Run, Walk, Rest

Over Christmas I had the joy of visiting Kimberly and Mitch, my granddaughter and her husband, and their two children, Samantha (5) and Maxwell (2½). On an outing at an amusement park Samantha was content to hold my hand as we walked through the beehive of people on the move. Mitch carried her little brother much of the time but when he put Max down the child would run off into the crowds, dodging feet and baby strollers and getting out of sight fast. It was all I could do to keep my eye on him and hope that Mitch or one of the others would catch him before any danger crossed his path. The horror of news accounts of lost children drained the fun of the occasion until he was rescued. At the end of the day when we all settled down for dinner in a restaurant Max was asleep in his daddy’s arms. The little blond head lay loosely on Mitch’s chest. It was a rest for us all, a time to collect and share the pleasures and perils of the day.

How like life, I’m thinking. In early childhood we run to meet it with careless abandon, unaware of danger, eager for adventure. A little later we’re more apt to stick with the others we’re with, playing it safe and making it a shared experience. Then we all learn to take a rest, to enjoy the wider view, collect our thoughts, maybe take a short nap, review our map and go on.

Some never stop running through life. Theirs is a clinging to the wild side. Others walk deliberately, choosing carefully their way, but being open to better options. All, in the end, rest in slumber in order to recoup for the way ahead. Most of us learned about this in elementary school with the story of the race between the turtle and the hare. The hare was sure of his ability to beat the turtle but his careless confidence allowed him to rest too soon and the slow steady pace of the turtle brought him to the finish line first. 

Now that I’m older I have the luxury of slowing down. Still, I am, at heart and at times, like the youngster on the run. The adult who walks is more my style, however. I’m still going somewhere and I need to check my map more often, decide what I really believe in, what I have yet to accomplish and where I’d like to end up before that last rest stop comes along. I choose, yes, choose, to believe that last sleep will not be more than another nap. That’s why I’m looking toward my destination for the long run, the Home of all homes. Sometimes, when life seems really good, I think I’m already there!

Christmas, 2011

I have a pretty artificial tree with lights already strung on it in a box under the bed but no, Katie wouldn't stand for that. "Oh, Grandma, there's an aura about a real tree. It smells so of Christmas, don't you agree?" She sees my string of tiny white lights and frowns. "Lights on our tree must not be white, Grandma. When all the other lamps are turned off it's dreamy to sit and gaze at the tree's colored lights. White lights just don't lend themselves to dreaminess. They're piercing. OK for downtown or the mall, but not for home."

Now it's done. Our place is small and the tree we picked is too, about three feet tall, but perfectly shaped and decorated with garlands of tinsel and bright shiny balls and ornaments that reek of older Christmases and loved ones who will be coming and others who won't. Some never. The joys and sorrows of Christmases past all come to life in the tree and, always, it is the most beautiful tree ever!

There. I can never contradict my 22 year old granddaughter. This may be her last Christmas here living with me since there's been serious talk of Katie renting a place of her own. I want this holiday to be memorable for her. She wants to learn how to make our traditional Norwegian Christmas eve supper, especially the lefse. If you grew up in Minnesota, as I did, you don't need to ask, what is lefse? It's a flat bread made with mashed potatoes, flour, butter and salt. Rolled thin, gently transferred to a hot dry skillet, turned at just the proper time, it comes out looking limp with little brown spots. Not so appetizing to look at but when you lather it with butter (and spread brown sugar on top, or not), you have only to roll it up and eat it like finger food in the left hand, with a fork in the right for the Norwegian meatballs, A spoon for capturing every drop of gravy, of course! I guarantee, you'll think this the food of Nordic gods!

Now a little music of the season, jingling of bells, music boxes, carolers, Wally and Nancy's new Christmas CD. Music helps to plow through the clean messiness of wrapping gifts in odd corners of the house, shortened days when nights come too early and daytimes too late. Cards with long letters so easily written on computers with brief hand-written notes at the ends. How long has it been since I've seen Liz Oakes? Fifty? No, sixty years! But we keep up our Christmas card correspondence and remember how we met as young Marine wives living in Quonset huts on the Mojave desert where our fighter pilot husbands practiced night flying and the lack of city lights made the Milky Way look like heaven is, indeed, a brilliantly well-populated universe in which to live out eternity.

There will be company coming for brunch the morning of the 24th. My brother, Danny and his Jane's daughter, Barbie, with her new hubby and daughter Erin. Maybe they'll join us for the party that night when all of us we'll pile into cars to go to my granddaughter, Kimberly and Mitch's house. "Wally Pop" and "Nanna," so well loved on Skype have come all the way from Virginia to see Kim and MItch and their two kiddies, Sammie and Max, first of the new generation. Uncle Jordan, loved by all, but especially by these two, will preside with his sister, Kim.

Kingston,  the latest and youngest to arrive via April and Jaime, will be there too with David and Susie, proud grandparents to the little King. Two more babies are still pocketed away in their mommy's tummies and due to come out when the days get longer and warmer. One, a boy child, for Jenny and Luis. He'll be there two with his loving parents. The other, a wee question mark so far, for Rosy and Gray, unable to be there in person, alas. Robin and Paul, whose mini-Christmas eve party came earlier so they could be with Paul's family up north. We'll miss them!

There will be a beehive of activities in the house of our gathering. Katie and Keegan will join the gang, and Auntie Erin, loaded with packages and fun, has flown down from San Francisco. Uncle Jeff and his new girl friend, loved and with us on these occasions. Dinner tables spread out with red and green and candles. Dinner, the once a year spread, then the grand openings, a delight to everyone, especially to see the faces of our recipients. Bright paper wrappings gone to the bin, some saved for next year, excitement and laughter, See's candies, of course, a crackling fire in the fireplace, and candles and music. Jigsaw puzzle groupies and mothers keeping track of who sent their babies a present and to whom they will need to write thank-you notes.

Christmas day will join the Christmases past too and New Year's Day still be on its way, will be another memory. Resolutions, hope, anticipation, and change. The one constant is change.

Tommy, my canary, has run out of songs. I know he and Freddy, the Gouldian finch in the adjacent cage, are ready to be covered up. It's so much cozier to know you're out of sight of people persons when you've tucked your head under your wing. Sleeping should be a secure and private thing. I get bleary-eyed writing this blog, teary-eyed remembering, and soon I'll be sleepy-eyed as I tuck myself in and rest my head on my own pillow. Grateful always for the best, forgetful of the worst, and trustful of the good that ever hangs around us all whether we know it or not, I'm about to sleep now. A prayer of thanks for one babe of all babies, the blessed Christ child. A dreamless sleep, I hope, but if dreams, then happy ones, like Scrooge's new Christmas-present, and Tiny Tim saying, "God bless us, every one!"

"Old" is Good

Why do people pin such a frown on being old? I think it was Shakespeare who said, "There is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so." I'm running with that and calling "old" good. The alternative certainly doesn't look good to me!

A number of people I know of my vintage try to extend their lives by exercising, eating right, keeping mentally active. That's good. I do the same, though I am not a fanatic. I've had several ancestors who lived healthily into their nineties and never had to go to a hospital or nursing home, even at the end, and I don't remember any of them doing special exercises or restricting their diet.  So, I say to myself, Live as if today is forever, use good sense and make each day as good as it can be.

I know this idea of "old" being good sounds like a sales pitch for a hard case, or a sermon too lofty to take seriously, but I'm doing my best right now, and while my longevity increases I'll keep trying to make this sermon short.

Bye bye!

Being Alone

My husband always agreed with me that Sunday was not a time for cooking at home so we usually went to a restaurant after church for a noon dinner together. Since I was widowed a few years back I've been alone on Sundays and I miss that. Eating out alone always makes me feel more lonely than being alone at home.

