FATIMAH'

In my first writing for OOPS 50, I mentioned several words that have impacted my relationships with my parents and with all people I encounter.  These chosen words shape my living and my writing and should be shared again.  My chosen words:

ALLOW-TRUST-REMEMBER-STAND-give CHOICE- BE RESPONSIBLE-RESPECT-CREATE AUTHENTICITY- LET GO- and have GRATITUDE 

You may, from time to time, experience similarities or repetitions in my word usage or phrases.  They all relate.  They are all my foundation.  Today, I am adding GRATITUDE to my list, but I want to talk about TRUST.

Let’s see what Webster’s and the thesaurus have to say about TRUST.

WEBSTER’s (short version):  RELIANCE, INTEGRITY, STRENGTH, CONFIDENCE, RELIES UPON, ENTRUSTED, SAFEKEEPING, RESPONSIBILITY. 

The thesaurus says: TRUSTWORTHY, ASSURANCE, CERTAINTY, CONVICTION, CREDENCE, DEPENDENCE, ENTRUSTMENT, SURENESS. 

Trusting could be viewed as a ‘thin’ line between knowing and not knowing, between asking “is it real or Memorex?”  One of my many mentors states that, if you question, an opportunity presents itself to look within yourself—and the answer will be there.   

Pape's 106 Birthday Celebration

As we mature, we become wise women, or at least wiser women, acquiring from experiences the processes and effects of trusting or not—who, what, when—those nagging questions and details. 

I am speaking here about trusting SELF, the big trust!  The scary trusting!  The questionable trust.  The fear that comes just from the thought of trusting self is a BIGGY!  To do so, for me, requires constant, conscious awareness of self, allowing—here again, utilizing another one of my words—that the work must be done: going to the edge, jumping off, and trusting that there is a net below!  

Trusting in something we cannot see, touch, or feel is scary.  Or does feeling even have value?  Feel what you are feeling!

For my parents to have unconditional trust in me to care for them required some releasing, some trusting that they had done a great job in raising me, that they will be cared for—some letting go, to a degree, of being in charge, moving from being the doer to being done for. Bottom line:  a lot was required of them!

Being the proud and grateful parent of my parents was and is a heart-intense journey.  And I do mean intense.

Communicating with my parents regarding their well-being provided challenging experiences, to say the least.  Sometimes hurtful statements were muttered by them—not to be mean, but to stay in control of their lives, as they had done for more than eighty years.  They were correct in their expressions.  Also, in having fear of ‘trusting’ their entire lives to me, their little girl, their daughter, the challenging child, the defiant one—the adult that made interesting choices.  All of these memories played a part in their responses to me.  Rightly so:  after all, they remember me! 

For me, however, it required constant prayer or meditation, crying, having conversations with God/Spirit, a Sistah or Brother, acquiring clarity, asking, “What do I choose for my parents and for myself, and how does that look?  Key word of advice on this:  Do not be attached to outcome!  Let go, and choose from your highest place and space.  And, above all, Trust! 

I choose to state my experience with each parent, as it all unfolded.  I acknowledge the ‘Divine Order’ of things.  Results have been beyond my limited imagination. Some bumps.  Some hurdles, for sure.  However, in the big picture, all was—and is—in the ‘Divine Order’ of TRUST.

Respectfully,

FATIMAH’ R. SHABAZZ

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Annice

Meet my friend Marjorie. I met her in Washington, D.C. back in 1982 or 1983 at our local gym on M St.  We were sitting in the steam room, and she remarked how she hadn’t see me with my friend lately and wondered what happened.   I told her she moved to Boston to go to back to school, and how much I missed her.  She immediately reached out, and we became best friends after that.  Neither Marjorie nor I are in D.C. anymore, and I wish we were closer.  She has always inspired me to look for joy wherever it is.  Here she is singing in a gospel choir, and here is her story.

Marjorie

I have always wanted to sing in a gospel choir.  The energy and music is so uplifting.  You can be in the biggest funk…tired, depressed, or overwhelmed with your day and your life, but when you start singing it’s as though you’ve been totally transported to another place and time.

