Annice

Every August for the last four years, a group of us (women over 50) spend the day on one of the most beautiful lakes in this country.

OUR LAKE

Hope you don’t mind if I don’t share the name of that beautiful pristine lake in Tennessee, but we just don’t want all the tourists coming with their loud motor boats, radios, etc.  Even though we only spend one day on the lake, it becomes an event for us gals.  There is a core of us who embark on this journey every year, but sometimes friends drop out (usually because of family commitments) so others join in.  It’s always a surprise, and it always works out.

Why is this day so special for us women over 50?   It’s simple.  It gives us one day where we can leave behind all the demands of our families – kids, aging parents, husbands, partners, meals, laundry, and on and on.

TAKING OFF

For one full day, our fearless captain Gwen, steers our Pontoon Boat so we can  just “be.” For some of us, it’s an escape from the everyday hassles of computers and technology that

LIFE IS GOOD!

sometimes overwhelm our modern and crazy life.  It allows us to bathe our bodies in the cool freshwater of the lake and feel the chill on our skin when we get out.  It allows us to anticipate the taste of a slice of juicy cold watermelon after a piece of tangy barbecued chicken.  It’s a time to visit with each other without interruptions, and it’s a time to say good-by to summer and agree to plan two visits to the lake next year even though we all know it won’t happen.  It just is.

TOO MUCH FUN!

Annice

If you recall, we rescued him nine years ago, complete with a bullet underneath his belly.  And since that time, he’s blessed us with so much love and affection, charming anyone who’s ever been to my house.  He was my boy.  I’m so sad to say that he died suddenly of liver cancer (at least that’s what the doctor thinks) three weeks ago.  It happened so fast, I still can’t believe it.  I was in Cleveland coping with the sudden death of my father when my husband called to tell me Gus was sick.  I wish I could have been there to say good-bye, but since that was not meant to be, indulge me in a few photos as I say my sweet good-bye to my sweet Gus.

Gus with Stick

Gus taking it easy

Gus Sleeping

Annice

Just when I thought my care-taking days and nights were diminishing, life decided otherwise.  For starters, my husband’s surgery to pin his hip back in place failed, and ten days later he was back in the hospital for a full-blown hip replacement.  While I know this is a very common procedure, it doesn’t mean it’s easy or pain-free, not to mention what it’s been like for moi.  This time, the doctor recommended home health care, and thank god for Care Partners (and drugs).

Care Partners is providing quality nurses, physical therapists and even an occupational therapist who come to our house for support and care which is not only needed but greatly appreciated.   But, it’s a slow recovery, and my husband hates being dependent on anyone, even me.  And he won’t let me insert a photo of him doing his physical therapy, claiming he has privacy issues.

And for those of you who asked about my sweet rescue, Gus, I’m happy to report that his anal infection is practically gone and he’s doing much better thanks to the very expensive auto-immune drug treatment he was on for thirty days.  Now, he/we have a new problem.  Well, it’s not entirely new as he already had a bad knee (ACL) so, you can imagine the beating his knee took while being severely constipated and forced to squat to do his business.  This all happened while Len was in the hospital, and I had to actually help Gus (all 85 lbs. of him) get up and down despite the customized dog bed I had made for him and Carli.  Thank you Kathleen for making such cool looking beds for both my dogs.     

In between Len’s surgery, I found myself scurrying home to help Gus go out and then finally taking him to the vet – very difficult getting him into the car.  The doc gave him a stronger anti-inflammatory (short term because it could damage the liver) and after 2 days he was improving.  Now he is back to himself and Len is home and I’m exhausted.

And just when I was feeling sorry for myself, I turned on Dr. Oz (daytime T.V. is quite an experience), and  on that particular day I saw a short piece about a young mother who has three (NOT 1 but 3!) autistic children.  That certainly put it all in perspective for me.

Annice

It’s not supposed to snow a lot in Asheville, but this winter (like the rest of the country) we were covered up.  During the last snow storm, my husband decided to shovel his car out of the driveway even though I told him there was a huge sheet of black ice and it was too dangerous, and in fact stupid.  However, my dear husband was determined to get his car out of our driveway no matter what.  Did I say I live on a mountain 2200 ft. high and our driveway is one hell of a steep slope?

I won’t bore you with all the details about our driveway and the fact that a standard 8 ft. plow is too wide to go down it.  So, on that particular day, two weeks ago, my husband slipped and fell.  He said he didn’t hurt himself and proceeded to walk around for almost a week with pain that eventually got so bad he had to go to the doctor.  The next day, he was in surgery for a broken hip and 3 pins.

broken hip with pins

When accidents happen and you’re forced to get out of your daily routine and take care of someone, you get to look at how compassionate you are (or not) and how you react to change.  For me, it began even before the accident.  Unlike my husband, I just accepted the blizzard and the fact that I was stuck in the house and would be for a while.  We had food, heat, books, music, T.V., computers, telephone, beer, wine, chocolate, bread machine, flour, etc. so why was he so anxious about getting off the mountain?  Well, I asked him that question.  And here’s what he said:  “I just don’t like the idea of not being able to get out!”

The infamous driveway

I probed further.  “What do you mean?  What’s the big deal if you have to stay home for a few days?”

Husband: “I want to be able to get down the mountain in case of an emergency.”

Me: “What kind of emergency?”, I wondered.

Husband: “You never know.  An E-M-E-R-G-E-N-C-Y.  It could be anything.”

Me: “Oh, I get it.  We have to be ready for an E-M-E-R-G-E-N-C-Y.”

So, here I am, being a caregiver to someone who is stuck on pre-emptive emergency planning who happens to be an impatient, cranky and frustrated patient relegated to a walker for maybe 6 weeks.  So, thanks to my husband, I get to practice patience and compassion every day.  Sometimes, I make his favorite comfort foods, and bring him éclairs when I am running errands.  Sometimes, I want to punch him.  This past Sunday, I even dropped him off at a Super Bowl party, very eager to do it, I admit.  Of course,  I had an ulterior motive.  I wanted to do a two hour yoga class.  Thank you very much Cindy Dollar One Center Yoga, Asheville for that opportunity for harmony and balance in my life this week.  

Annice

If you recall, over a year ago, I wrote about Gus, my 10 year old Chesapeake Bay Retriever.  We rescued him eight years ago, complete with a bullet underneath his belly.

Gus taking it easy

My post at that time was about how constipated he was and how putting him on prednisone turned him into the dog from hell.  Needless to say, it was a messy time for both of us.

Well, poor Gus is not only constipated again but it’s much worse: perianal fistulas.  When the vet gave me the diagnosis, I immediately went home to research it.  I already knew the condition was painful because poor Gus took forever to poop, and moan while doing it.  Besides the pain, there was the itching, and irritation of the skin surrounding the anus.  Worse still, the poor guy has the beginnings of small ulcers surrounding his anus (I’ll spare you the photos).  Since Gus can’t take prednisone, he has to take an immunosuppressive medication (cyclosporine) which costs almost $300 for a month’s supply, and that’s if I buy it in Canada.  The doctor doesn’t know how long he has to be on it, but Gus doesn’t care than it costs more than my car payment.  Oh, he’s also on an antibiotic, and Flagyl (prescribed for  anti-inflammatory bowel).  And don’t let me forget to mention, he’s also taking Tramadol for pain relief for the ACL (Anterior Cruciate Ligament) connecting the shin bone to the thigh bone.)

Gus at play

Good dog

Despite all that, Gus is still very athletic, eats like it’s his last meal, and scares anyone who comes to the door unannounced.  And most of all, he’s extremely affectionate and worth all my efforts.  Obama care for dogs?  That’s what I’m talking about!

The Biltmore Inn

You all have been introduced to my dear friend Adele Rose, and on Nov. 24^th she turned 88.  I say that’s a cause for celebration in grandiose style.  Joined by our favorite yoga teacher and friend, Cindy Dollar from One Center Yoga, the three of us arrived promptly for tea at 4:00 p.m.

In the Library at the Inn

Seated in the Library of the Inn surrounded by magnificent views of the mountains, Amanda, our server, emerged to place white linen napkins on our lap – or a black linen napkin in my case  so I wouldn’t get white lint on my trousers – oh so civilized.  Then, our new BFF, Amanda, opened a wooden tea chest displaying samples of loose tea which we sniffed so that we could make the most important decision of the day, choosing the perfect tea.

Cindy and Adelle enjoying High Tea

Me, I was seduced by the Mayan Chocolate Truffle herbal tea, described as a place, “where chocolate chips mingle with chunks of chili and red pepper, and bits of apple and strawberry in this stimulating herbal infusion with a sweet finish.”  