Last Sunday, however,  on my way home from church I suddenly decided to treat myself to dinner out anyway, and here's what happened.

After going over in my mind a choice of restaurants, I settled on Chili's. As I approached the front door I was a few paces behind a young family with two little boys. The dad, a big husky fellow, waited to hold the door for me. I thanked him and soon we were approached by the hostess.

"Are you all one party?" she asked. I nodded no and held up one finger for myself, indicating she should seat the family first. Well, besides mom and dad and the little boys, there was a grandma in the group. She surprised me by saying, "Alone?" (Did I detect a hint of sympathy?) "Say, if you don't mind some lively boys, we'd love to have you join us."

I was surprised and ordinarily would have declined politely, but I heard myself say, "Really?" I looked at the mom and dad. I think grandma had surprised them too but they smiled and said, "Sure, come on along," as they were led to a large table.Well, I did. It would have been totally ungracious of me not to.

Before long we had ordered (I asked for a separate check) and I noticed that the boys were identical twins and cute as children two years old can be. Occasionally one would glance my way but then turn his interest toward the basket of potato chips his brother was dipping into. Their mom had ordered them the first thing. She said, "I know these are not so good for the kids but they love them and only get them the few times we go out. It keeps them better company for everyone." I agreed and said, "I can see you and your husband are good parents. The children are lively but well-behaved for two year olds, and yet neither of you scold them." It was not surprising to learn that she worked as an elementary school counselor.

"So, what is your line of work?" I asked the dad. "I work for the park service now, " he said, "but for the past four years I've been in the Marine Corps." At that I told him about my husband who had served in the Marines for twenty-three years and had fought in World War II and Korea. "He bore shrapnel in his shoulder the rest of his life," I said, "His plane was hit by a Japanese Zero but he got it down safely." Then the dad pulled up a sleeve and showed me shrapnel still lodged in his arm from a roadside bomb in Iraq. "I've got one here too," he said, as he pointed to a spot not more than an inch from his eye.  "That one even entered my brain and it's left me with some short term loss of memory."

"He was awarded two Purple Hearts," his wife said. "Well, I got home with all my limbs," he said, and added quietly, "Some of my buddies didn't." He looked down at his plate then and, as if not wanting to talk more about that, he said, "I'll always be proud to be a Marine."

It was then that the grandmother told me she lives with the family and has ever since they learned they would be having twins. "Well, I'm sure you've been a great help," I said, and I thought, Gosh she's a generation younger than I!

Conversation flowed freely with frequent minor interruptions by the boys and our dinner went by fast. As we got ready to leave the grandma stopped halfway through putting on her coat and looked at me saying, "My goodness! I hadn't thought about this 'till just now but the last thing our pastor told us before going home from church today was  'Go out and greet a stranger today!'"

"Well, you certainly did!" I replied. "This has never happened to me before, but it was a great pleasure to meet you and your family. And it's a funny thing, but I had every intention of going to another restaurant until I saw Chili's and remembered the good meals I've had there with my husband . It seemed I was drawn here today."

We parted company saying we hoped to see each other again sometime and I thanked them. As I walked out to my car I noticed all the holiday lights and felt a warm glow in my heart. It was, indeed,  a distinct feeling of Christmas!

Invention

I've just finished going over a piece in a recent Time Magazine on the subject of modern invention. Funny, how I could read the words but understand so little. Devices already in the works seem so far out that they sound like science fiction. I got a good splash in the face of what our children and grandchildren will need to learn just to catch up. It's hard enough for me to understand even a fraction of the devices I use daily such as the telephone, the electric light, the computer, even an ordinary ink pen. If the world were to come to a screeching halt and I were left alone I think the extent of my inventive ability would give me the wheel, the inclined plane, the pulley, the lever, and maybe one or two other things. Although I watched my country grandmother make soap in a huge iron vessel over a wood fire out in her yard, I would not know how to make lye, and I wouldn't have fat from some animal, two ingredients she used, to even get started. No soap! What a world I'd have to endure if I were alone with my inventions!

Invention, in my family, concentrated in David, our second son. I used to say he got all his inventive ability from me because I don't have it. Someone must have taken it, and he looks guilty. He now works for a company that designs secret anti-weapons for the government. He can't talk about them, but in his childhood, he used to take apart everything he got his hands on to see how it worked. We let him do it after we saw he could get it back together intact.

I've lived through the first of modern computers. The ones that took up rooms. Now they've been reduced in size to peanuts or less. By the mid eighties most offices still had the bulky desk computers with a large bulging screen. I know, because then I learned how to use one when I took a job in the office of a retirement community. Up until then I prided myself to be computer illiterate. A word processor was enough for me. Now I have a flat screen Mac and I know just enough about it to do e-mailing and composition. It sits here like a modern miracle and yet my children and grandchildren use hand held devices the size of cell phones to match, if not exceed, the work that can be done with my Mac.

I am still an incurable foot-dragger when it comes to the modern world. I would not now give up my automatic washer and dryer, but once I did. Back in 1975 Wally G and I moved to southern Oregon onto a 60 acre ranch. It had all the amenities of a turn of the last century country place. Water came into the house gravity fed through pipes from a spring up the hill behind us. Although a large part of the acreage was given to raising hay, there was enough of wooded area to keep us in wood for our two stoves in the house. The exception to early country life was the electricity we enjoyed. Even that could have been supplied, I suppose, by something my dad used on our country homestead before the Rural Electric Company came in. It was called a "Wind Electric." If we'd had that we would really have been self-sufficient, except for our more seasoned neighbors who lived a couple of miles down the road and often came to our rescue. We lived a simple country working life, with only a Maytag washer (the kind with an agitator,) a toaster, flat iron and electric lights. Eight years were enough for us, but with a cow, a few sheep, a good watch dog, a huge garden and fruit trees, we proved we could get along without most modern amenities.

Invention is wonderful, I grant that. It's just that, for me, I'd rather be able to do without it. I think there must be a way to by-pass devices, simple or intricate, and work with mind alone. It's been done by a few in history. I envision a more metaphysical way of doing things. After all, a lot of those new inventions I read about this morning supersede gravity, spy into the insides of things, calculate beyond imagination, even read minds. The minds that thought them up and reduced them to peanut size or less ought also to be able to translate their capabilities practically in the physical realm also. I'd like to see what we call miracles prove to be simply marvels, totally scientific. Now that would be my idea of invention. Or might it be called revelation?

Pre-Dawn Bliss

"Have you called yourself Boundless Bliss today?" The words shot out unexpectedly from Dr. Merriman, our teacher.He was pointing his finger at me and the other twenty-nine pupils of this class  of adults were staring at me, wondering what I'd say. "Ummmm..." I stalled. "Well, no,..."

"Well then, do it!" he said with a smile as wide as his seasoned face.

I've thought about that a lot lately. Not especially because my beloved teacher said so, but because it's become a part of my nature to feel boundlessly blissful, especially in my first waking hour of any given day. I'll be snugly wrapped in my robe, just finished with breakfast, gazing at the candles I've lit on the table across the room. It's still dark outside so the curtains are closed. All is silent and serene except for the steady tick of the grandfather clock beside me, the brook's music outside my door, and the faint murmur of humanity far beyond the perimeters of our city oasis called Quail Creek.