When I lived in San Francisco I sang in two choruses.  I never had a great voice, but good enough to be part of the choral group.  One of my “gigs” was in the San Francisco Gay Men and Women’s Chorus.  My next door neighbor at the time knocked on my door one evening and asked me if I liked to sing.  Well, “yes” I said, but I’m not good.  He said not to worry that it was just a fun group and they sang show tunes.  It turned out to be a little more professional than I was, but I still enjoyed it, and realized what a high I got from singing.  Then my “voice” went downhill (literally).  I was really distressed over it, but the ENT guy I went to said it “wasn’t cancer,” but I would have to give up my operatic career.  I fell over laughing.

So years went by without a song in my heart and last December, right before Christmas, my friend Nancy and I went to a local cafe here in Petaluma, (CA) for breakfast and the Wings of Glory was singing.  I checked it out and low and behold they are here practically right in my backyard!  The best things about this group are 1) you don’t have to audition 2) you don’t have to have a great voice and 3) there is no commitment to show up for rehearsals every week or attend the performances.

Wings of Glory

I haven’t missed a rehearsal yet!  The members are some of the most welcoming people I’ve ever met.  Last weekend we sang with the Oakland Interfaith Choir.  You want to hear great voices….that’s the ticket.  Any one of them could go on American Idol and win!  There was also a Jewish A Capella group there called Vocolat and they were singing Hebrew and Yiddish songs…I  felt more at home.

We are the token white gospel choir, but we have the spirit and the “moves.”  We are invited to perform at a number of different venues.  Churches, of course, but also wineries and other events around the area.

So, how is it, you ask, to be singing about Jesus for a nice Jewish girl from Brooklyn?  Well after all, Jesus was a nice Jewish boy from Bethlehem.  And at least they both start with a “B”, right!?  And, if you’re ever in my neck of the woods please come and hear us sing.  You will be looking for a gospel choir in your area instead of a therapist!

My heart is heavy tonight, so heavy that I can’t think of anything funny or cheerful to write about. My state just voted in a totally unnecessary constitutional amendment–to ban gay marriage.

It is embarrassing to me to live in a state capable of doing such a mean-spirited thing.  It’s embarrassing to me that the people working so hard against the amendment had to point out how it would hurt not only gays but also  heterosexual couples–in order just to get people to listen.  It’s most embarrassing to me that the forces of ignorance and prejudice and bigotry won out, in the end, over the forces of open-mindedness, acceptance, and love.

I am ashamed to call myself a North Carolinian tonight.  And I can’t understand the vote–not at all. I don’t get it.  I don’t see how something this small-minded could get enough votes to pass.  I don’t see how anyone who thinks of himself/herself as a decent human being or a kind-hearted person could possibly vote for something that basically says to a neighbor, a co-worker, a colleague something like this:  “I may act like I like you, but when push comes to shove, I really don’t like you all that much–because in my heart of hearts, I am threatened by you.  You scare me, with the ways you are different from me, so I put up walls around my little, small-minded world, to keep you out.  I even think I need to change the laws of my state, just to make sure that you don’t ever have the same rights I have.”

We did this once before in our history.  This state’s legislators made special laws because of fear–fear that people that were different from them might contaminate their water fountains or swimming pools– fear that, worst of all, they might end up in their families.  Now we fear that granting gay people the right to be legally married (and have the protections that brings) will somehow hurt our own marriages.  (Maybe our deepest fear is that our children might turn out to be “one of them.”)  All I can say is, anyone who is that worried about marriage must be in a pretty shaky marriage to begin with.  We only fear earthquakes when we live on shaky ground.

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In years to come–and I hope it won’t take long–maybe just long enough to get all the old dinosaurs out of office and get young people in there who have grown up in a world where being gay is, frankly, not that big of a deal.  Maybe then we will look back on this vote, and we will feel ashamed to be numbered among the states that felt they needed  a constitutional amendment to legitimize their own bigotry.  We’re bound to overturn this law eventually–because, in the end, justice usually does roll down like water–but what a waste, in the meantime.  What a hateful, hurtful way to treat our fellow citizens.  What a waste of time and money, to put up an exclusive, gated-community kind of law that says, “I claim God as mine–not yours.  My marriage is sanctioned by the Allmighty; yours isn’t–because I said so.”