This artisan tea from the Mighty Leaf Tea Company has turned me into a loyal customer, and as soon as I returned home I went online to see if I could order it.  Sure enough, I could order not only loose tea but silky tea  pouches (not bags) that are stitched with 100% unbleached cotton.  I see many boxes of Mayan Chocolate Truffle tea in my future!

Once we decided on our tea, we were served traditional English finger sandwiches, followed by petit fours consisting of  scones, lemon cranberry bread, tea pastries, and let’s not forget the lemon curd, strawberry jam,  and Devonshire cream so vital to our scones, and oh so civilized!

So, like Anna, the 7th Duchess of Bedford who is often credited as having invented the tradition of afternoon tea in the early 1840′s, we spent several hours sipping tea, dining on petits fours, and enjoying the magnificent view.  In honor of the Duchess who was keen on proper tea etiquette, we managed not to spill anything on the table cloth or ourselves.

Oh so civilized!

According to the Duchess,  to avoid spilling the hot liquid onto oneself, one must hold the tea cup with one’s fingers to the front and back of the handle with the pinkie held up to allow balance.  By the way, pinkie up does not mean straight up in the air, but slightly tilted.  And by all means, never loop your fingers through the handle, nor grasp the vessel bowl with the palm of your hand.  Should you be inclined to forget you manners, let me remind you, do not stir your tea with your tea spoon in sweeping circular motions.  Place your tea spoon at the six o’clock position and softly fold the liquid towards the twelve o’clock position two or three times.  And, never never leave your tea spoon in your tea cup.  It belongs on the right side of the tea saucer.  And of course, never wave or hold your tea cup in the air!  When not in use, place the tea cup back in the tea saucer, unless you are at a buffet tea, then, be sure to hold the tea saucer in your lap with your left hand and hold the tea cup in your right hand.  When not in use, place the tea cup back in the tea saucer and hold in your lap.  The only time a saucer is raised together with the teacup is when one is at a standing reception.  Ok, did you get all that?

Frankly, during tea, we didn’t think twice about the Duchess and her rules of proper tea etiquette, not even for a second, and to be sure, we had a hell of a good time.  I think Henry James said it best, “There are few hours in life more agreeable than the hour dedicated to the ceremony known as afternoon tea.  ~ The Portrait of a Lady

Annice

How far you would drive for a great AFFORDABLE haircut?  Would you drive 2.5 hours?  I confess, I did exactly that.  Included in that haircut was color to banish the gray, a few caramel-colored highlights that my sister says is needed to lighten up the face, and since I had to wait for the color anyway, I went ahead and had my eyebrows waxed.  So there, I drove 2.5 hours up and over the mountains (round-trip) from Asheville, NC to Unicoi, TN for a day of high maintenance.  On the way, I picked up my friend Betty in Marshall where we had breakfast  at Zuma’s before heading out to the Dragonfly Salon.

Me, Betty and Zuma's

“Why do it?, my husband asks.  “You’re crazy.  You mean to tell me there is not one hairdresser in all of Asheville who can cut your hair?”  Of course there is, but I don’t feel like paying two hundred dollars every time I need a cut and color.  You see, I was spoiled by Mari, who is not only a great haircutter and colorist, but does it very affordably.

The Infamous Dragonfly Salon in Unicoi, TN

Me and Mari - the process begins

When Mari first moved to Tennessee I told myself I would never drive to another state for a haircut.  That was before I spent two years in search of the perfect hairdresser, stopping women everywhere asking them who cut their hair and how much they paid.  I had no shame.  I want to tell you, no one has ever accused me of being cheap.   I completely support stylists getting as much as they can for their haircuts.  It’s just that I can’t pay those big city prices, and let’s not forget that the economy tanked and without any cost of living increase over the last three years, my salary has been going down instead of up.  And yes, I’m happy to have a job – no whining here.

So, after considerable introspection, I embarked on the Big C (the big compromise).  I opted to go local and accept a mediocre haircut and color at half the price.  That lasted for two years until my mediocre stylist turned what was supposed to be brown hair (with caramel highlights) totally blond.  I screamed.  I had no one to blame but myself.  Why did I tell her to leave her lazy husband who hadn’t worked for two years and forced her to pay the mortgage, the loan for his houseboat, and his kid’s vacation at Disneyland?   No doubt, my blond hair was  punishment for giving out free advice when not asked!

So that’s how I ended up driving 2.5 hours to Tennessee with my good friend Betty,  only to return to North Carolina at 4:00 in the afternoon, nicely coiffed and colored.  And in case you’re wondering why I  just don’t go gray, let me tell you, if the economy gets any worse, I will have to because I won’t be able to afford the gas.

Annice and Betty looking good!

Annice

If you’re thinking about a trip to the beautiful mountains of Asheville, NC,  think about the week of September 20-26th.  It’s Active Aging Week, and the theme is:  Be Active Your Way. The Center for Creative Retirement at The University of North Carolina  (www2.unca.edu/nccr/) will participate by hosting Active Aging Day, a free series of activities, lectures, and displays on Saturday, September 25^th, at The Reuter Center on the UNCA campus from 9 am until 4 pm.  Mid-day keynote speaker will be James Laditka, MD from UNC Charlotte. Dr. Laditka will talk about The Brain Initiative.  Activities will be held throughout the day and include things such as Zumba, Fun With Words & Games, Tai Chi, Line Dancing, Nia, and Laughter Yoga. Lectures will be held on topics such as “The Benefits of Exercise,” “Gardening for Your Health,” “Food for Your Brain,” and “Hiking the Blue Ridge.”  Talk about aging gracefully!

Unfortunately, I can’t go because I’ll be visiting my sister in New Mexico, but if I was here, I’d sure be soaking in all the free activities – “Laughter Yoga” is my favorite pick.

If you go and want to write about your experience, send it to us, and we’ll post it.

Annice

Given all the fuss a post or two ago about Oprah looking for women obsessed with aging and beauty, I am happy to turn that page and introduce you to a beautiful and creative  woman over 50 who is far too busy creating cards and more for us women over 50 than being obsessed with aging.   Meet Diane English, a self-taught artist who owned a metaphysical book store in St. Augustine, Florida before moving to Asheville, NC 10 years ago.   After reading The Artist’s Way by Julie Cameron, Diane decided to follow her dream of combining art with her spiritual path allowing her to embark on the next phase of her life.  After visiting her in her studio and seeing many of her cool, cosmic characters, I’d say she is living her dream – minus the downtown condo she covets.

Diane at play, oops, I mean work.

Diane is the owner and creator of  The Great Cosmic Happy Ass Card Co, and if you’ve never received one of her cards, send yourself one.  Why not?  They’re inspiring, whimsical and just plain old kick-ass funny.  This is one of my favorites. This beautiful woman over 50 has aspired to achieve a higher consciousness along her journey, and not without some help from “years of deep meditation, medication, fasting, prayer and a few bottles of Merlot.”  Having had a subscription to her cards,  I knew I was in for a treat when we finally sat down in her lovely bright living room drinking coffee and nibbling scones.

Oops50: What made you finally decide to leave Florida and your bookstore, “Dream Street,” and go into the card business?

Diane: About once every 7 years, I did a painting, and one of them was titled, “Reach for Your Stars.” That became my first card, and it sold out in my bookstore.  Then, I made more cards and magnets, and soon those sales were accounting for 20% of my gross revenue.  That’s when the big box book stores moved in, and I took that as sign to make a change.

Oops50: Kind of like the movie, “You’ve Got Mail.”

Diane: You got it.

Oosp50: How did you come up with the business name, Great Cosmic Happy Ass Co. ?

Diane: I really wanted to use smart ass but I didn’t feel I could really do that.  So, my customers helped me pick the name.

Oops50:  So now I’m going to change the subject a little.  What’s your fondest childhood memory?

Diane: My grandfather carrying me on his shoulders while walking me to the zoo.  He was Irish and English, and we lived in Philly and walked everywhere.  When we got to the zoo, there was a blackbird in a cage at the entrance and he said, “Hi, I’m Joe.”

Oops50: What’s was the first record you bought? Diane: It’s a tie between Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto and Bill Haley and the Comets.

Oops50: Any advice for women over 50?

Diane: Well, I’m well over 50 – 68 in fact.  Don’t listen to anyone.  Follow your heart and do what you want to do.  Don’t be intimidated by the “should’s” in life.  Oh yeah, and keep your nose out of other people’s business.

Oops50:  Right.  I need to remember that.  So what turns you on?

Diane: A romantic dinner in an Italian restaurant, with Luciano Pavarotti singing in the background.

Oops50: So you like Italian?

Diane: I had an aunt who married an Italian, and I remember wonderful Italian dinners.  And I like to cook Italian food–outrageously delicious.

Oops50: What next?  Any new dreams?

Diane: A downtown condo with a large patio and a great view of the mountains of Western NC.  It should have a cable railing, a fireplace on the left side, a kitchen behind that, and a loft upstairs.  The light will be clean and beautiful.  And, don’t forget Rachmaninoff playing in the background.