I haven't taken in the paper yet. The world that far outside of mine can wait. Here in my comfy chair I feel snug and happy. No pains. No angst. No worry. As far as I'm concerned, this is the sweetest kind of freedom I know. I'm satisfied, not because things are perfect, but because somewhere there's a young mother holding her babe in a similar setting. I don't mean just one. Many. I was once like them. There's a father off to work, glad to have a job he's happy with. And there must be other grandmothers and great-grandmothers who look benignly on, knowing that without them the family they know and love would not have been quite the same.

After a life has been lived, what does one do? Get up to be cranky? Get up to sulk or sorrow? Get up to worry? Get up to be angry and ugly? I laugh as these options roll off my pen. People may call me Pollyanna if they will, but if they're within earshot I'll smile and set them straight.

A dear grandson-in-law told his wife, my granddaughter, "I would give anything to have the faith that your grandmother has, but I don't." Since he hasn't said it to me, I'll wait. I'll wait for all who love me enough to listen and then I'll say, "Never mind, my dears. You will have such faith and more. As you live and learn, you'll see through a more spiritual lens. You'll see that you've lived your lives as best you could. You've made mistakes. Sometimes serious ones. But then you'll know better for the next go-around. You'll wake up to each new day and find how easy it is to drop despair when life comes into a better focus, when the dark gives way to dawn.

How do I know this for sure? Because it's happened to me. Knowing what could have been better in my life is a sign, not that it will automatically become better, but that I can make it better. I'll have another chance, another go-around in the cycles of Life.

Everything I've seen in this life points to this. There is an undeniable continuity of existence. Look up at the stars, for instance. You may see, through the eyes of space telescopes, a dead star, but then again you'll come upon a glowing cradle of warm golden light where newly born stars shoot out into space. They are glad, expectant, joyous! How can we help but see that? There are countless signs of living, moving, working, loving, laughing right here on earth. I choose to watch these and leave the darker sides of the scene until they come into a clearer light, where all will be revealed in the lens of truth,  transformed and understood.

So, here I sit in grandmotherly glory and I know now that I can answer my teacher honestly. "Yes, Dr. Merriman,  I'm getting older, true, but I'm getting better too, and I have called myself Boundless Bliss today!"

Say Yes!

I'm sitting here at my desk in a new leather swivel chair. Padded arms and body, adjustable height, easy rolling casters, comfy and elegant. Made for me. But I didn't ask for it. I didn't look for it this morning. Just went into Staples to get some Christmas letter paper.

I always allow myself time to look around in stores like that, even after I've found the one or two things on my list. I didn't really need the chair, but my old one had never been comfortable, no matter how many pads I put on it. My daughter had often said, "Mom, you need a new chair," but I hadn't given it much thought. Then along came "Black Friday," the day people lined up outside the big stores, standing in the cold wee hours of the morning to rush in first and grab the bargains. Nothing could have enticed me to do that! Anyway, there was nothing I needed.

So now it is the following Monday. The sales are over, but I've found my paper at Staples and out of the corner of my eye I spot this little chair. It stands out as if it had a sign with my name on it. But no, surely I couldn't afford that gem! I look at the tag. $100. Not a bad price. I look at another plainer one with no arms. I sit in it. Not anything special. So I try the little gem. It's a Goldilocks "just right" thing. I think, Gee, it costs no more than a couple of dinners out with the family, even less. I see a clerk and say, "I'll take it." When I get ready to pay the cashier the register rings up $50. plus cost of warranty, construction and tax.  I'm afraid the cashier has made a mistake. She's on the phone double checking on the price. "It's on sale?" I ask, holding my breath. She puts down the phone. "Yes, half price," she says smiling. "Still on sale."

The salesman hadn't told me that. Maybe he didn't know. He's still beside me though, waiting to carry it out to my car. We walk out together, he tucks it in neatly, I thank him, and drive home with the wheels of my car a foot off the ground. When I get home and try it out I think to myself, If Barnes & Noble had carried the kind of writing paper I wanted (they didn't) and the clerk there had not suggested Staples, I'd have been sitting in my old uncomfortable chair right now writing about something else.

I shouldn't be surprised. Things like that happen to me often. Why? I'm not sure, but I think it's my ability to say yes. Also, I don't want many things but they come to me often before I even look for them. And when they do I almost never say, "I think I'll go home and think it over." When I see something I know is right for me I just buy it as long as I can afford it. No shopping around, comparing prices. And never needing to take anything back.

I could tell about many a purchase I've made that way, but the principle can be illustrated with larger decisions too. Wally G, my husband, used to tease me in later years about his proposal to me. "I was scared you might say no, or something like, 'Can you wait for me to finish my last two years of college?' If you had, I think I'd have let you go. I wanted to come before anything. It's my darn pride. But you, - I no more than got the words out, 'Will you marry...' and you said, 'Yes!'"

I wonder now if I ever told him that my answer wasn't as spontaneous as he supposed. I had decided he would be mine long before he got the question out.

Retirement

"The hedge out front is beginning to look shaggy." I break the silence of our bedroom where Wally G. sits, still in his robe and slippers at eleven a.m. He's been there since nine, apparently stuck and dozing off. It's been like this for weeks, ever since he brought home his belongings from the office where they gave him the obligatory pen and pencil set, an afterthought. That final act was worse than nothing. He'd sent off other guys to retirement by giving them parties and speeches and accolades. His own C.O. had taken him for granted in his last two years of twenty-three on active duty with the U.S. Marine Corps, delegating all the work to Wally G. and getting all the credit for himself. It was not a sunny beginning to his retirement.

When I saw he had awakened enough to know I was there I gave it another try. "Honey, wouldn't it do you good to get out and get some fresh air? The hedge looks like..."

"Look," He jumped up then, heading for the closet. "You are not my commanding officer!"

I'm taken a-back, but I'd been told that retirement is not easy for a man who's given his all to his profession. I'd tried to make his stay-at-home life pleasant, but he was tired of my suggestions.  I must not be hurt, I thought. I'll just give him time.

Wally G. enlisted first as a Naval cadet back in 1941. Then he'd been given the option to try out for flight school as a Marine fighter pilot. Soon his squadron was sent to Guadalcanal in the thick of the Western Front. He'd made it through all the ranks up to Lt. Colonel and hadn't really planned to go further than full bird colonel. Then he'd retire and figure out what to do with the rest of his life. But those last promotion boards had paid more attention to the men whom they knew from all the buttering up, social drinking, and golf games they'd had together. Not a single one of them knew Wally G. personally and his sterling record went overlooked for the few openings of higher rank that peacetime presented. That, plus his ignominious farewell from the career that had given him much pleasure and pride. He needed to do something, but what could measure up to being a WWII ace pilot flying alone in a sleek jet propelled beast called the F8 off carriers and in places all over the world? Or those moments when night flying took him up so high he swore he could hear music when there was none? It was, no doubt, a come-down to be at home all day and not know what to do with himself.

As for me, I'd never really aspired to anything but having a husband, a home, and children. I left college after my sophomore year to get married at the age of nineteen when he was 26 and a Marine captain. It was a storybook wedding in the Flyers' Chapel at The Mission Inn in Riverside, California.  Although I missed school when fall rolled around, by then I was glad to be a military wife and friend of other wives like me. We soon started a family and frequently had to find living quarters off base in towns where there was no readiness for the influx of military families. I was so busy keeping house, caring for the children, three of them, I had little time to take more than a class or two in nearby colleges now and then, much less hold down a full time job. Homemaking was my job and I liked it a lot, even the frequent moves. When Wally G. had to go overseas in the Korean War and again on a fourteen month tour in Japan, I was in charge on the homefront.

By the time Wally G. retired our kids had left the nest and I had enough spare time to pursue hobbies, read and simply enjoy a retirement of my own, so far as any homemaker gets to do that. But how could I help my struggling husband make the transition to retirement? He was still young, in his fifties, not ready financially or otherwise to be staying at home. He needed another line of work.