I read an article in our paper recently about a local soccer star who was unable to come out of the closet while he lived in North Carolina, even though he was the star first of his local high school soccer team–and then of his college team.  It took moving to Canada, where he played professional soccer, and living in an atmosphere of acceptance, for him to finally be able to acknowledge his homosexuality to the world.  In the article, he urged people to vote against the amendment so that young people like him might not have to hide themselves–or their love– away.  How many more young people will have to suffer before we get the message?  How many more gay couples will have to hide themselves away?

My state has let me down, and I am heart sick.

My husband said tonight, “Let’s move to Canada.”  I’m in.

Nancy and her daughter, Hannah

I heard my father’s voice yesterday.

He died in 1981, July 7^th, seven eleven, kind of hard to forget that one.  He was 65.  We had a sick family joke of him kicking off just when he was starting to collect social security; then my mom died at 65, five years later, and so did that joke.

My dad was born in Asheville, the baby of the family, when my grandmother was 40.  He had two older brothers and a sister.  He loved horses and playing basketball.  He played high school basketball and then in the mill leagues.  I have a large wallpaper sample book that my grandmother turned into a scrapbook with clippings of his games.  He joined the National Guard so he could be in the Cavalry unit.  He was offered a basketball scholarship to Wake Forest, but his best friend Crowell Little was going to UNC – and, on his way to college, my dad went to visit Crowell.  He never left Chapel Hill.

He found ways to earn money and played on the Tarheels basketball team.  He became president of Graham Memorial and was in charge of entertainment for the campus.  He ran with the likes of Terry Sanford and even dated Margaret Rose before Terry married her.  He was the caller for the square dance team that was so good, they even played the Waldorf Astoria in New York.  His nickname was Fish, and for years I tried to find out why.  I was always told it was something to do with his being at the Y and swimming so much.  After he died, Crowell told me it was because the girls liked him so much that it was just like tossing a line out and reeling them in.

Like most of the Greatest Generation, my dad never talked about WWII,  and I am ashamed to say that I didn’t prod him about it.  I never expected to lose him so soon.  I do have several newspaper articles that were written about his time there, and, before he died, Crowell told me some stories as well.

One of those stories involved flying from North Africa to Italy and bringing back the plane loaded with wine.  Another time, he was the pilot for Jimmy Doolittle and as he was taxiing the plane down the runway, he put on the brakes too hard, and the nose dived, and Jimmy Doolittle had to find another plane to continue on.

The only scary story I heard was of the time my dad returned from a mission, and there was a hole in the plane right behind his seat.  An altitude exploding bomb had gone right through the plane and had exploded high above them.  I’m sure there were other tense times.  He flew 75 bombing missions.  I just recently pulled out all of his colorful bars and medals and have been looking them up on the internet to see what they all mean.

My dad came home from the war, married my mom and settled in her home town of Chattanooga.  He worked at a furniture store for the rest of his life.  To me, he had the glamor of a Don Draper from “Mad Men” – but without the smoking, drinking and womanizing.  I just recently realized that this year will mark the beginning of my having lived longer without my dad than with him.  I still miss him.

But I did hear his voice yesterday.

Ever since my mom passed, and her house co-mingled with mine, I’ve had this cassette tape from 1969, a recording of a retirement dinner for one of the furniture salesmen.  Too afraid to play it without breaking it, I took it to a studio and had it transferred to a CD.  I had suspected that my dad might have been the host of the evening, and I was right.  There were many people talking, and at first I didn’t realize it was him – but then dim memories from 30+ years ago spread a smile across my face.  I listened as his gentle humor led what essentially was a roast of this person.  I tried to pick out my mother’s laughter out of the crowd.  What a treasure this tape is!  My daughter will be able to hear the voice of the grandfather she never knew,  and I can go back and close my eyes and for a moment, have my dad again.

Paula Jerome

About five years ago, I was driving around doing errands one Saturday afternoon and for no particular reason, I decided to get a manicure – something I almost never do. I think it’s because the nail polish usually chips the next day and then I feel like I’ve just wasted money. So, there I was in a small nail salon in Asheville, and sitting next to me was an amazing woman/jeweler, Paula Jerome. We talked non-stop the entire time our nails were drying. Paula was passionate about making jewelry and growing her design business. I was excited to tell her about my work with the university advising small and medium size businesses in the region, and we immediately set up an appointment. I couldn’t wait to link her up with resources and organizations like HandMade in America. Sometimes, clients become friends and I’m happy to say that even though Paula moved back to New Jersey to be  closer to her family, our friendship endured, and she says I even helped her get her business off the ground.