Oops50: Any must have products you can’t live without?

Diane: My Netflix subscription and Roku, so I can download old movies.

Oops50: So what’s your favorite movie?

Diane: “Casablanca.”  And have you seen “Sunshine Cleaning?”  A very funny movie.

Oops50: So what’s Roku?

Diane: It’s great.  A little black box that lets you stream movies from Netflix.  It’s great.

Oops50: I’ll check it out.  Last question:  Any regrets so far?

Diane: Only that I didn’t know in my 20s what I know now.  And, that I don’t have the same body as I did in my 20’s.

Oops50: Who does?

Rize Cole on her birthday getting a ride w/Harley Davidson instructor Susan Harrison.

Staying in my Lane

I often hear the words “Be you for you.” 

 I chose to internalize this by taking full responsibility.  

I WILL BE ME FOR ME.

We are constantly focusing on the exterior, “what will they think and what will they say?”.   What matters to me is what I think and what I say.  What I am thinking is a powerful clue as to what is in my consciousness .  When we are looking at the exterior, are we neglecting the interior and what is resonating within?

As an elder, I have come to the realization that this is my journey and I can take the fast or scenic route, whichever suits me.

Being an elder can be awesome if you are mentally, physically and spiritually healthy.  For some of us, it is the first time we can stand in our truth, think of self first and be impeccable.  I am aware many elders are still stuck in the past, living with regrets and should have’s, but for most of us it is a joyful time to do our own thing.  I have no concerns about the opinions of others.  What am I supposed to do with what someone thinks of me?  I can observe…they are thinking, but they are in my lane and need to get back in their lane and MTOB (mind their own business).

I may also choose to have fun with them. One of my favorite ways to walk in the world is by tooting my horn when someone makes a decision to get into my lane.  This may look like a tilt of my head and a gentle smile, or I may change lanes by changing the subject.  If they are bold or rude enough to follow me into my new lane, I might let them have it with both barrels, which may sound like a giant laugh and a hug or I may just say something like, “ Oh… listen to that beautiful bird singing” or “Oh… I do love your hat” and continue talking about my love of hats, birds or whatever until they get back into their lane or forget what they had asked me in the first place.

Results: My blood pressure is ok and their feelings are intact.

77 year old poet Rize Cole currently lives in West Columbia, South Carolina.

Rize enjoys traveling, reading, cooking and whatever makes her happy!

You can contact her at mizrize77@yahoo.com

Annice

When Charlie Rose interviews someone, I watch and listen.  I guess that makes me a Charlie Rose groupie (I rely on Tivo to get my fill).  So, when he interviews Joan Rivers about the documentary, “A Piece of Work,” I go see it.  The film, by Ricki Stern and Annie Sundberg, spans the 40 year career of Ms. Rivers.  At 77 (she’s actually 75 in the film), we see a tough broad who is not afraid to bare all.  In fact, she thrives on it, needs it, like an addict.
Watch this great trailer:

I’m not exactly sure when I stopped liking Joan Rivers, but I’m guessing it was back in the late 80s with everyone else.  Falling from grace due to a series of professional and personal blows such as being blacklisted by Johnny Carson/NBC, and the 1987 suicide of her husband/manager, she struggled to find work in her beloved show biz.

The Young Joan Rivers

Circumstances and age seemed to have turned Ms. Rivers into a comic whose jokes seemed more like cruel jabs aimed to hurt the likes of  Liz Taylor and her battle with weight.  I find it very ironic for Joan to be hassling Liz when she was perpetually under the knife of her plastic surgeon re-figuring her face, and who knows what else.  I know it’s none of my business how many face lifts this Grande Dame of comedy endures but frankly, I think her face lifts turned me off when she started to look like a caricature of herself standing in Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum.

Now, here’s the big BUT – after seeing this film, and her journey back to glitz and glamour, I actually like Joan Rivers again!  She’s one smart woman who climbed her way back to legendary status selling her jewelry on QVC, and her red carpet attacks (with her daughter) on celebrity T.V.  And don’t forget her latest gig on Donald Trump’s reality show “The Celebrity Apprentice.”  No, I didn’t watch it but I was not surprised to learn that Ms. Rivers won the competition, which by the way, meant she had to beat out her own daughter, also on the show.  Needless to say, the mother and daughter relationship is strained.  Nothing new here abut mothers and daughters.

The many faces of the Queen of Comedy

In spite of her obsession to be a star and stay on top of her game, I couldn’t help but admire Joan Rivers.  Like I said before, she is one tough broad, and she’s not afraid to fight tooth and nail to keep her dream alive.  Aging gracefully?  Not her.  Aging any way she can is more like it.

Annice

My Gazpacho is better than yours.  Okay, I said it, and it’s true.  I’ve been serving and enjoying this wonderful gazpacho for a very long time.  I wish I could say it’s my creation but in fact, it comes from the cookbook, GOOD FOOD from FAR & WIDE : Favourite family recipes from the United Nations International School 1975.  And of course there is a story there.

In 1975, I visited New York with college friends, and took a tour of the U.N. because I knew one day I would work there.  I was young, ambitious, and wanted an international career.  On my way out of the gift shop, I purchased the cookbook.  I’m not sure why I did, because I was living in a dorm and never cooked.  I’m guessing it was the cheapest thing I could find.  Well, I never did work for the U.N. (although I did work for the World Bank and had many colleagues at the U.N.) but I am grateful for their cookbook.  I must’ve used it hundreds of time over the last 35 years (OMG!  Has it really been that long?) and one of my favorite summer recipes is the Gazpacho on page 22.

I’m sharing it now because it’s been unusually hot here for the mountains (90 degrees plus!), and it’s simply the best meal on a hot summer day.  Just serve it with corn on the cob and you’re done.  Oh, a blueberry cobbler would be the perfect dessert and with all those anti-oxidants, it’s just got to be healthy.

It seems appropriate that I credit Mrs. Henry Kent (whoever she is) for submitting the recipe. While she doesn’t appear to be from Spain judging by the name, she sure knows how to make a Gazpacho, so here goes:

Serves 6

5 or 6 ripe tomatoes, chopped (or 2 cups tomato puree) – I use real tomatoes
1 onion chopped
1 green pepper, chopped
1 cucumber, chopped
2 cups tomato juice
1/3 cup olive oil
3 tablespoons vinegar
1 – 2 cloves garlic (finely minced)
1 teaspoon salt
Tabasco or other hot sauce to taste (my addition)

Blend tomatoes, onion, green pepper and cucumber at high speed for 30 seconds.  (I pulse it in my blender but don’t overdo it). Pour into large bowl.  Combine tomato juice, olive oil, vinegar, garlic, and salt (add hot sauce here if you like) and add to soup.  Refrigerate overnight.  Serve with croutons on top, and an ultra thin slice of green pepper for color.

Prep time: roughly 15 minutes.

That’s the recipe in the book – follow it closely – you can add more garlic if you like, and if you like hot like I do, add some Tabasco.  Also, I don’t like it pureed completely (like pea soup) – I leave some pieces in it, NOT chunks, but very fine pieces of vegetables.  Lastly, if you make it early in the morning, it will be ready in the evening, but if you leave in the fridge overnight it will be perfect.

So when you’re enjoying your Gazpacho this summer, don’t think of me, but Mrs. Henry Kent (probably the wife of some diplomat) whoever and wherever she may be!

Annice

For Father’s Day, I asked my friend, Judy King-Calnek to share some of her memories about her father, who was one of the few African Americans to go to Harvard University in 1941.  Toward the end of her piece, you will find a link detailing his experience at Harvard told by the Boston Globe entitled, Southern Discomfort: With quiet grace, two black men change the heart of Harvard in 1941.   

While driving down the FDR Drive in Manhattan, I was still savoring the excitement of Brazil’s first victory in the World Cup, which I had watched and celebrated with friends in a cute little Brazilian bistro in Brooklyn that could’ve easily been in Copacabana.  I was on my way to work that morning, and even though it was only 7:45 a.m., the sun was shining brightly and it was so warm that I drove with my car windows and sunroof wide open, not to mention the radio cranked up.  

Dr. Judith King-Calnek

As I surfed the pre-selected buttons to find some music, preferably something I could sing along to as it was one of those kind of days, I was grabbed by a voice I had known since my childhood growing up in Cleveland.  It was Louis Armstrong on his tribute album to Fats Waller, singing “All That Meat and No Potatoes” – one of my father’s favorites.  I sang along at the top of my lungs, not like the 50 year old teacher getting ready to talk to her anthropology students as they prepare for a summer of fieldwork, but like the little girl who used to dance frenetically about the living room, with no clue of the double entendre of the lyrics, laughing as my father laughed at my glee and excitement when Satchmo wailed, and Daddy and I both sang out, “Give that food to the alligators!”.