As it turned out a civilian job presented itself to him and he was soon as absorbed in that as he'd been in his first career. We built a new house, lived in it for eight years, and then moved onto a ranch in Oregon. There we pursued country life for another eight years and finally sold the ranch for a plump profit in order to retire for good near Seattle. We enjoyed season tickets to the symphony, went to movies, ate out a lot, and took frequent trips. Our home had enough room for the kids to spend holidays with us, bringing along the little ones. We were on easy street.

But that retirement only lasted three and a half years. Even then he couldn't get over the idea that life was not meaningful unless you were promoted in some visible manner and getting old was not his idea of a promotion. He finally found an inner journey to a more spiritually oriented life. I think he saw beyond the grave a better world, one where wars would be no more, in which glory would not be found in wearing shrapnel in his shoulder from getting shot at in air, earning the title of Ace for shooting down enemy planes or bombing the enemy on the ground.

If it hadn't been for the war and the threat of being drafted he might well have pursued a career in music as a tympani player in a symphony orchestra. Music was his joy and that had been his initial ambition.

For the twenty-five years since Wally G left, I still keep house . I'll never retire from that, even though I live alone now. I often wonder what Wally G found to do when his earthly tour of duty ended. I hear a plane above and think maybe he's flying again because he did love flying, especially when he heard music up there alone on those night training missions. And often when I go to symphony concerts, I look through my glasses at the tympani player beating his heart out and I think, Could that be what Wally G is doing at last? Then I think, Wow! Look at that fellow hit those kettle drums!  Maybe Wally G is living out his old age after all and loving it! Now that would be a promotion! Come to think of it, his last words to me were, "I hope you know, girl, there's more going on here than meets the eye!"

Hoarders

My daughter-in-law gave me a compliment. She said to my son, "I think the thing your mother has that seems to work for her is the art of letting go." She was only half right. I also have the "art" (a euphemism here) of collecting things. What I seem never to have too many of are books, pictures, lamps, candles, mirrors, pillows and clocks. Mix these with un-numbered and eclectic other mostly small art objects and you would not walk into my house and think I had ever let anything go! I do pride myself, however, in arranging things in a pleasing way so that my house has a cozy feeling, sort of like the "Olde Curiosity Shoppe." These are the things that have survived the rather frequent purge of moving. Some of the cast-offs have gone to relatives and friends and children. When I see one of my old possessions in one of these places I smile. "Oh, I remember this!" and I'll gaze at a miniature replica of a screen door I bought at a craft fair in my home town on Fathers' Day, 1993. It reminded me of summers in my childhood home and the sound of our kitchen's screen door with its squeaky coiled spring and subsequent slam announcing the presence of someone coming in or going out. This same daughter-in-law, Nancy, has it hanging on her kitchen wall.

Each piece that graces my home has a story. Even if it was bought in a thrift shop it has an unknown story and that in itself is intriguing to me. I came along and rescued it from the half-way house to belong again, to feel loved again. And I do love it as if it were mine from the beginning when someone thought it up and crafted it into life, even though I'll never know its secret past. Sometimes I tell myself to get busy and write the history of each of my possessions, so far back as I know it. That could, indeed, fill a book and maybe save these precious things and their memories from another half-way house, unless the book goes to the dumpster first.

Which brings me to the point of this blog. Backtrack: It's 1:37 a.m. this morning. I'm awakened by the sound of voices. Oh, Katie has gone to sleep and left the TV in our bedroom turned on. Then the program begins to sink in. It's one I've never dared look at before. "Hoarders." My eyes open to slits and I see a short woman with tousled white hair and cotton print dress being scolded. She bows her head in shame as those Others invade her home. But is it a home, or is it a very untidy store room? People crawl through boxes and garbage bags full of junky stuff. Odd collections of old curtain rods, quilts, glassware, hangers, shoes with furry anklets, piled half way up to the ceiling! Yes, it is her home, the stuff she has accumulated which she could not part with. The Others are saying, "This is despicable! We've got to clear it out! All of it! Now!"

"No!" she cries. I mean she's really crying. "Not that! No! Please, not that!"

This is too much for me to lie here and take. I'm too sleepy to wake up and hunt for  the remote. It's probably hidden under Katie's blanket and she's sound asleep. She'll surely wake up and turn it off before long. I'll just drift back to sleep. But the show goes on, and on, and on. Another peek, another appalling scene, another pitiful little creature in the midst of the suffocating chaotic mess of relics swiped from dumpsters and cheap shop bargains, now invaded by that same band of Others who say they're there to help!

I pull the pillow over my head and try for sleep again. It's no use. Finally, I get up, recover the remote right where I thought it was and click the power button off. Whew!

Then, in the blissful quiet of the room I settle back between the covers and sigh. But sleep? Where hast thou gone? Why can't I sleep? It's the awful invasion of "Hoarders" houses still reverberating in my mind. I can't shake it. I think of my house and all its things. But that's not me! No, I'm not a hoarder! Well, I do have a lot, and I mean a lot of things in my little house. I didn't even mention the numerous little side tables I've bought to put those things on. The place is not bulging though. I can still walk through without dodging crates and cartons.

I get up, don my robe and slippers and go out to the living room. I turn on a few lamps and look around. The place could definitely stand a bit of picking up here and there, but no, it is not the ugly haphazard scene on the TV. Still, what can I do to undo a lot of this? What can I let go of? How can I make my home look plain and simple and uncluttered? I'm in a quandary. I force myself to pick up a book to read in order to think of something else. But no, the feeling of horror keeps coming back. I ask myself honestly, Do my children, family and friends think I'm a borderline case and see me as "poor Mom," or "poor Joyce?" Worse, will I never be able to go into another thrift shop and experience the joy of adopting some orphaned thing that has caught my heart strings?

I glance at my watch. 3:32 now. I turn back to the book. It's already tomorrow, the day that I so often promise myself to get at things. I can't start now though. I'd wake up the birds sleeping over in the kitchen if I tried to brew my morning cup of coffee. I go back to bed and snuggle in. I remember reading, (where was it, in the Bible?) "Tomorrow will take care of the things of itself." Well, it's not fully tomorrow yet, and it is quiet here in the dark. This time I'm able to slip into dreamland.

So, tomorrow is today now. I still have to do the things I have to do to erase that horrible show from my mind, but after breakfast I'm feeling better. I'll get dressed and tackle the essentials so that if someone comes into my house for the first time she will say, as so many others have said before, "Oh, what a lovely home you have!" Then I'll feel like myself again and not like one of those pitiful old women on TV they call the "Hoarders." The only thing I might have in common with them is white hair but mine is combed and fastened neatly. Also, I don't wear cotton dresses. I'll be careful to avoid that channel on TV in the future and I'll harden my heart a little bit more when I go to the next thrift shop. And when I move next time I'll exercise that other art of mine, the one that let's go without a whimper.

Flexibility and Experience

Mr. Dickson was a good teacher. I remember when I was in a high school debate class he gave me a position to argue that I didn't agree with. I complained, "But Mr. Dickson, I can't argue for this. I don't agree with it!"

"Well," he said in his droll manner, "all the better if you don't. You'll be forced to look at the other side and try to understand it. You could even change your mind!" As it turned out I won the debate and even though it did not change my mind I could see the other side clearly and not be so adamantly sure of myself.