Paula is 63 now, and it wasn’t until the age of 55 that she ventured into jewelry making. That path proved to be her life’s purpose, and one she feels very blessed to have found because some people never find it. For Paula, that purpose is bringing joy to others through her creations and her passion.

Paula’s collection is made from 100% recycled gold and silver and features precious and semi-precious stones.  It’s gorgeous.  And by the way, her original Atlantic City Charms were worn on the Emmy Red Carpet last September by cast members of HBO’s Boardwalk Empire. Not bad for a new designer.  Take a peak at her entire collection.

Atlantic City charm bracelet

Instead of a traditional interview, I wanted to give you a unique look into Paula’s personality, so I asked her 6 random questions. Here are her answers. Thanks, Paula.

1. What was the name of the first record you ever bought?

In The Still of The Night by the Five Satins

2. What is the one thing you have to put on or have on that makes you feel good about leaving the house?

My Cell Phone

3. What is your favorite comfort food and how much does it cost?

Turkey Wings. About $2.99 a pound

4. What’s your favorite and least favorite thing about being over 50?

Favorite ~ My grandchildren!!! Least favorite ~ Wrinkles!

5. Favorite lipstick? And where do you get it?

Lipstick ~ Chanel Rouge Coco Shine Hydrating Sheer Lipstick, Neiman Marcus

6. What is your most favorite thing to do that is “creative”?

Make my jewelry!!!

Jim Rogers, CEO, Duke Energy

Since the primary election is almost upon us here in North Carolina–and since early voting starts this week, I want to urge all of our North Carolina readers to vote against the so-called “marriage amendment” on May 8th.  Even if you weren’t intending to vote in this primary (which I normally wouldn’t be, since it’s a Republican primary), PLEASE PLEASE go vote against this ridiculous amendment to our state’s constitution.  This amendment will, to put it simply, set us back several hundred years by institutionalizing and legitimizing discrimination.  Not only that, but it will also make life harder even for heterosexual couples who live together.  As I understand it, under this change in our state’s laws, businesses would no longer be able to offer domestic partners of any kind–homosexual or heterosexual– any kind of health insurance benefits.  Also, people who are not married will have no protection against  acts of domestic violence.

This kind of change has already taken place in the other states in this country that have voted a similar amendment into law.  So readers in other places, watch out!  You could be next!

This type of backlash against the progress of human rights is well-funded and beautifully orchestrated.  And it’s no accident that this important vote has been placed in the middle of a Republican primary ballot–certainly not a normal hangout for liberal voters!

I was proud to see that Jim Rogers of Duke Energy,  joined other business leaders across the state, including the head of Self-Help Credit Union and top officials at Bank of America, in speaking out against the amendment last week, stating that if we are to be a state that wants to conduct business with other states and especially with other nations, then we cannot afford to be seen as discriminatory or not inclusive.  He also said, “I’m old fashioned.  I believe we’re all children of God, and we shouldn’t have special rules for some and not for others.  We have to recognize differences in people and celebrate those differences.”  

I am embarrassed that my state is even debating this subject.  This kind of legalized discrimination should be something in our past, something we have risen above, not something right here in front of us, and definitely not something we are trying to vote into law.  Isn’t it about time that the citizens of our state showed that we are educated, thinking people with hearts,  who care about the rights of all North Carolinians, not just the fill-in-the blanks  (white, straight, male, wealthy, married, whatever) ones?

Please join two former mayors of Charlotte, Harvey Gantt and Richard Vinroot (from opposing political parties) and the Wake County Board of Commissioners and the Orange County Board of Commissioners and, among others, the city councils of the cities of Greensboro, Durham, and Asheville and vote against this amendment.

To read the rest of Mr. Rogers’ speech, go to www.protectncfamilies.org.  That website can also tell you other ways to support the campaign against this amendment, by sending in a donation, signing a pledge to vote against it, or participating as a volunteer.

Let’s protect ALL North Carolina families, not just the ones who look like us.

Annice

Saturday, I gave myself a big pat on the back. I fixed a clogged sink and my garbage disposer. Yes, I did.