That song and my experience to it, made me think about how much I missed my father, but it also made me happy because for that moment I really was four years old again and my father was about to pick me up and tickle me.  Immediately, I’d laugh and laugh some more and he’d call me his “little sugar-pie” just as Louis Armstrong began to blow his trumpet. 

As a little girl, I felt safe and protected by my father.  He’d always tell me that he was going to bring the sunshine to me when he’d join my mother and me vacationing on Nantucket.  I knew he wasn’t magic, but the strange thing was, we could be having cloudy, foggy weather, and as soon as he’d get to the island, usually in August, our birthday month, the sky would clear up and the sun would come out – just like he promised.                                        

Family House on Nantucket

As I moved into adolescence, my relationship with my father became strained by typical things like teenage rebelliousness.  Soon, I was no longer his cute “little sugar-pie”.  Then, one summer, as a teenager, I began to see a different side of my father.  Being the youngest of four children, I was the last to go through the family rite of passage - working in my father’s office for a few weeks every summer, I found it  hard to call him “Dr. King.”  I remember being surprised when his secretary told me how proud he was of my siblings and me and how much he talked about us.  We had no idea!  In those days he was very stern with us.  That summer, I was not only able to see just my father at work in his medical practice, but a man of great compassion who was profoundly respected by his patients and so many others.   

Okay, it sounds like I’m idolizing my father, and I suppose that many daughters feel that way.  It’s not that I didn’t see his warts and character flaws.  I did.  In fact, that’s what I focused on for many years, but now that I’m a parent of two boys, who will someday become fathers, I’m revisiting my memories of my father.  You see, after becoming a parent, I thought of him differently, and realized that not only did I love my father deeply, but I really liked him as a person.  

Dr. Drue King

  Unfortunately, it was not until his last few months, when my father was retired and in his 80s and had lost his physical mobility due to diabetic neuropathy, that I discovered yet another side of him.  I knew he had gone to the prestigious Boys Latin School in Boston and on to Harvard before World War II, at a time when the term “affirmative action” wasn’t even a twinkle in the eye of a legislator or admissions officer.  In fact, it would be more apt to describe that era as one of “negative action”.  Yet, he had leapt and labored over many of the racially defined hurdles of the era as did countless nameless African American men and women of the first half of the twentieth century.  But because it was Harvard, my father’s story carried certain connotations, or at least more attention than perhaps some others.  

Now, as an adult and as a parent, I realize we are usually hesitant to share certain stories with our children.  Obviously, we don’t readily tell them about the partying, exploits and abuses of young adulthood.  But there are other stories, too, the kind that our children (and other people) often consider remarkable.  It’s just that when we were living them, we didn’t see them as important.  I now understand why part of my father’s story remained with him for so long.  Firstly, he didn’t consider his actions remarkable or noteworthy; he felt he was doing what should be done.  Secondly, there was an element of shame or humiliation attached to efforts he made to move forward in his life. 

But thanks to one curious journalist, Ted Gup, who is now the Chair of the Department of Journalism at Emerson College, my father’s story came to be known through this article in the Boston Globe.  Apparently it moved the 21^st Century student body of Harvard as well as some staff and faculty members who saw fit to bestow on him the Harvard Foundation’s Humanitarian Award.  The University planned a celebration in his honor at which he was to receive the award, but he passed away just three short weeks prior to the date.  

My father died on April 1^st, 2004.  He was 84 years old.  The day he died the film “Big Fish”, a surrealistic story about a son trying to reconcile the truth about his father’s life before his death, was playing on TV.  I watched it over and over again and cried all day long thinking about my dad.  His was a very good life.  He did the things he wanted to, he achieved what he wanted to achieve; he had the family he wanted to have; enjoyed his grandchildren and even some great-grands.  The day before he died he told my sister he was tired, and then we knew we could let him go. 

My father and grandchildren

So today is Father’s Day and it’s okay that I can’t call him and tell him “Happy Father’s Day” because he is still so big and so present in my life.  But, I can reach for any one of those thousands of vivid memories and relive those My wish on Father’s Day is that my sons feel the same way about their parents as I feel about mine, and that their children feel the same.  I think my father gave me a wonderful gift, which I have a hard time naming, but I can certainly feel it when I recall so many of the lessons he bestowed on me.  So today on Father’s Day, I say “Thank you” to my father.  I think I’ll light a candle for him, download some Louis  Armstrong and sing and dance around my living room.

Annice

Last week, I went to Cleveland to spend time with my aging dad.  There was concern–because he fell a few times and could not get up.   While I was visiting, various family members made comments such as, “he’s frail, he needs a walker; he might be depressed; he shouldn’t be driving,” etc.  And what did I find?   Some of the above, but not all.  It’s just not that simple.

To know what’s going on, I decided not to depend on the observations of others.   When I got the chance to talk to my dad alone (about driving, falling, not wanting to use the walker, etc.), he sat back in his big leather chair, looked me right in the eye, and said, “I wasn’t prepared. I just wasn’t prepared to get old like this and not be able to do the things I want and need to do.  I can’t believe it.” 

My heart ached for my dad, yet, at the same time, I turned selfishly to my own needs.  I immediately started thinking about what I can do to prepare myself so I won’t end up like him at 84. I started to make a list in my head of things I need to do to be more vigilant about my life, like walking, more yoga, better diet, more sleep, and on and on.  No time to lose. But then I realized the physical is just one aspect of our life, and, no matter how critical it is,  there is more, so much more, that it is hard to talk about. So, while it was a little uncomfortable to talk about such intimate issues with my dad, I knew that I could.  We have that history. 

 I began with the driving:  I reminded him thatabout 6 months ago he made the decision NOT to drive at night.  I told him I believed he would use the same good sense to decide when he couldn’t drive any more – period. I drove quite a bit with him while I was home, and in fact, let him drive me to the airport on the highway.  No problem.   And yes, he is frail.  He’s 84, with a lot of arthritis, so when he fell, he didn’t have the strength to lift himself up.  Solution, we got him the life alert.  

Of course he’s not happy about it, but because his children spent their money on it, he feels compelled to use it.  He wouldn’t want to waste our money.   As for the walker, he says he will use it more.  We shall see.    

And now for the depression.  Well, he wasn’t prepared for his decline.   And neither was Philip Roth’s anti-hero in Everyman, published in 2006.  Quoting Roth to my dad actually made him laugh.  Roth says “getting old is not a battle, it’s a massacre.”   My dad was not prepared for said massacre, so he’s a little depressed.  Then, there’s the fact that he lost his sister barely a month ago, leaving him without any siblings; not to mention that most of his friends are dying off.  Isn’t he allowed to grieve?  Can’t he be sad for a while?  Oh, did I mention he’s just getting over shingles, and his wife will be on dialysis soon?  Can’t he be sad about that?   And for the record, my dad lives in Cleveland.  Have you ever spent a winter there?  Brutal.    

Leave the man alone, I say.   

To purchase Everyman by Phillip Roth, check out this website of an independent bookseller:   http://www.malaprops.com/book/9780618735167.

Annice

I just got back from the blue skies and white sandy beaches of Florida.  I didn’t want to come home, but I have to get back to work, unless, of course, I am snowed in AGAIN tomorrow morning.  While I have no intention of moving to Florida, the long car ride home played havoc on my imagination–with too much time to ponder old age–and not old age in a generic sense, but my own.  I mean, just sitting in a restaurant in Florida can sometimes feel like being in one great big waiting room.  Sure, there’s the beach with the young and skinny bikini bunch, but my focus was elsewhere.

In Florida, I met up with a dear friend for brunch, and one of the first things she asked me was, “Do you have long-term care insurance?”  Childless, like her, I wondered if she had seen the same old woman with oxygen tubes up her nose being helped into the restaurant. 

Of course, when I talk to my friends with children, they always say kids are no guarantee.  I disagree.  Over and over again, I see children (my age) caring for their aging parents in one way or another.  So, do I need long- term care insurance?  Does it  really work?  At what age should I get it?  Isn’t it too risky and too expensive?  Over an Everything Bagel, cream cheese and lox, my friend told me her insurance broker quoted her a price of $1000 a month, and she’s only 53.  Ouch!  He also told her that by the time today’s 60-year-old’s need such care, the average cost for nursing homes will be $175,200 annually. Ouch again!  Oh, I also heard that policy benefits only cover a portion of the total expense. And many policies are packed with catches that can keep you from collecting.  Finally, there is no guarantee that long-term-care insurers, some of which have weak balance sheets, will even be around when you need them.  So, unless  you’re rich and have enough money to purchase the private care you need, it seems there is just one more thing to worry about.  Do you have long-term care insurance? Let me know!