All of life seems at times to be a debate, a tug of war, between one's own sense of right and another's. I'm thinking in particular now of modern morality. Today's standards for many young people are much looser than in my generation. I ask myself, Can I maintain that mine were better? Must I be flexible in all cases? I think so, for at this time of my life I'm willing to admit I am not omniscient, especially when I have a strong opinion. I'm finding that my standards and opinions might well be superseded by another greater standard. That standard is love and the willingness to let go of personal opinion in the surety that time and experience will resolve all issues.

"Times have changed since your day, Grandma," my beautiful granddaughter said when the subject of premarital sex came up. "Yes, but not for the better," I thought. My answer, "Yes, dear, I can see that." It was not an argument, just an observation and it went no farther. Although I was sure of my sense of morality and knew I had the opportunity, if not the duty, to voice it, I let myself willingly be silent and take up an inner debate on the other side, as Mr. Dickson had taught.

A lot of water has passed under the bridge since I was a Puritan teenager, chaste, but married at nineteen.   I've seen my own virtues and previous beliefs challenged. So where do I stand today?

Flexibility seems now to be the answer. How can one be flexible and still be true to oneself?  Is there a case for arguing an issue out verbally with another, or is there a greater virtue in arguing silently with oneself? Might there be another greater law, a higher law, the law of love? Does love allow one to let her loved ones go another direction that seems wrong, or stake a battleground for sure defeat? I may be right, I thought, but I could win the argument to myself and lose it to someone I love. So, I'm willing to admit  that I may be wrong and when I've argued the other side I'm better able to understand. Frankly, I'm not so sure of a number of really solid positions to call my own right now.

My children and grandchildren and I understand where we're each coming from and can be flexible. We may be honestly open about differences, but there's no tug of war with them, not even in fun. No one gains by bashing out differences that we're not likely to resolve amicably. Still we are all on one page when it comes to the highest law of all, the law of Love. I think the younger generations probably know more about this law than mine. While the old religious approach drew a circle to shut any other views out, the present generation draws a circle to include a wider range of standards and the freedom to make their own choices.

Time and experience tend to resolve issues and I find it quite interesting to see how political pundits today punish the looser attitudes in public servants that they may overlook in themselves. Only a generation or so back the the political norm was to hide moral indiscretions of leaders, cloaking them in discreet silence and even honor. Hypocrisy is the one thing that seems to stay in style.

If the world can outlive the nastier kinds of war, the tug of war today, seen best in democracy and it's noisy debates, will not be waged with a sturdy inflexible rope. Rather, it seems the rope is as flexible as a strong rubber band. We pull and get snapped back. It's muddy and messy, but somehow I think, in personal as well as public affairs, that the law of Love is on the field quietly overseeing the whole shebang and waiting patiently for things to turn out perfectly in the end. Experience and flexibility make a pretty good team no matter what side you're on, and Love will be cheering for all sides with a big smile at the end of the game.

To Be A Senior Citizen

Wally G, my first husband of 40+ years, used to scorn the word "senior," especially when it pertained to himself. He wouldn't even claim it to get a cheaper ticket at the movies. He also refused to be called Grandpa. "It's bad enough to be married to Grandma!" he'd say with a wink at me. So, he was known as "Wally G." by his grandkids.

I never let myself be bothered by becoming a senior citizen because I still felt young inside and didn't look too bad on the outside. At eighty I began to take added years as benefits, not as footsteps to the grave. These years give opportunities to retrieve some of the interests that had seemed lost. I bought myself a new piano and began playing it for my own pleasure. I renewed my interest in clay sculpting and took a class in slipcasting. I signed up for a writing class and joined a bridge group at the senior center nearby. I've never had the ambition to excel in any one thing so I decided not to aim for a huge footprint on the landscape by pressing for great achievements. I'd just go on dabbling in a number of things. Who wants to be another Grandma Moses anyway? You give yourself too much to live up to. My only goal is to do what pleases me most and listen to that inner guide that shows me what is really most pleasing. I'd call it neither selfish nor selfless but something in between.

 Recently my daughter set up this blog for me. "What shall we name it, Mom?" she asked. The name popped right into my mind. Getting Older Is Getting Better, I said. I would pitch my blogs to my own generation. Then I came across a book about seniors that gave me pause. After reading a few pages I realized for the first time that baby boomers are becoming seniors, and I am a mother of baby boomers! That puts a different light on the subject. Here I am writing a blog about being senior and the average senior who might read my blog will be a generation younger! Should I go on? Well, try to stop me! My blogs will be like messages in bottles thrown out to sea. The chance they might be found and read could be that much of a long shot too, but we'll see.

Once when Wally G and I were talking about what we might do if the other one died first. He said, "I'd go to live with Wally K and Nancy." (our first son and his wife) I said,"Oh no! You wouldn't want to be a burden on them,"

"Burden?" he replied. "Why I'd be an asset to their home!" I had to hand it to him. By golly, if he didn't think of himself as a senior citizen and that gave him a healthy sense of self worth, more power to him!

Wally G. got off the train of longevity about a quarter of a century ago. But me? Well, I'm still here and hoping to stay aboard the ship of life a good while longer, thank you. As I write maybe I'll look overboard and see if I can spot any other senior seniors' blogging bottles. Now that would be something! I'm not holding my breath though.

My Robot

They say the age of home helper robots is not far off. I would like to put in for one right now. In the meantime it's occurred to me that I already have a robot that is far more sophisticated than any engineer ever dreamed of. It is that mechanical-software thing, aka body-brain device that I was given at birth. When she doesn’t complain, or balk, my robot behaves quite well. The trouble is she wants to be so identified with me that she makes me feel like I am her. And she does complain, especially about the piling up of newspapers, magazines, books, advertisements, bills, correspondence, etc. My mechanical robot will not complain. It won't have any argument such as, "I don't feel like doing this or that." She will do the job I ask her to do when I tell her to and she'll do it well, consulting me only to inform me of some new and better organizational option and then say, "Would my mistress like to make the change, or not?"

But I can't sit around waiting for the experts to get those robots on the market, so I decided to make the best of this flesh, blood and bone one I already have. I'll call her Robata. When and if the future purely  mechanical robot comes along Robata can retire into the good life. So, I had a talk with Robata this morning. I said, “Robata, you and I could have done far more than we have in the years behind us, but if we have not become a virtuoso pianist or a world famous artist or a shipbuilder or multimillionaire, it’s not entirely your fault. Our only limitations are the ones imposed by faulty engineers on your part and the lack of vision and ambition to use you up to your potential on my part. Since we can’t do anything about the these past deficiencies, maybe we can do better from now on.”

“Do you really think it’s worth the effort at this late date?” Robata said wistfully. 

“My good old friend, don’t despair. I know you’re nearing a statistical numbers hurdle, but look, I read in one of those magazines that longevity is increasing and soon 150 will not be an unusual life expectancy."  She looked at me in the mirror and sighed as if to say,  "When a new robot comes along will you be keeping me or will I go the way of all flesh?" 

"Oh, I'd hope to have you stick around for several years, my dear! I can't get along without you now, but the time will come, no doubt, when you and I will need to go our separate ways. You're going to a lovely place in the National Cemetery near Riverside to rest beside my late husband's robot.  Where I'll be or in what state I'll be, even I don't know, but I'm expecting my change to be a kind of promotion. Still, like I said before, we may have a good many years left if we can keep on doing as well as we are now." 

Robata smiled back at me in the mirror again and I said, "Let's sing a duet! Remember that old song that goes, 'You may not be an angel, 'cause angels are so few, but until the day when one comes along, I'll string along with you?'" Then we sang and even danced together.

Robota always reacts well to song and dance, so afterwards I glanced at her and saw she was resting on the sofa and smiling in a knowing way. And you know what?  She kept on smiling all the rest of the day!  

