and Player's Pub are two real restaurants side by side, and note, they are NOT chains. So I turned down the little street and there was a little sign in front of a modest home- "shoe repairs, open 9 to 5 daily.". I knocked and a woman called, "I'll be out to help you. "

Turns out, she was the daughter of an elderly Spanish-speaking man who does the repairs. His teeny shop was crammed with boots and shoes and old, greasy, squeaky looking machines. But he could indeed, repair the shoes and have them ready the next day.

In the last twenty years of my life, I have found three artisans who repaired shoes. One from Spain, one from Mexico and another little Jewish man who had once been the King of the Strip Clubs, all gentlemen in their 60's and up. What will happen when this generation of artisans passes away? Will we all toss our shoes out when they need a little fixing and just run out to buy another pair? How about watch repairs?

I even remember a little lady who had a "doll hospital" when I was a kid. If your doll broke, you brought it to her and she repaired it. It's been a long time since I've seen a toy repair person.

It seems to me we are becoming a throw-away society where few younger people take pride in being artisans who practice and perfect a craft. I suppose if you search hard enough, you can find these folks, but they are not on the main streets of our urban communities. It costs too much to rent space in a mall so you can fix a customer's shoes for $8.00. So, if you need a fixer-upper, just ask an "old timer", he or she will help you find the right person.

Musty, cold objects and kids who don't care

2008-02-22T09:41:00.000-07:00

One of the clients of our law firm was a gentleman who led a long and distinguished life. Not only had he served in the Air Force during World War II and Korea, but he was a studious collector of his family's personal histories, of artifacts of the Southwest and Asia and military items including badges, sabers and antique guns. Sadly, he died of Alzheimer's Disease, leaving all these items behind. His heirs are two natural and two adopted children.

As we set about collecting and cataloging the items in his home, we found history pamphlets written by his grandfather about the first settlements in Arizona, catalogues and books about his sister-in-law who was a well-known feminist artist in Boston and Europe in the 1920's and a silver chalice with antler handles from his grandfather's Masonic Lodge in California pre-1900.

Our most surprising discoveries however, were pictures this young air force officer took of Hitler's house in Germany when our troops reached it, pieces of brick from Hitler's bunker and pictures of Russians in labor camps. Yesterday, while looking for certain legal documents, I came across his military identification card-a proud, serious young man stared at me from those musty, cold files.

Sadly, his heirs are not interested in these items. It appears that their wish is that these items be sold and the cash divided among them.

I do not know what kind of relationship this man had with his family. He could have been arrogant and degrading to them or he could have been the best of fathers. Whatever those private circumstances, I find it astonishing that these people appear not to care about the past nor the role their family played in key historic events of the late 19th and 20th centuries.

If we take the time to talk to our children and relive the roles our families played in our common histories in the United States, perhaps those things we leave behind will be cared for and cherished, and not allowed to moulder in cardboard boxes.

Are you an "old timer"?

2008-02-19T20:17:00.000-07:00

When I was a kid, I used to hear my folks talk about "old timers." I thought of them as my grandpa and his circle of friends, a bunch of old guys who enjoyed talking to each other. Well, the other day, I met an "old timer" and I venture to say, he was not much older than I.

I had lost the keys to my car at one of Tucson's "gem show" sites-big tents where vendors of all types of jewelry, gemstones and other artifacts, hawk their wares. It was getting cold and dark, so I took refuge in a temporary office that read "Gem Show Sales." I found a husky, friendly, plain-spoken guy in a plaid shirt, suspenders and jeans, who was taking reservations from vendors for the 2009 show. (He had run gem shows since the idea first arrived in Tucson.)

I asked him if I could wait inside till AAA arrived and we began an interesting conversation. Turns out he lived in the community of "Catalina", a scattered rural town that surrounds the "active adult retirement community' where we live in Tucson. This "old timer" told me he settled in Catalina in 1975 when there were a few mobile homes, three huge cattle ranches, little shacks with horses and other livestock, and plenty of wildlife-coyotes howling at night, deer running from them. He told me about the great "flood" of 1983 that swept through the community from a summer afternoon "monsoon" and how it took out the ranches and the livestock of Catalina. That day the water swirled 60 feet up a hilly road known as "Wilds Road" that we still use.

I had often wondered why the county has condemned huge swaths of land along a road I travel daily and why there are the remains of barns, corrals and a few pecan groves. This "old timer" filled in my puzzle.

The dictionary defines an "old timer" as "a) an elderly person and b) a person with considerable tenure or experience in a given place or activity." I hope someday to be considered an "old timer" with some stories others relish. Are you storing up some good anecdotes, recipes, pictures or stories so that you can be an old timer too? I hope so.

Cards You Sent are NOT Forgotten

2008-02-18T12:12:00.000-07:00

When I am called to a home before a move or after somebody's death and there is lots of sorting to be done, one of the things I inevitably find is a bag or box full of cards, papers, report cards, family photos and letters that were saved by parents and older relatives and were received from their children or from nieces and nephews.

You may have forgotten the papers and pictures you brought home to your mother; the old fashioned glue and paste cards for Valentine's Day that you made in school or even the store-bought cards you sent as an adult. But moms and dads and aunts and uncles loved (and still love) receiving these items.

The next time a holiday, or special occasion or just a thought about somebody dear to you, crosses your mind, put a little something in the mail. It's not the cost or format that matters-it's that personal touch that says "I'm thinking about you." (This is not an ad for Hallmark; it's a reality that we forget in this age of communication technology that looks down upon "snail mail.")

Cabin Fever

2008-02-15T23:39:00.000-07:00

In my business as a Senior Move Manager and in my work as a Geriatric Care Manager, I often see people who are biding their time in a darkened room with worn furniture, sitting wordlessly in front of a television set, wondering, every so often, what time it is, as they look forward to the next TV program or their next meal.

Today, I visited a "younger" senior; a man in his 60's with a PhD in a scientific field, trapped in his body by an advanced case of Parkinson's Disease. He sat in a chair where his head slumped downward, no matter how many times I helped move him back to a sitting position.

His clothes were slightly soiled, his hair greasy and disheveled, his eyes had trouble focusing. He sat in a room with three much older women, one of whom repeatedly asked for the time. Not a pretty scene. Yet, when I talked to this man about the UFO meetings he used to attend, his eyes brightened. Then he leaned closer to me and whispered "I have cabin fever. Can we go to the Korean restaurant next week?"

The next time you feel bored or angry or slightly ill with something temporary, give thanks that you can walk outside, take a breath of fresh air, make a phone call to a friend or read a good book. There are so many people hidden away inside stuffy rooms who would give anything for the freedom of choice you have every day.