Annice

Please see the message below and pass this on to friends or click on where it says, “Help us stand up for Haiti Now” in order to go directly to a site where you can make a donation.  This letter comes from my best friend Guitele.  She is Haitian-born, educated and raised in the U.S.  We met when we were students in Paris and have been friends ever since.  I have visited Haiti with her and met her family.  Luckily, all her family there is safe.  Here is what she says:

“Partners in Health is an organization with which I worked for over 12 years and am on the board of advisors. I can vouch for their effectiveness, efficiency, honesty, and integrity. Paul Farmer, the founder, is the UN deputy envoy to Haiti, second to Bill Clinton. Your support will be well spent and organized. They have provided top notch medical care to the very poor in Haiti and know and understand the needs of the population. In addition, they are in a unique position to support the organization of a coherent response to this crisis. Please give generously. Thank you.”
Guitele

Annice

You’ve all heard, read, and seen the story of the “Underwear Bomber,” or “Christmas Day Bomber,” if you prefer.  To recap: the alleged bomber, 23-year-old Nigerian Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab, sewed a pack of explosive powder in his briefs on a flight from Amsterdam, on Christmas Day, to Detroit, with the goal of blowing up a plane full of people.

I know the big story here is the failure of airport security and U.S. intelligence, but, to be honest, I couldn’t stop looking at his photo.  I mean, strapping an explosive in your underwear?  Only to have the bomb fail and burn your crotch?  It’s very hard to comprehend the mind of such a young man, willing to die for a cause.  We can call him a terrorist-it’s a convenient word everyone understands-but what I don’t understand is how broken a human spirit can be to drive a young man to try to kill a plane full of innocent people.

The bigger question for me is, what kind of airport security can ever hope to tackle that?  The boy’s own father was so concerned about his son’s behavior and involvement in extreme Islamist activities that he alerted U.S. and Nigerian authorities.  Those cries for help were ignored.  The boy was granted a visa; he bought a one-way ticket to Detroit, and paid for it with $3000 in cash.  Were authorities just too lazy to follow through, or just too dependent on airport security and their fancy technology?

Now, because of the Underwear Bomber, there is talk about a digital strip-search, using x-rays designed to capture, record, and store images of us naked.  Add that to the hassle of removing our shoes prior to boarding a plane.  And don’t forget the threat of liquid bombs that require us to put all our toiletries into 3.4 oz bottles and shove them into a quart-sized, clear, plastic, zip-top bag.

Even with all that airport security, some experts have warned that they will never be able to  eliminate all risk, especially if someone is determined to strap a plastic explosive to his body.  And while I’m grateful for the technology being used to save my life, wouldn’t it serve us better to pay attention to the simple things, like a father’s warning?

After being snowed in for the last three days, and reading that Tiger Woods was voted Athlete of the Decade, my brain got to thinking. And, let me just say right off the bat, I do not care about Tiger’s fall from grace or the secret sex lives of the rich and famous.  They are abundant and do not surprise – think Bill Clinton, Governor Mark Sanford, Former Governor Elliot Spitzer, David Letterman, etc. 

However, what I find fascinating in this story is how much money he has allegedly been spending every month on approximatley 16 mistresses to keep their traps shut: $20,000 to $240,000 a year!  So here is what I’d like to say to Tiger Woods: “Cheating is not cheap.  And here are some other ways to spend your money!”
1. For a little as $10/month with www.savethechildren.org you can provide help for millions of children worldwide with emergency food and safe places to play in times of crisis.  Or what about $100 worth of brand-new books to stock a library?  And, by the way, did you know that 1 in 6 children in the U.S. lives in poverty?
2. Tiger, if you didn’t pay those mistresses for one year, you could help almost 1000 families in Afghanistan. 

In fact, for only $58,500, you could provide tents for 300 families, or for $39,000 you could provide firewood for 300 families this winter.  I’ve provided the website, Tiger, for your convenience.  www.afghanwomensmission.org/help_us/donate.php
3. In case you want more options, The United Nations World Food Program http://wfp.org/1billion will help you out.

Just $5 provides supplementary food for a baby for one full year, while just $50 provides a meal every day for a school child for one full year, and $170 feeds a person for one full year.

So Tiger, every time you cheat on your wife and have to pay a mistress to shut up, would you mind at least matching those funds with donations to needy children or families?  It won’t change the facts but at least you will be doing some good.

Annice

I must confess:  I’m a little pathetic.  The only time I listen to “my music” is when I’m in the car, or on the treadmill listening to my Ipod.  It seems that the husband has not only commandeered the t.v. with “his” remote but has also confiscated the entire sound system that plays music in our house.  Before marriage, I had a very simple stereo and was always listening to music – Joni Mitchell, Aretha Franklin, Jefferson Airplane, Ricki Lee Jones, Edith Piaf, and opera.  Yes, I love opera.    After marriage, something happened, and that something rendered music inoperable for me, due to the husband’s state-of-the-art home audio system.  Yes – it’s a system attached to the t.v. and the radio, with a top-loading DVD/CD player, surround-sound processor with AM/FM tuner, center channel amplifier, satellite speakers, dual subwoofer in bandpass enclosures…need I say more?

It seems that listening to “my music” has never been so friggin’ complicated before.  It’s true that I enjoy the husband’s music choices at times, especially when he plays the Beatles or Bob Dylan, but sometimes, just sometimes, I want to hear what I want to hear and I want to hear it so loud it’s vibrating all over the house.

 As I write this blog, it makes me think about my mom.  As kids, we never let her listen to her music either.  At home, we always played our music;  in the car, we played our music.  We controlled all the sound in our house.  Poor mom.  The only time I remember her listening to her music was when we got home from school and found her listening to Mario Lanza or opera. 

She loved opera, and guess what?  I made fun of it back then.  So, on this anniversary of my mom’s death, I’m playing some of her music, and believe me, it wasn’t easy getting the system to work.  For her, I figured it out.  So, I hope she’s enjoying “La Boheme” (I’m listening to it now).  If I owned a Mario Lanza cd, I would be playing that for her, but somehow I know she’s enjoying Luciano Pavarotti.

Annice

 There I was in NYC, the week-end before Thanksgiving, getting ready for the wedding – her first, at 53 – of one of my oldest and best friends.  Esther had never wanted to get married before, and, believe me, it’s not because no one ever asked her, but she finally met a man who changed her mind.  And what a wedding it was, on top of the Gramercy Park Hotel, overlooking NYC night life! 

I’ve known Esther since grad school, where we were both working on a Masters in French Literature.  That makes us friends for 33 years.   (Esther, by the way, has agreed to blog about getting married as soon as she gets back from her honeymoon in Japan.  So stay tuned for her story!) 

I unpacked my suitcase and almost panicked when I realized that I had left my magnifying mirror at home – quelle horreur.  I cannot put my makeup on any more without a magnifying mirror. Reading glasses don’t help because they obstruct the eyes.   Without that mirror, I cannot properly cover up the dark circles under my eyes, which are not from lack of sleep or poor adrenal glands but, regrettably, passed down to me by my mother and her Italian ancestry.  Luckily, I have the perfect dark-circle cover-up, thanks to my niece who took me to Sephora in Cleveland on one of my visits.  The salesman, perfectly made up and coiffed, assured me he had the solution, Amazing Concealer in tan.  Indeed he had, but if you don’t blend it just right, it becomes thick, like stage make-up.  Then, there is the blush, and without that mirror, I could end up looking like a clown with too-rosy cheeks, not to mention the lipstick that could wind up above my upper lip, and my ever-so-thin eyeliner (for fancy occasions) which could look as if railroad tracks covered my lids.  I knew I had to try to find a magnifying mirror in NYC several hours before a Saturday night wedding! Needless to say, I freaked out.  I started imagining myself in the wedding photos, with poor Esther having to explain to her friends that before I moved to the mountains, my make-up was impeccable. 

Panicked, I called downstairs to the front desk of the hotel and asked if they knew where I could find a magnifying mirror.  The desk clerk laughed, “Oh, there is one right behind the large mirror over the bathroom sink.  Just pull it out, it’s attached to the wall.”

 I love New York!

 

Annice

Adele in Asheville, age 87

One of Adele’s favorite quotes – posted on her fridge: “Birth is not one act ; it is a process.  The aim of life is to be fully born, though its tragedy is that most of us die before we are thus born.  To live is to be born every minute.  Death occurs when birth stops.  Physiologically our cellular system is in a process of continual birth; psychologically, however, most of us cease to be born at a certain point.” Erich Fromm

If you recall from Part I, Adele arrived in Asheville in 1992, 70 years old. She loved New York, but something greater was pushing her to become totally independent.  Leaving family and friends, she knew it was time to cut the umbilical chord that had tied her to Brooklyn all those years.

Annice: So tell me, how did you stumble upon Asheville, NC?