Information Surfeit

The world of information is getting too big for me. It always has been. Except when I was in elementary school. I was like a sponge there and felt particular pleasure in being able to read. All through school I was in my element untiI after my second year of college when I got married. Looking back, I have thought at times I might have become a perpetual full time student instead, but I'd have missed too much. Since my husband's military career kept us moving around we didn't settle down long enough for me to further my formal education. So, I just took up reading helter-skelter.

Now-a-days I find it interesting to keep up with the news. I read two good newspapers, The Wall Street Journal and The Christian Science Monitor. I also get the Sunday edition of a local paper. I watch a cross-section of news broadcasts on TV as well as the Opinion segments of all. But I maintain a healthy degree of skepticism, knowing as I discovered long ago, you can't believe everything you read or hear.

I haven't taken a word of advice I once heard, "When picking up a newspaper, read only the comics. They're the only pages that make any sense." I do read the comics, but if I don't read the rest from first to last pages, I try to catch what seems most important. Also, I try to read books by some of the best authors, past and present. But I simply can't keep up with all the reading I plan to do or want to do. I either get distracted in the daytime or save my reading for bedtime. You can guess how that goes.

Being well informed, well read, is a noble ambition, I think. It can spur noble actions and prayer. But sometimes I feel like I did when, as a second-grader on the school bus, I asked Esther, a senior in high school, if I could look at her books. Opening a thick book with no pictures, I was stunned. Do you mean I'll have to read all this when I get to high school?"  She laughed and answered, "Yes, and Joycie, it won't be easy!" She was right, and even she didn't know the half of it!

How Not To Become Invisible

I remember when Robby, my second husband, and I came to his family dinner parties we would be given a place to sit, and then the next generation down would get busy in the kitchen, jabbering away with each other. The next next generation down, the grandkids, would acknowledge us as they came in, give us a kiss on the cheek, and then launch into conversation with each other. At the dinner table verbal and intensive crossfire communication would continue amidst laughter and lively banter while we'd sit at the head of the table in quiet wonder. It was fun at first to see and hear them but most of it gave us little opportunity to insert intelligent remarks. We'd go home and Robby would say. "You know, at these get-togethers I feel invisible, almost irrelevant. No one asks me questions or talks to me. I might as well be part of the furniture." I had to agree, but I'd say, "Maybe you could call them to order like you used to call your students to order in your classroom when you taught geology. Then ask a question or two."

"Heck, I shouldn't have to do that!" he'd say. They're my grandkids. I have so much to offer, so much experience. After all, I earned a fellowship at MIT, got my PhD at Washington University, helped discover bauxite in Jamaica and the Dominican Republic during WWII. I have great stories to tell about those days. When I got married (and that's a story too,) we often lived in foreign countries, even took the whole family on a round the world cruise for a year. I once rode a donkey up into the hills of Afghanistan. I've been to Kenya, even lived and taught in Australia and Brasil. Wouldn't that be interesting to them?"

"Well, it should be," I'd counter, "but they are so wound up in their own lives. I suppose we could get a word in about them to catch their attention." He'd say, "I've tried that, but I know so little about their lives. Even listening to them, I get lost. I think computers have done that."

Robby's grandchildren did love their "Granddad." It was simply that generational gap most of us find ourselves in when they're beyond the lap-sitting, "Read-to-me" stage. I myself didn't ask my grandparents enough questions. Now I'm thinking of writing about them in a book to pass down to future generations and frankly, it's slim pickin's. Still, whatever tidbits I can offer would flesh out the statistical facts like dates of birth, death, marriage, children, etc. that show up on census records when a person starts looking up their ancestors.

After we're gone, there will no doubt be many times the kids will say, "I wish I'd asked Grandma (or Grandpa) about that." I've said it myself. I probably have a few more stories about generations past because I lived with my grandmother for over two years when I went to college. Unless we and our forebears were famous and others found us worthy to write books about, most of our stories will be lost. That's sad, but it's a fact. We need to get busy and write. Not in the "I did this and we did that" style, however. We should write in a captivating way that will snag their interest. Can't do that? Then learn how. Classes in writing memoir are popular these days and you meet many people in them who have fascinating stories. Some could even make the best sellers' list. These fellow writers will encourage you while you do the same for them.

When I go to antique shops or thrift stores and see family pictures, no doubt torn from somebody's precious album, I nearly weep. Here is a little girl all dressed up in her Sunday best with hat and gloves,  long stockings and polished shoes, standing erect for the camera with a sweet smile on her face. Who was she? How did her picture get out of the family? Didn't anyone care? It could have been included in a book of memoir. At least someone would know her name and something about her.

Our memories are a treasure trove, meant to be shared in some compelling manner. We don't have to bore our kids. We can record our story in some beguiling way that might even gain the attention of some one or two of our descendants far down the line. It's surprising how much that was hidden in the mind's attic comes to light when you begin to write. So, you out there! Why not start a blog? Better yet, make it a book. Improvise a little, even a lot. Use some writers' license, have fun! At least you won't become invisible.

Keep'n Up

The title of this blog is one I used on a car license plate for a new 1998 Pontiac Firebird I bought. It looked like a deep dark sea green surf board. In it I felt about fifty years younger than I was. I'd see people glance my way and do a double-take. They probably wondered why a white-haired granny would be driving such a car. Then they'd read the license plate: KEEPNUP.

Yes, I'd like to think I'm keeping up in many ways although with people like the late Steve Jobs spilling out new devices all the time I'm not doing such a good job of it these days. I do own a Mac, however, and with the help of the younger generation I can use it for a few things. What a far cry it is to write this blog on it compared to the old Underwood typewriter in my dad's office that I played with as a kid! Or the ones I struggled with in typing class when making a correction took forever. Then White-Out was a leap forward. I'm still getting used to this blogging business. Writing the first draft, giving it a once-over,  publishing it minutes afterwards, going back in to edit and correct the typos after publication, if necessary. When I wrote my book, Claudia's Home, I had a PC and it took me two years to get it published! But that was about fifteen years ago.

It's been less than two weeks since someone in our writing class suggested I do a blog. I had not even read a blog then. I'd heard about blogging but it was just one more thing I couldn't take time to wonder about. Now it's still such a new world to me that I can't explain it to myself. All I know is that I'm having a ball doing it. I'll have to confer with Robin, my daughter, who set this thing up for me, however, because I can see very little sign of anyone reading it. Isn't that what a blog is all about? I don't wonder though. The modern world is so full of reading these days that they say hand held books and magazines are apt to go completely out. How would anyone find my blog in the oceans of stuff on the Internet?

Now, much as I enjoy reading and holding a book or newspaper or magazine in my hands, I could really appreciate not having to dig my way out of all the printed stuff I find in my mailbox. When credit cards offer free magazine subscriptions I can't help myself. And I get the Wall Street Journal (though I'm way over my head in that!). Still, I love to see it there on my doorstep mornings. I scan it with my morning cup of coffee and feel so smug! I can't count the number of books I've put markers in that are waiting to be finished. And I own more books than any single grandma should. I love going to the library, but have had to curtail that too because I feel lost amidst the shelves and can't decide what to choose. Often I go out with nothing because the books I have at home that I want to read haunt my conscience.

You wouldn't believe all the neat boxes and baskets I've bought to handle the excess reading materials I've accumulated. Trouble is, once they get stored I forget what's in them and I wonder when the day will come that I will get to their contents. Frankly, I'm ashamed at this moment to see lying around the house the number of papers, magazines, books, mail items, catalogues, etc. that need to be filed away in those wicker baskets and handsome boxes I've bought at Pier One and World Market and TJMax. I've run out of room for them all. Under the desk, under tables, in night stands, in the hall closet, oh my! I can't even remember what's in them. I'm not "Keep'n up" at all!