For me, owning a home is like owning a car, and I probably shouldn’t.  I don’t like fixing things, spending time learning how to fix things, and I hate reading instruction manuals.  Changing a light bulb is about all I want to do.  You see, I grew up in a home with a dad who had his own business and when he was home, he did not want to fix things.  He called the plumber, the electrician, the snow removal guy, carpenter, landscaper, etc.  And when I lived in an apartment in DC for twenty years and there was a problem, I called Raul, the supervisor.  He fixed things, and I tipped him.

My husband is kind of like my dad, he calls people to fix things.

It all happened on Saturday when my friend Ginny Nadler was visiting from Cleveland to promote her Structural Re-Alignment workshop in Asheville.  She brought her Vitamix with her because she makes a green smoothie every morning for breakfast.  We were cutting up fruit and tons of green veggies and put too many stringy stems down the disposer and clogged the sink (I don’t garden so I don’t compost).

“Call the plumber,” Len yelled.  Have you ever tried calling a plumber on Saturday?  They don’t answer the phone.  But, Roto Rooter makes house calls 24/7 for a fee of $165.  I gasped over the phone, and the plumber must have sensed my disbelief so he suggested I go to the Roto Rooter website and read the instructions to fix it myself.

I admit, I was very skeptical about undertaking this task.  My husband was advising against it while Ginny encouraged me to try.  After a little debate, my husband had no choice but to bring up the wrenches (which I had never used before).  So, with the laptop on the kitchen counter, the bucket under the sink, and Ginny reading the instructions very slowly (at least 3 times) I did it!  I fixed the garbage disposal and the sink is working again.

Thank you, Roto Rooter.

Under the Kitchen Sink

JANE

At 5, which is the first age where I can remember the feeling, I worried that I would never see my favorite red-and-white cardboard bricks again, since my parents had “loaned” them to my cousins as we were leaving for a four-year Army tour in Germany.

At 10, in addition to worrying that our house might burn down, I lost sleep thinking that if Santa Claus wasn’t real, then what other lies might my parents have told me?  And, since Tony Ludholz had stuck a ring with a blue stone in my hand and said “now we’re engaged,”  did that mean I really had to marry him?

At 15, I spent a lot of time worrying about that horrible guy who killed the nurses or those two men who killed the family in Kansas ’in cold blood’.  I worried that the first men on the moon might not make it back home safely–and that every single person who had a chance of saving the world would get assassinated.  I also worried a lot about nuclear bombs, when I wasn’t worrying that Michael Krick would not ask me to dance at the end-of-the-year dance.

OH NO!

At 20, I worried that I would never, ever finish all the work I had to get through to graduate from college, that we would never get out of VietNam, that even if I graduated, I would never get a job because all I knew how to do was go to school and pass my classes, and that I would never, ever fall in love because men were all sexist pigs–and that I would never be able to tolerate my father ever again because he sat and read the paper while my mother fixed dinner–and because he thought “Ms” was an unnecessary addition to the English language!

At 30, I worried that my new marriage would end in disaster, that childbirth would hurt worse than anyone had said it would–and I would die in the process–and that nuclear war would happen right at the point where I had discovered I could love someone.

At 35, I worried our baby girl would grow up in a world full of pollution, nuclear bombs and global warming–and would blame us.  I also worried that she would die of SIDS, be kidnapped, get injured, have a life-threatening illness, or choke on bacon.

WORRY DOLLS

At 40, I worried we would never get out of Iraq, that my son would end up being drafted, that my children and my parents would die at any minute, that nuclear war would destroy us all, that Bush would always be president.

At 45, I worried that I had not read to my youngest child enough (or ever taught her to floss), that my parents would die, that I would die of heart failure caused by obesity, that my son would end up a crack addict, in jail, or a paraplegic from a skateboarding accident, that, despite all the changes of the ’70′s, my daughters would live in a world of sexist pigs and their souls would be trampled.

At 50, I started worrying about growing old before I could ever finish a single good poem, that our troops would never get out of anywhere, that  my parents would die before my kids were old enough to remember them, that September 11th was just the beginning of a horrible end to whatever was left of the American dream, that there might not be a God, and that my children might hate me forever, since I was making daily mistakes with their teenage psyches.

At 55, I worried that my children were growing so fast that I couldn’t even take a breath before they’d be grown.  I worried that my brain would stop working before I could finish anything, that my daughter/son/daughter would hate college, be unhappy away from home, get hurt without me there to fight off boogeymen, not want to come home because they took a Sociology class that made them realize all of their parents’ inadequacies.  That I might be turning into my mother!