Adele: I began reading books and investigating retirement communities in warm climates.  I knew one thing: I didn’t want to end up in Florida.  I visited Chapel Hill and their Jewish community, even interviewed the rabbi, but it didn’t appeal to me.  I looked at Durham, too, but as soon as I spotted a group of garden club ladies in high heels, I knew that wasn’t for me.  I was about to go home, when I remembered that one of my sons had mentioned Asheville.  Even though I was 4 hours away and didn’t like to drive long distances, I said, what the hell, I’m so close, let me rent a car, and drive to Asheville.  It wasn’t until I stopped at a Huddle House for pecan waffles along Rt. 40 that I suddenly realized I was driving up mountains.  That, alone, was a defining experience for me.

Annice: So did you find a house right away?

Adele: I spent 4 days in Asheville using a real estate agent from the Yellow Pages that proved to be disappointing.  There was something about Asheville that made me want to come back.  I wrote to the Asheville Chamber of Commerce, and a few days later I got a call from a real estate agent.  I returned to Asheville, and as soon as I met the agent and his wife, they insisted I leave my hotel and move into a cottage over their garage.  My new friends took excellent care of me and found me the perfect condo.  It wasn’t finished yet, but I put money down anyway.

Annice: That was fast.  So you moved to Asehville 17 years ago?

Adele: Yes, May of 1992, I took the next step of my journey, and I had no qualms about it.  Remember my quote on the fridge, it’s like a re-birth and I was ready.  And you know what?  I recognized it was going to be the last step of my journey.  I felt a little like a college kid who moves away from home for the first time, not knowing what to expect but determined to make it on her own.

Annice: So how did you make friends?  You seem to have so many.

Adele: I knew I wanted to get involved in the Jewish community.  There are two synagogues in Asheville, so I auditioned both rabbis.  I started with the conservative synagogue and stayed 9 years.  Then I decided the reformed synagogue was better for me.  As a result, I made many friends in the Jewish community.

Annice:  What about friends outside the Jewish community?

Adele: Of course, that too.  I made friends with my condo neighbors.  Many were like me, transplants from other areas.  The first thing I did when I got my patio furniture was invite all my neighbors for cheese and wine.   That was the beginning of making this block a family.  I started the invitations back and forth, and soon they became birthday parties, holiday parties and any excuse to get together.

Annice: It seems like yoga is a big part of your life, and you have many yogi friends.  When did you develop an interest in yoga?

Adele: I had done some yoga in NY, but believe me, it was nothing like what I’m doing now with the Iyengar yoga and Cindy Dollar, my teacher and dearest friend.  Let me say that in NY, I always exercised.  I was going to Jack LaLaine every day after school: that’s what all the teachers did back then.   And, don’t forget, in NY, people walk a lot.

Annice: So why is yoga so important to you?  What do you get from it?

Adele: From a physical point of view, it makes me more limber, gives me better balance.  It seems like I’m more flexible now than I ever was.  But, it goes beyond that.  I’ve learned to focus and understand life better.  I’ve learned that all the monkey stuff is not important.  I also like the people whom I’ve met in yoga class.  I find there is a softness and kindness about them, and they have a depth of understanding and realization that everyone is important.  And now, I’m doing private sessions with Cindy:  3 half-hours a week.  It’s intense, and I love it.  My teacher and I have an agreement that when I’m 100, all my classes will be free – 7 days a week.  Isn’t that great?

Annice: Can you tell us why you wanted to have a Bat Mitzvah at age 84?  I mean, traditionally, girls have it at age 13.

Adele: Well, you know, a Bat Mitzvah is like a Jewish coming of age ceremony where the child reads from the Torah.  I wanted to do that.   In my day, girls didn’t have a Bat Mitzvah – only boys.  In 1994, I participated in a communal Bat Mitzvah with nine other adult women and two men, and somehow, I didn’t feel satisfied.  I continued to study Hebrew and the liturgy and finally had my own Bat Mitzvah in 2007.

Annice: So what did it all mean to you?

Adele: I’m not sure I even discovered the real meaning yet, but it will come to me.  I can tell you this:  I studied hard and planned my event for a whole year.  It was a huge achievement for me.  I have to confess, I made it bigger than it had to be, and it caused a lot of stress.  I worked on the centerpieces, made the invitations (of course friends helped), planned the menu with the caterer, and arranged for guests to bring canned goods for Manna Food Bank instead of gifts.  Maybe I overdid it, but that’s my character.  And, to top it off, I broke my wrist 3 weeks before my Bat Mitzvah.  I tripped over my dog, Missy, who was almost 15 years old and blind.  I didn’t know she was so close to me and to avoid stepping on her, I fell.  I should have put her down earlier, but I was greedy, and didn’t want to lose her.  It was very stressful time.  But in the end, it was worth it.

Annice: I remember running into you one night on your evening walk, and when I asked you what you were going to do now that your Bat Mitzvah was over, you said, “Take piano lessons.”  How is that going?

Adele: Well, to tell you the truth, it wasn’t easy finding a teacher at my age.  What’s the point for them?  As a child during the depression, I was very lucky because someone in my family paid $1 a week for lessons.  I suspect it was one of my uncles.  We all lived together in those days, my parents, siblings, grandparents, and three uncles- 11 total in our apartment.  My uncle treated me very well.  He encouraged me to play piano, and he used to take me to eat Chinese food for 25 cents.

Annice: Tell me about your days, how do you spend them?

Adele: You want my schedule?  It looks like this:

Monday: I play Bridge.  I learned in NY.  Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays: I do yoga.   Thursday:  Piano.  Friday nights: I go to the Synagogue.  Saturdays and Sundays: Garden, theater, movies, opera.  And I volunteer.

Annice: So what’s next?

Adele: (laughing).  The next stage?  The End, I guess.  I’ve already made plans for that.  It’s all written out:  who will sell my condo, my furniture, my funeral arrangements.  I tried to cover as many things as possible, so my boys won’t have much to do.  Even my memorial is planned, with some money for a party.  I try not to think about what if’s.  Thinking too far ahead isn’t good.  I enjoy what I can do, like playing the piano, and most of the time, I am right there – living in the present.  For the things I can’t do anymore, I find substitutes.  For example, I can’t travel like I used to, it’s too difficult.  But, I can still take walks, I can do yoga, I can eat properly, and be with people I enjoy.  I basically live each day as best I can.  In the end, we’re like a machine.  No matter how much we take care of ourselves, we break down.  I live in a time when life is being prolonged.  I used to talk about never seeing 2000, now it’s 2009.  What more can I ask?  I’m constantly adjusting my life, just like I adjust my body in yoga.  That was an important lesson for me.

  Last Friday night, I had the pleasure of hearing Jill McCorkle read from her new book at our local bookstore, Malaprop’s. Hot off the press, Going Away Shoes  is a collection of eleven short stories that you must read.  I am sure you will love these stories because they’re all about us – women. 

 Never mind that over the years, her fiction has been selected four times by The New York Times Book Review for its Notable Books of the Year list. 

And never mind that I personally had the chance to work with her in 2005 when I was at the Sewanee Writer’s Conference where I experienced first-hand her southern twang and wit.  Jill’s characters will seduce you because they are spirited women, just like us, who fall in and out of love, use tupperware and pyrex, live with the ex-wife’s picture hanging in the house, take care of an aging mother, and drove a Karmin Ghia in high school.   

Jill McCorkle

With each story you won’t know whether to laugh or cry as you experience the drama of her character’s everyday life.  And, as women over fifty, we all know our every day life with family and friends is fraught with enough drama to fill a full-length novel/mini-series, let alone 11 short stories.  Jill knows that too.  So, whether her character gets her boobs adjusted based on her husband’s preference, gets divorced, or thinks there should be an “escape clause” in marriage, she has our full attention.  At the end of the book, you might find yourself saying, “How dare she write about all our secrets.”  And, like me, you will agree that it’s okay because McCorkle’s voice is authentic – full of tenderness, humor, and compassion, and that’s all we can ask for.  

Annice

In honor of Blog Action Day 2009, www.blogactionday.org  I’m writing in solidarity with this on-line event that unites bloggers worldwide around one topic.  This year’s topic is Climate Change.  Why?  Because it not only threatens our environment now, it threatens our environment for generations to come.

I’m not an expert on climate change, nor is my life free of environmental sins.  I’m still evolving.  Being aware is always the first step.  Several weeks ago, I attended the Southeast Women’s Herbal Conference www.sewisewoman.com where over 500 women came together in the exquisite mountains of Western North Carolina to practice and preserve the Wise Woman Tradition through simple living, earth-based healing, and local plants.  I want to take this space to salute the woman who founded the conference, Corinna Wood, herbalist, teacher, and friend.  The SEWHC is a place where women can celebrate an entire week-end honoring Mother Earth, and there’s always 2010.