You see, by the time I've tidied the house, walked the dog, watched the news on TV, and maybe a movie in the evening, besides going out to shop, to my writing class, the Friday afternoon bridge game, checking my e-mail and Facebook page, playing the piano, doing a little sculpting, tending the patio garden, going to church on Sundays, having an occasional lunch out, a movie now and then, and all the other things I do, I marvel that I ever was able to run a household, raise three kids, hold down a job, and read?.....whew! The bottom line is, I love to read but daytimes I'm too active so I look forward to bedtime when I can settle down under the covers with a good book. You can guess how that goes. The next thing I know it's time to get up and take in the morning paper!

Keep'n up is not a thing I've mastered, but these days I've managed to take time to write a blog and I'm rather proud of myself for even trying.

Talents

In my family we, the parents, did not set goals for our children, but once they had found their own interests and talents we encouraged them along those lines. Our elder son, Wally, loved music so we saw that he had lessons with good teachers on the piano and flute. In college he majored and got his degree in music. He organized a group of fellow musicians and conducted a symphony concert for his senior project and it was a rousing success. Were it not for the draft into military service during the Vietnam war, he might have become a professional musician. Instead he became an officer and pilot in the U.S. Air Force, a career that lasted for 28 years. He loved that too but music is still his avocation.

David, our second son, showed an aptitude for fixing things and inventing other things. At a very young age he always had to know how things work, even if he had to take them apart to find out. Since he was able to get them back together properly we encouraged him. He also loved the theater and dancing. Today his inventive talents are serving well  in Silicon Valley but he's also going to ballroom dancing classes.

Robin, our daughter, was an artist from early childhood. She has made art her career and is doing very well with the promise of becoming highly successful. We never told her that an art career would mean starvation in a highly competitive world. She found that out on her own and learned how to market her work. She isn't starving and she's making a name for herself. Several patrons even collect her work. 

To those of  us who have not discovered our talents or, having discovered them, don’t know how to improve them, I say, it’s never too late. As for myself, I’m just now getting serious about clay sculpture. I make faces that look like real people and as for writing, I have one published book under my belt.  and continue to write in my journal nearly every day. I play the piano for my own pleasure, content to leave that as my goal. If fame and fortune come my way I’ll be most surprised and, I suspect, not too happy about that. Posthumously would be all right. I’d be glad to have my children capitalize on what I've done if it's good, but there's not much likelihood of that either. I'm not apt to lose my best talent of all, which is simply fiddling around with the things I like to do and progressing an inch at a time. Being driven is not one of them. 

I can admire those who go far in the pursuit of their talents, or any distance at all. The point is to keep going. Life must be dull without the recognition of some talent in oneself, even if it’s only a penchant for tidiness. Which reminds me of a favorite aunt of mine. Auntie Dorris was a beautiful woman whose main talent, if you could call it that, was reading. She could read a book a day. She used to tell of the time her mother had a group of women over for afternoon tea. Dorris was in the kitchen helping out. The guests were bragging about the talents of their offspring. Dorris slowed down a bit and cocked her ear. It was Grandmother’s turn. “Viola sings beautifully. She could be an opera singer someday. Kenneth is graduating with honors from  engineering college and he plans to build bridges in China. Faith is a fine pianist. What a joy it is to hear her play!" Here Grandmother paused. ..."and Dorris...well, ummm, (pause)"  Then her voice brightened, "No one can clean up a kitchen like my Dorris!" Thank goodness Auntie Dorris thought that was funny!  Being neat is a talent too. Besides she was beautiful.

“Whatever you are by nature, keep to it; never desert your line of talent. Be what nature intended you for and you will succeed.” (Sydney Smith, 1771-1845) 

Way Stations

I have a canary who sings a lot. When I stop to really listen I marvel that such a small creature can express such virtuosity and joy. Some might not appreciate a singer such as Tommy in their homes but, to me, he captures all that is pure and perfect and distills it into song.He is caged but doesn't know it. Once I left the door open all day since some say to let your canary out now and then, but Tommy chose to stay put. He's glad for what he has without calling it small or insufficient. He is orangey red and beautiful, and seems to know it. Or does that little mirror toy in his cage look like another one of his kind? At any rate, he enjoys his reflection, his home and me.


My home, the little condo I own that sits on the lip of a warbling creek doesn't have bars, but if it did I wouldn't mind. I could still see my little neighborhood, the tall trees, the miniature waterfall, and the winding paths and footbridges nearby. And I could still watch for my daughter, Robin, when she comes over from her place because she lives in this area too. As she crosses the footbridge with the sun shining on her strawberry blonde hair I think how similar I felt when I watched her tread bravely down the street to her bus stop when she was a kindergartener.


Along the path of life I've enjoyed many homes, and they have all pleased me, large and small. Each forms a chapter in family life and beyond. They remind me of those other places dear to my heart and carry with them the kind of stories we often reminisce on. As I moved from one to another my favorite possessions have accompanied me. I have no store room here, no garage either, so I say to myself, if I might store something more than I've managed to get into drawers, cupboards, closets and under the beds, then I don't need it. If it's precious enough to keep then it should be visible and appreciated. An interior designer might be frustrated with me, but it's not so much that's packed into a house as how well-packed it is. Mine, people say, looks homey and artistically arranged, not cluttered but lived in. 


Several times I've believed I would never move again, but I always have, and each time for the better I say. I've seen enough of moving to last me a lifetime. Still, if life is eternal, as I believe, I no doubt will move again. I just don't care to think of that now because I also believe my home is my present sense of heaven and this may be all of heaven I can embrace right now!

First and Last, Obsolete

"You'll never know," he said. "Just as you don't recall the day you were born what it was like to take your first breath, you'll never know when you take your last breath." Come to think of it,  it's that way with a lot of things. "First" and "last" are what slip through the cracks in life. Especially, I think, in regard to oneself.


Shakespeare, I believe it was, called sleep "the twin sister of death." I slip into sleep every night without knowing the exact moment. I like to read in bed so I get into my night clothes, brush my teeth, clean my face, then sit up in a bank of pillows, turn on the bedside lamp, pick a book, and read. That does it every time. Before long I'm gone and when I wake up all I have to do is put aside the book, turn off the lamp, and settle down for the rest of the night. Then I wake up the next morning and take up life where I left off. Not much has changed during the night.


Since I don't dread that little procedure, but welcome it, I rather think I won't dread dying. It must be natural at this stage of the infinite span of life, like slipping in and out of a dream. It was the ones who were standing by who experienced my birth. It must have been quite real to them, but, to me, it was not a thing worth remembering. "As for death," my friend added, "only those who have the job of dealing with a dead body or the loss of your company will see it as real, not you."


I'd like to believe he was right. Probably I'll experience an afterlife of some sort. The reason I think so is that I think so. I believe we get what we expect. As for pre-existence, I can't vouch for that, but I've had inklings of indications that it, too, is real. I just think that the long sleep in embryo and infancy tended to blot it out of consciousness. If, indeed, life is eternal and we've each had, are having, and will have, our share of it eternally, then wouldn't it be cumbersome to deal with an endless past? It's much more pleasant, to me, to let it remain as unknown to me as the future. I'd get tired just thinking about it. As for the afterlife, I can't foresee it except by faith so I don't think of that much either. I'm sure the best preparation for it is to make the most of today. Maybe this is Nature's way of keeping life fresh and uncomplicated and mysterious.