THE ICE CAPS ARE MELTING!

Looking back over this list, I realize that 1) some of these things came true, and, although they were bad, they were not as bad as I had feared–some of them were worse  2) there was nothing I could do about it, no matter what.

I wish I could say that now, at 58, I’ve stopped worrying.  But I can’t.  I think I might be addicted to worry because of the elusive sense of control it gives me.  If I can make sure I worry about something, maybe I can stave that thing off for a few more seconds, keep that wolf away from the door.  After all, bad things always happen when you least expect them.

I do know one thing:  after all these years, I have at least learned to take some of my worries with a grain of salt–like , for instance, the one about the ice caps melting and carrying away our house.  I have a few years before that could happen, right?

The Reality of Daily Life

The Wanda Reality

THE BEAUTY OF PANAMA

After we got to Panama, it became obvious that Kevin’s family was burned out on elder care and we decided that we would take on living with Wanda full time. We moved into their house which was set up with fences and gates to keep her safe from wandering and they found another house that was more suitable for their family.

The first month taking care of Wanda was challenging. We were adjusting to her requirements (coffee must be HOT, plates must be WARMED for breakfast, specific breakfast and lunch menus could only have the slightest of variances, and a few other personal quirks that came out over time).

Beyond these must-have’s she is a very pleasant person to be with and she has a good sense of humor. Her health is excellent but her short-term memory loss is the biggest limiting factor in her life. It keeps her from enjoying movies (can’t remember the plot line) and from being in groups of people talking about multiple subjects (she picks up her purse and tries to leave – once going down the street away from a Christmas party before she was missed).

OUR DOG JAZZ

The Scrabble factor

Wanda’s only daily interest in life is Scrabble (and crossword puzzles when she can’t get a Scrabble partner). We have now settled into a routine of Scrabble after each meal and other games as often as we have time during the day. We tried to wear her out one rainy Sunday but after 7 games we were the ones calling ‘Uncle’ and quitting the tournament.

 Changing Cultures

I know some conversational Spanish so I have been able to cobble together enough information to get what we need and understand what is needed of us. Now that we are settled into a routine, we plan to start Spanish classes and I want to take a yoga class given by an expat. My hobby is photography so I have taken one class in encaustic painting as a possible segue into another way of presenting my work. We find the expat community very active and supportive and we have been lucky to live next to a Panamanian family that speaks some English.

ALL OF US!

We have experienced some frustration about how things are done here like getting the electric bill by email (I shouldn’t complain – it used to arrive by motorcycle) but having to stand in line to pay in cash in person downtown. There is no mail delivery and there are no house numbers which makes it tricky when you are having new furniture delivered. And when you buy something like an electrical appliance, you have to wait while a slow moving clerk unpacks it, plugs it in and shows you that it is working and then re-packages it and tapes it up for you to take home. But we can tell we are gradually slowing down, becoming more patient with Wanda and ourselves, and learning to live at a different pace.

Looking at it from 2 months in

At this point we have been here 2 months. Tonight we went to our favorite Italian restaurant, which we can walk to in 20 minutes if it’s not raining, and celebrated 6 years working together. Lots of my friends said they would never work with their husbands. We certainly had our days of stress but ultimately we both wanted it to work and our livelihood depended on us working well together so we quickly got over whatever gripe-of-the-day it was.

As we sipped a nice Genovese wine, enjoyed a fresh salad and crunchy crust pizza, we both realized that we feel like we have been here a lot longer than 2 months…like maybe 6 months…or maybe longer. We feel more relaxed. We feel at home here.

PANAMA

Our clients have been very supportive and pleased with our new pricing schedule. Wanda thanks us every day for taking such good care of her. We still are intrigued by day to day things…from the strange way they cut up chicken parts to the kindness of armed guards who open store doors for you! All in all we are very pleased with this move and are looking forward to getting to know ourselves and the Panamanian culture this year.

I am keeping a journal of our Year in Panama, and there you can sign up to be notified when I post a new entry.

Wish us luck!

Totsie

TOTSIE

I was attending a conference on local food production this week, and one of the speakers talked about how children have become disconnected from food.  She described children in downtown Philadelphia who had no idea that peanuts came from a plant that grew in the ground or that milk actually came from cows. 