 There were many take aways from the conference, and I’d like to share one that is healing and easy.  Susun Weed, the herbal guru for women, was the keynote speaker, and she impressed on us menopausal and post menopausal women the importance of drinking herbal infusions.  I’d like to share two infusions that I am preparing routinely.  So, throw away those teabags and start drinking fresh herbal teas.  My favroite two are:

 1.  Stinging Nettle (Urtica dioica).  While it grows wild in every state except Hawaii, and you can harvest it yourself I’m not there yet, so I buy it from Red Moon Herbs, www.redmoonherbs.com a local company that practices sustainable harvesting.  So why Nettle you ask?   It is said to rebuild the kidneys and the adrenals, basically a powerful blood purifier that drives out toxins, supports the immune system; and the hormonal system.  One cup of nettle infusion provides 500 milligrams of calcium.  That’s reason enough for me.  

 2.  Oatstraw (Avena sativa) – Yes, this is what our farmers feed their livestock and what cowboys feed their horses, and what gets rolled into oatmeal. ( Make sure your oatstraw is organic).  This herb supports the nervous system, unlocks testosterone (need that for our sex drive, don’t we ladies?)  and most importantly, builds strong bone health. A cup of oatstraw infusion contains more than 300 milligrams of calcium.  Oh yeah, you can bathe in it too – very soothing.

 It’s very easy to prepare: 1oz of the dried plant in one quart water.  Put the herbs in a teapot, add the boiled water and let it infuse overnight.  The next morning, strain and refrigerate.  It will last about 2-3 days and then I start all over again.  You can always add honey to sweeten.

 So there it is, what I learned at camp.  Give it a try, and let me know what you think.

Annice

 

 

 I know I promised Part II of my interview with my friend Adele Rose, but I’ve been so busy with family drama (human and beast) that I haven’t had a chance to sit with her yet.  The second interview with Adele is coming in October. 

 Let me skip the human drama and get straight to the last 10 days of my life with Gus, my eight-year-old Chesapeake Bay Retriever.   I love Gus, a rescue with a bullet in his side, nothing like Carli, my diva bitch from a very reputable breeder.  Gus is my dog “with special needs,” as branded by my sister who has a Masters in Social Work.   

 For starters, he’s very territorial.  If you happen to come up the back deck, and he sees you through the glass doors, he will go ballistic.  So, when friends come over, (always calling first), he’s on a leash.  Once in the house, you MUST say, “Hi Gus,” with lots of enthusiasm in your voice, or you won’t make it into the room.  And, please, leave your kids at home; Gus is not child friendly.   

 And Gus doesn’t get along with other dogs.  When I have to take him (with Carli) to the vet, it’s like a paramilitary operation.  I first ask the receptionist if there is a room ready for Gus because, if not, he has to wait in the car until one  opens up.  Then, when all is clear, I whisk Gus into his room.  When it’s time to leave, the vet tech makes sure all other dogs are out of sight, and I scoot Gus out the back door.

So what do I like about this dog?  Well, to sum it up, he’s extremely affectionate – not just to me but to anyone who loves dogs.  Once you’ve entered our house and petted him once or twice, he won’t leave you alone.  He insists on resting his head on your lap and being petted some more.   He makes you feel special.  Dog lovers love Gus.   

Recently, my love for Gus was tested when Gus had a bout with constipation.  “Poor Gus,” the husband and I said, as we watched him try to poop, changing places for the perfect spot.  Poor Gus, who has an ACL problem, which means every time he stooped to poop, he was putting too much pressure on his knee.  When I called the vet, she suggested  ½ can of pumpkin a day.  Well, that didn’t work, and when I came home from work one day and saw poop in the house, with blood on the floor, I knew Poor Gus would need more than pumpkin.  The paramilitary visit to the vet ended with antibiotics and prednisone – since, as it turned out, he had some sort of rectal fissures.  After about 3 days on steroids, however, Poor Gus became “Monster Gus”.  Driven by excessive hunger and thirst caused by the steroids, he tore apart the kitchen looking for food.  He pried open the garbage door and ate about everything in site – plastic, banana peels, even a broken olive oil bottle, causing cuts in his mouth.  The husband ran to Home Depot to get a lock and chain, but even then Poor Gus was able to claw his way into the closet just enough to pull the garbage out and carry it all over the house.

Here’s a picture that shows what our house looked like.  It’s not actually our house-it’s from the Internet-but it gives you an accurate idea!

 On another day, he almost knocked over the 30-gallon aquarium trying to get to the fish food, yes, the fish food.  Oh, and one more thing, eating garbage resulted in piles of poop and pee-pee in the basement.  I couldn’t take it any more.  I called the vet to complain, and it seems she forgot to tell us that one has to be weaned slowly off prednisone, so this problem won’t go away for 5-7 days.  All I can say is, “Poor me.”   

Annice

To live is so startling it leaves little time for anything else.

Emily Dickinson

Thursday began like any other working day:

9:00 am:   Meeting with client whose small retail business is in trouble

11:30 am: Board meeting (20 min. away from office)

2:00 pm:   Meeting the husband to go to DMV and get our truck’s registration, in order to benefit from Obama’s Cash for Clunkers program

3:00 pm: Meeting with client back in my office

5:30 pm: Meeting with a tech guru about our blog (to figure out what we’re doing wrong!)

Everything was going along fine until my board meeting ran late.  Since I’m responsible for recording the minutes, I found it  hard leaving at 1:30, even though the meeting had been scheduled to end at that time.  Thinking about my 2:00, I gathered up my laptop and ran to the nearest exit.  Bam! I ran right into a glass door.  Stunned, bleeding, and barely able to catch my breath, I was rushed into the ladies room by a female colleague.  ”Slow down,” she repeated at least a dozen times.  Utterly embarrassed, I could hear my colleagues talking outside the ladies room:  “People need to slow down.  We all just need to slow down.”

I washed my face in cold water and looked in the mirror.  It could have been worse.  I could have broken my damn nose, and that would have been a tragedy because I happen to like my nose.  It fits my face.  And the thought of having to go through some rhinoplasty procedure because I was in a hurry to get papers from the DMV to satisfy my husband and the car dealer and qualify for the Cash for Clunkers program would have been more than ridiculous.  Still, staring in the mirror, I brooded over that woman with a banged-up bloody nose, asking myself, ‘Why is she always in a hurry?  Where is that woman who was enrolled in a year of yoga and mindfulness, and why wasn’t she being more mindful?  What would my venerable yoga teacher, Cindy, think?’  (If you want wonderful yoga classes, check this out:  http://www.onecenteryoga.com/wb/pages/special-classes/a-year-of-yoga-mindfulness.php)

I closed my eyes, and took several deep breaths before I ventured out of the ladies room.  I looked for the Exit sign and headed that way.  Ueber alert, I carefully held out my hand to feel the glass door before pushing it open.  Aware of my breath, I stood outside the building and looked down to count the steps before descending.   Six. I could do it.  I walked slowly to my car, put on my sunglasses and turned the air conditioner on.

I immediately called my husband to inform him I would be late.  “And by the way, I walked into a glass door and almost broke my nose, and it’s all your fault because you’re pressuring me to do this Cash for Clunkers thing, and time is running out.”

Nose throbbing, I met up with the husband, who genuinely felt sorry for me.  “You’ve got to be more careful.  You need to slow down,” he said.

“I know.  Please don’t lecture me.  I’m nauseous and hungry.”  You should know one thing about me:  I can always eat.  It doesn’t matter whether I’m, sad, happy, sick, or depressed–food is joy and comfort.  Luckily for me, the DMV was next to a gourmet sandwich shop, which facilitated my specific need at that time for a mozzarella tomato and basil sandwich on a whole wheat baguette.  (See photo below!) Mission accomplished on all fronts: at DMV, papers obtained, and husband happy.  Back to work.

When my 3:00 client arrived, I was sitting at my desk with ice on my face. Luckily for me, she was the spiritual type, and when I explained what happened, she said, “You have got to slow down.  If that is not a message, I don’t know what is.”

So what’s the take away for me here, other than slowing down?

Be Present and Pay Attention.  Stop trying to do it all.  Take care of myself.

There is an irony here.  Sitting at my desk at home is a wonderful book written by Zen teacher Cheri Huber.  In Making a Change for Good  – A Guide to Compassionate Self-Discipline, she outlines a 30-day self retreat at home.

I’ve never been able to go beyond lesson six or seven.  However, there is no reason for self-pity.  The teacher knows all and writes: “You might quit the program a hundred times before you finish it…that’s a good thing…Quit and then recommit, for each time you recommit, your ability to pay attention and focus gets stronger.  It’s okay to start over every day if you must.”  Well, I must.