Recently I addressed this subject more realistically. I said to myself, "Why not live your life as if there were to be no death? Take those words of your friend to heart, that death may come as a night's sleep and you'll awaken from it as naturally as you woke up this morning. Why not carry on as if nothing more than that will happen? So, now, suppose further that you have a hand in creating your  forever life? Then what would you be doing with it? The whole idea of approaching life as if it lies before you, not behind, and with infinite possibilities, - isn't that more appealing than thinking of age as a precursor to death? It might actually be a time to prepare for a brighter next life." 


Well, I didn't take on any burden of some high and lofty goal. I didn't say to myself I'd attempt the impossible. I just said, I'm going to make each day be a little better. I can do that, and I do. I love life and I don't have to cling to it as if it were going to leave me or I to leave it. If life is the grand reality that I think it is, then it will hang onto me, and I'm going to enjoy every minute of it! Things have been going well for me since that little talk. I feel like I'm heading to a goal called Understanding. I gain a little each day and each day I make a few stops to enjoy the view. I'm sure I'll never reach the ultimate peak of Understanding's mountain summit where I'll know all there is to know, but I keep climbing and imagine what it might be like to see from there. Now that must be one fantastic sight!

Housekeeping

I mentioned before that I'd far rather have a robot to do what I
command in housecleaning than have to do it myself. Short of that, there's another solution. Do what needs to be done by letting the spirit move me. Since a schedule seems arbitrary I don't have one. I have a tendency to let housework go and only keep things visually tolerable instead of pleasingly perfect. I like the adage someone quoted to me that says the way to be enlightened is to "eat when you're hungry, drink when you're thirsty, sleep when you're sleepy and work when you feel like it." Surprisingly, I do feel like cleaning house once in a while, and when I do, it gives me such a feeling of pleasure afterwards that I wonder why I don't feel like it more often. I suspect that my habit of keeping up in little ways lets me avoid deep down work.

An added perk in responding to the impulse to clean house is when I pick up the phone and hear that company is coming and I don't have to do a thing to get ready for them. It makes me believe that the angels who try to guide me must be happy too. But, better yet is the feeling I get when I've been out somewhere and come home. I open the front door and at first glance get a jolt of pleasure. Oh, my! Robatta has been here! No, she's waiting in the wings of the future. I did it myself!

My mother was talented in many ways but she always gave her house first priority. She lived in those days when marriage meant staying at home, keeping house, taking care of the children and cooking a tasty dinner for her husband to enjoy after coming home from work. Her personal pleasures such as taking a hike through the woods in back of our country home, playing the piano, reading and sewing, were given priority only when housekeeping was done. She'd come back from her hikes with a small bouquet of wildflowers for an added touch. I wouldn't have been surprised if she even stopped to swing on that swing Daddy hung for us on the old oak tree down there. Of course, she never left us alone, so if we weren't in school we went along. But these things came after the housework had left our home immaculate. They were her way of placing highest priority things last.

I have picked up just a smidgen of her delight in maintaining an orderly house, but I am not the perfectionist she was. I dust with a feather duster. She polished. Still, she didn't work slavishly. She worked as if to show she had authority over the house. She gave certain chores to me and expected  me do them well, rewarding me with a happy look on her face when inspecting my work. I could take a rug beater out to the clothes line and beat the dust out of a rug with a vengeance. That was even fun. And washing dishes and drying them to see them sparkle brought hugs of appreciation. Now-a-days I even frown when I find clean dishes in the dishwasher. It means I can't put dirty ones in until the clean ones are put away. And there's not much to be proud of there.

Working when I feel like it makes me feel like it more often. But here I am at 9:30 a.m. and still in my robe! I don't feel like it yet, but after I get dressed I think I'll get to work on the house. Just enough to put Mother's smile on my face!

Pleasures

I believe in pleasure. I mean the kind of pleasure that has no stingy side-effects. Religionists often catagorize certain pleasures as sinful. I’d prefer to say that these are like detours that make the journey to real pleasures take longer and they offer more pain.  Physicists will tell you that pleasure is a function of the brain. We all have our own ideas of pleasure and  we choose them in nearly every waking hour.

Whether we are rich or poor, handsome or homely, more gifted or less gifted, even well or sick, we can choose pleasure rather than displeasure. It’s a pleasure to have things right and to make them right in a pleasing way.  It’s also a pleasure to surmount adversity rather than submit to it. It’s a pleasure to do what you love to do, but also to know that what you’ve chosen to do is right and worthy to be pleasurable.

Many put off pleasures as if they were end of the road things instead of enjoying them during the whole trip. People complain of ugliness in getting older instead of recognizing that there can be beauty at any age, when you know how to define it.

There is no doubt that circumstances affect pleasure. The key point we often miss is that genuine honest pleasure within also produces circumstances of pleasure without. Pleasure in small and large things is a form of gratitude. When I make it a point to enjoy small pleasures all day long  it's no wonder that this leads to great pleasure in the long run.

So, what more can I say? Just this: Giving pleasure and taking it, taking pleasure and giving it, make a cycle that is more fun than a merry-go-round and what’s more, it goes places.

Enjoying The Back Seat

At my age people are apt to take a back seat to many things. They become spectators instead of players. I don't begrudge anyone of advanced years who is continuing to demonstrate his or her abilities in physical ways such as running, playing tennis, swimming. That must be their choice and more power to them. For myself, I see these years as a time to enjoy a quieter, more mental form of exercise. I can picture enjoying a game of golf now and then, and I could still wield a tennis racket if I cared to. It's just that there are other pursuits I enjoy more. I find this a more thoughtful time of life, a sort of sitting back and going along for the ride kind of life.

"Taking the back seat" can also be taken literally. "Mom, you sit here," the kids always say after I've given one of them the keys to my car. They hold open the door on the passenger side for me but I decline, "No, Honey, I love to sit in the back seat. I feel like Miss Daisy." If no one else is sitting there I often choose the center spot which gives me a better view between the headrests of the front seats. Then I really feel special, almost queenly. I tuck myself in, fasten the seat belt, and settle down for the picture show of humanity on the go. I soak in the countryside, or pass pleasing judgment on the landscaping along broad streets in our neighborhood. I help to find parking places in shopping center parking lots, or, if we're traveling a-far and happen into a small town it is fun to see old houses where sidewalks serve shade trees and screened-in front porches.

In the back seat I listen to the front seaters work out family affairs and try to remember the name of some song of the 40's playing softly on the satellite radio. No more am I the mother figure in the family, hosting holiday dinners, packing school lunches, wiping away tears or laughing at my husband's oft-told jokes in company. The stories from school days have all passed me by now that my grandchildren are out of school. Instead I take loving hugs from their little ones who call me "GG Joy" (Great Grandma Joy). It seems most everyone calls me Grandma, even my own children sometimes. I used to mind that. I don't anymore.

They say older people need less sleep and I think it's true. I get up around five-thirty a.m. and even earlier some days. I sneak quietly into a dim-lit kitchen (my canary and finch are still asleep) to fix myself a bowl of dry cereal with sliced banana, berries, a Medjool date, a few chopped nuts, fresh berries and whole milk. (Not the chalky 2% or skim.) I brew a cup of coffee and open the patio door to hear the burbling creek next to my condo while it's still too dark to see it. Sitting in my Lazy Boy chair, I savor each bite and sip. Then I take in the morning paper but lay it aside for my journal and a talk with Muse. Muse and I go back a long way. We reminisce about our yesterdays and talk about todays too. If we look toward tomorrows it's not for long. I accept no reason to doubt that they are like good gift packages awaiting their time to be opened. Muse and I open to the next blank page and the pen begins to write. Write what? We never know ahead of time. An idea pops up and here we go on a pen and paper ride! This time we share the front seat.