It made me think about the many ways that people have become disconnected or distanced from reality.  Just as processed foods keep us removed from the reality of farmers tilling the soil, credit cards keep us distanced from the reality of money flowing out the door; automatic payroll deposit does the same thing for money coming in.

Text messaging and email keep us distanced from friends.  Why bother to walk down the hall and talk to someone if you can text them your question?  Hair dyes and plastic surgery keep some folks distanced from the reality of aging.  Junk food ads and jingles—especially the ones that stress the kind of “you deserve a break today”thinking—have brought about a disconnection between our mouths and our brains.  Obesity is at the highest level it has ever been in this country, but it’s hard to make us realize our own role in making ourselves fat.  It’s much easier to hope there is a new type of pill or surgery that will make the fat go away quickly.   

News shows, with unending pictures of people fighting in Afghanistan or children starving in Somalia keep us distanced from the realities of war and human suffering.  If everything fits into a YouTube video, which we can choose to watch or not to watch, it makes it easier  for us also to choose not to think too hard about those things.  I remember on September 11 having the disturbing realization that I was grateful to be able to turn off the TV picture of the towers falling—even while knowing that the people who lived or worked near the World Trade Center would never be able to turn off the picture in their heads.

If I think too much about these things, I can get pretty discouraged.  I don’t want my children to grow up unaware or numb.  (There does need to be a caveat here:  I also, of course, don’t want them to have too much reality in their lives—especially if that reality is a harsh one.) But I have reasons for hope.  First of all, the whole local food/farm-to-table movement is restoring the connection for people (and not all of them children) between, for instance, a farmer’s hard work and a delicious tomato on your BLT.  Check out the work of incredible organizations like The Food Trust or your state’s Farm to Table group.

Secondly, credit education in the schools is working to restore the connection between a swiped credit card and a lack of savings at the end of the month.  And the Internet, for all of its flaws, at least offers the possibility of people connecting with other people around the world—and therefore starting to give human suffering in other parts of the globe an individualized human face.  And, here in my little corner of the world, I’m starting to get the connection between being too lazy to exercise and gaining pounds!

I can’t remember who said “only connect”–but I think it was E. M. Forster, the British novelist, who, from the look of him, maybe had his own troubles connecting with others.

E. M. Forster

But I think it’s probably one of the smartest things anyone has ever said.  Maybe that’s what it’s really all about–and our job is to keep working at it our whole lives.  We might slip backwards every now and then, but we still need to keep trying.  I’m thinking that we have the tools– music, art, conversation, good, local food–so we need to make ourselves take advantage of them as much as possible. 

“Only connect” is a simple phrase, so why is it so hard to do? 

Totsie Marine

Our Friend, Totsie, disappeared from Asheville, but we found her in Panama.  Here is her story.

Part 1: Making the Decision

“Wanda fell and broke her (other) arm. She is doing better but can’t remember why she has a cast on her arm.” This email came after we made the decision to move to Boquete, Panama and help take care of my 83 year-old mother-in-law, Wanda. It sealed the deal for us. We said we would come to Panama for a year.

How it came to be:  

My husband, Winn, and I had toyed with the idea of moving to Boquete after visiting there in January 2011. Winn’s brother, Kevin, and his wife, Tammy, had been taking care of Wanda for three years and had moved their whole family, including three school aged children, to Boquete about a year before our visit. Their decision to relocate there was based on Tammy’s parents, who had retired there, and their own research on cost of living, quality of medical care and the desire to scale down their expensive lifestyle in the states.

Family in Boquete

Winn and I have a web development business. I started the business in 1996 and he joined me in 2006. We re-branded the company in 2011 from Totsie.com to Webonobo and positioned it to be “Local Global Mobile Web Solutions”. We also had our site translated into Spanish to attract clients who needed multilingual sites. We had always been told “Oh, you could do your business from anywhere in the world.”, so now seemed to be the right time to see if that was true.

Our original thought was that we could move to Boquete, live near Kevin and Tammy and help take care of Wanda while continuing our business. We knew we would have a cable internet connection and with modern conveniences like Skype, we could still have personal connections to our clients.

The deciding factors:

One factor in our decision to move was that our business had slowed, like most businesses in the states, and while we still had a stable roster of 60+ clients which we host and support, the requests for new sites had slowed to a trickle. Even though we had re-branded and felt positive about the new direction, we were still in the early stages of marketing our new global potential.