For the record, we did participate in Cash for Clunkers, thank you, Mr. President.  I traded in my 1989 Dodge Dakota pick-up with 215,000 miles for a brand new Honda Fit.  How fitting is that?

“Life is an adventure, and most of us think if we work hard and reach a goal we will be happy.   But it doesn’t work that way.  It’s not a straight road; it’s more like a river;  and there are parts that are going to be smooth and safe, and there are parts that are going to give you trouble.”

This is a sampling of the little pearls of wisdom my friend Adele shared with me when I asked her what it felt like to be 86.  Having lost my mother when she was 56 (my age now), I marvel at women like Adele.  I discovered her in yoga class, and soon I learned we shared more than a love of yoga and our favorite teacher, Cindy Dollar.  There was opera, literature, The New York Times Book Review, Laurey’s Café, and, of course, the mountains.  Sitting on the deck of her mountain condo, sipping Chai tea, surrounded by colorful potted plants and birds pecking at the feeder, I recently spent a glorious afternoon poking questions at Adele, who was completely generous and authentic in her responses.  Here’s a sample.

Annice: You are a role model for so many women I know who say, ‘I want to be like Adele.’  How does that make you feel?

Adele: I really don’t like that.  I wish they would say, ‘I like who you are now’ — because I worked hard to be who I am and to come to terms with my life, not just with aging.  It’s very difficult to come to terms with life – some never do-but if you want to enjoy the last part of your life like the first, or even more than the first, you have to recognize who you are and what you are.  All my life, I’ve been the youngest.  I was the youngest of four cousins who were very close to me in age.  In school, I was much younger than any of my classmates because I had skipped grades five times; and now, I often find myself to be the oldest and the matriarch of the group.  And you should know that my friends are not just elderly.  They vary in ages, including Generation X and teenagers whom I frequently take out to lunch.

Annice:   It’s impressive.  You live alone, you drive, you take yoga, you take piano lessons, and you’re active in the synagogue.  You’ve also spent summers teaching English at the University in Israel before you retired, and you’ve traveled all over the world.

Adele:  I’m very fortunate.  I recognized at a certain point that I had to change my life, and I did it at 60.  And, let me tell you, in those days, 60 was old.  Now at 60,  you’re a baby.

Annice: So what happened at 60 that changed your life?

Adele: I got a divorce.  I was married at 18 in 1941.  My three boys were grown and out of the house by then.  I was a teacher in the New York public school system in Brooklyn and loved teaching.  I was no longer the girl my husband married in 1941.  It was a comfortable marriage, but I felt I had grown to be a different person,  and that person was not satisfied with that life.  That was a rocky time for me.  I wanted a complete divorce, which for me, meant a civil and a traditional Jewish divorce, called a Get.  The Get required a rabbi’s intervention.  Actually, I needed the approval of three rabbis.  When I went to see them, they were shocked to see a woman my age.  It was 1982 when I left 2015 — and, by the way, I would never say ‘when I left my husband’ — I always used my address, 2015 , because I lived on 2015 Shore Parkway, Brooklyn.  It’s only now, after how many years, that I can say, ‘when I left my husband.’  I remember it quite well. I was sitting in the office with the rabbis, and the first thing they asked me was, ‘Do your children know?’  They wanted to get rid of me as fast as possible, and they tried to give me a shortcut version of the Get, but I wanted the real thing, the whole procedure, which, for me, was going through the ritual to commemorate my change in this life.  And, by the way, I did speak to my children, and they said, ‘Ma — whatever you want,’ but I knew they didn’t mean it.  They never thought I would go through with it.

FYI:  a Get is a specific hand-written document by a professionally-trained scribe (with quill and bottled ink) containing 12 Hebrew-Aramaic lines on a parchment.  It must be written under the direction of a trained rabbi.  The official documentation of divorce is required, according to Jewish law,  for either party to remarry. The document makes no reference to responsibility, blame, fault or settlement details. It has no bearing on any aspect of the civil divorce and settlement.  In Jewish law, a sacred event is sanctified at the outset, and when it is terminated, its sanctity must be honored also, so marriage, as a sacred union, is sanctified at the beginning and at the end (in a divorce).

Annice:  So you were determined to have a Get, and you did.  Did you want to remarry?

Adele: (sitting up in her chair and looking me straight in the eye) What for?  Actually, I thought if I ever were to consider marriage again, I would have to know who I was before taking that step again.

Annice: Got it.  So how did it work logistically, leaving 2015 ?

Adele:  I went to the teachers’ union, explained my situation to the officer to see if I could skim off — that’s what they called it — from my pension.  I needed several thousand dollars to move.  The union officer told me I didn’t have the money.  So I waited 6 months, went back to the union, got somebody else, and he said I had $15,000 I could take.  Some people said the other guy didn’t like what I was doing.  I’ll never know, but I’ll tell you one thing: I would have moved out in my BVD’s if I’d had to.  There was no question about it.  My husband was not the right person for me any more.  He was right for the 18-year-old girl he married in 1941.

Annice: And did your husband accept the divorce willingly?

Adele: From the outset, he never thought I would do it.  When he saw I was determined to leave 2015, he started talking about therapy, but it was too late.  My decision was made.  I never considered it wrong or impossible.  I knew I could make it both financially and emotionally.  I went to the bank manager and told her I was leaving my husband and wanted to divide the account between the two of us — and if there’s an extra penny, it goes to him.   The bank manager said I was crazy and should take it all.  She even had some of the other bank girls come in her office, and none of them could believe I was giving him half.

Annice: Was there ever a time you felt you had made a mistake?

Adele:  Never.  I just knew I would make it work.  I was very confident.  I knew it was the right path.

Annice: And what did you plan to do as a newly-divorced woman?

Adele: I stayed in NY and continued in my job.  I was happy there, surrounded by friends,  and I thought I would spend the rest of my life there.

Annice: So why do we find you in Asheville?

Adele: In 1992, even though I had just recovered from a very serious operation, a feeling percolated that there was more to this change.  Could I live and be as happy in a completely different environment without the comfort of my familiar surroundings and familiar friends?  I started looking at that question and wondered if I had I grown to that point.

Annice: Wasn’t that scary?  Leaving NY all by yourself?  What age were you?

Adele:  I was 70.  And you know what? I never agonized over that decision either, not even for one minute.  Everyone thought I was crazy, but I just knew it was going to work out.  So, I did research and decided to visit some cities that were warm and had a Jewish community.  In the end, I chose Asheville, NC,  and I love it here.  And I’d like to tell your readers that these kinds of life changes can only be accomplished if you learn to love yourself.  And it’s okay to have a life that makes you happy!  And if it means making major changes in your life, you’re entitled to do it.  You’re not being selfish.  Loving yourself is permissible.

Read PART II next week in Oops50.com to follow more of Adele’s journey.

“Hazel McCallion is a wonderful example of leadership for many reasons:  she has been the mayor of Mississauga, Ontario for 30+ years, re-elected 10 times, and is responsible for a debt-free district while creating a vibrant downtown. She’s done all this with great energy and enthusiasm while approaching 90 years old! Watch her interact with others and you’ll find her smile to be contagious!” 

(Courtesy of karmatube.org)   Click here:   Hardest Working Mayor in North America

Can we just say, BRAVO to Jenny Sanford for NOT standing by her man, (Governor Mark Sanford of South Carolina) for the all-too-familiar photo op? You know, the one where the man calls a press meeting while his wife stands by his side as he cries “mea culpa” in front of the camera for his indiscretion. Governor Sanford faked a hike on the Appalachian Trail while he was off in Argentina on a little tryst. For me, whatever happens, it’s up to Jenny whether she will forgive and accept his cheatin’ heart, but this Georgetown-educated, former Wall Street vice president, did not stand by her husband, and for that, no one will be mocking her on Saturday Night Live. And best of all, when asked about her husband’s political future, this is what she had to say:  “His career is not a concern of mine. He’ll have to worry about that.” And so he will…

Photo: Alice Keeney AP

Ursula Burns

If you were busy doing too much in the last few weeks, you might have missed the “other” big story about a woman over fifty:  Ursula Burns, the first black woman to be appointed CEO of a Fortune 500 company –Xerox, to be exact.  While all eyes were on the remarkable Ms.Sonia Sotomayor, Obama’s pick for Supreme Court Justice, the Fipsters at oops50.com were afraid you’d miss the incredible pick of Ms. Burns to corporate America.

It seems that both these brainy women were raised in public housing projects in New York City – talk about living your dream!  Burns, 50, got an engineering degree at Columbia University and started at Xerox as a summer intern in 1980.  Somehow, we can’t imagine staying anywhere for almost 30 years, but our heads are spinning just thinking about all those copying machines!

How’s this for inspiration for us all?

Want to use any of these articles in your e-zine or website? Please do!  Just be sure to include this blurb:  Oops50, the blog for women over fifty.