Another important factor came when I had a reading with an intuitive in Asheville who helped me admit the fact that I was personally burned out. Being entirely self-taught, self-motivated, self-marketed, I had been working long days for 16 years and even though I thought I had a few good business years left in me, the truth came out in the reading and I had to admit that I was just plain tired, that I had become one-dimensional in giving all my energy to the business and what I really wanted was a big change in lifestyle.  

When I told Winn about my true feelings he immediately said “Absolutely, no problem, I can take over the business. I want you to rest and find yourself.” His next thought was that HE wanted to meet with the intuitive. In truth, he had been wanting to change the hectic lifestyle we had created but hadn’t figured out how to make that happen. So now he was motivated to not only take over the helm but also to do it in his style and at his pace.

And yet a third factor is the fact that I turn 62 on March 6, 2012. Yes, I’m a baby boomer. It seemed unreal to me that people really used to retire at 62 but here I was actually considering it! Of course I would have to give up the CEO position in the company and work less hours to qualify for Social Security but that quickly became a no-brainer. Winn, being 5 years younger than me, still felt excited about our rebranding efforts and could see himself running the business with me as co-pilot.

Running the numbers:

Winn loves spreadsheets so he spread us out in all the ways he could think of to evaluate the wisdom of our move. No matter how you sliced it, it looked like a really good idea!

Based on Kevin and Tammy’s experiences and cost of living, he decided that (as the new CEO) we could offer our services at a lower rate to our clients since our cost of living would be lower in Panama and that would create a win-win for our clients, who had smaller marketing budgets because of the downturn in the economy, and us who had lower living expenses. We could continue running the business, just on a smaller more sustainable pace. We would be living internationally which could eventually meet one of our rebranding goals which was to produce multilingual sites for international clients. We both got excited about the positive possibilities of this move and after we found a great renter for our house-someone I already had an acquaintance with who is in our industry-we felt like the light was green to go.

Part II – Next Monday!  In the meantime, Happy Birthday Totsie. 

ME & MY PAP

Webster’s definition of “allow:” to give permission, to permit, to let have, to grant, to admit, to acknowledge  

Thesaurus definition: to accredit, to approve, to authorize, to empower, to free-up, to recognize  

We all have history, beliefs, habits.  We all show up in this world riding in on these experiences, whatever they may be.  And yet great blessings are always on the horizon for change, setting the stage for all to be free.  And unconditional LOVE…what does this mean in terms of allowing?

“Allowing” equals saying to someone:  “as you are.”

This is easier said than done.  For me, it requires constant homework and conversations with myself, but it is worth the effort because within allowing, there is also the opportunity to review and shake loose old beliefs and habits, re-examine my history & world history, be vulnerable and trust — to come from a space of knowing that I do not need to alter another to allow them to be as they are, do not need to make them change themselves for me (unless it is done by their choice).  When I can accomplish this knowing, I can then choose to stand and be responsible, respectful, and authentic to self and others—and let go.

Acknowledgement of another for the gift of who they are, what they bring to my table, so to speak, provides an opportunity to empower and be empowered.  From my experience, I can say this is NOT an easy task.  The key for me, however, is to know that I always have a choice to be enrolled or not in another’s ways of being or to allow them or not into my space.  After all, there may be times, even in allowing, where discernment is required.

Regarding my parents, allowing them to choose for themselves over the years has always paid off in extraordinary ways.  My mom and my Pape’ have each stopped and thought about a choice they were making, once they were reminded that they indeed had a choice and that the responsibility for the results of their choice was with them.  They have always understood, even though there have been times that the results may or may not be what they had hoped.  However, for me to allow and trust the entire process has always been my stand, as long as my parents stayed safe. 

ALL OF US TOGETHER

My mom will be gone three years in March; my Pape’ is still with me.  To this very day, I am reminded by him daily that choice is always available.  My mom had a strong personality, a powerful stand of who she was, and stand she did.  For our relationship to flow easily, we created constant reminders that a choice was available.  In allowing her to make her own choices,  we created moments to empower both of us in a space of freedom.  Freedom, after all, equals unconditional love. My knowing is that this is the space God/Spirit created for all life:  this unconditional, non-judgmental love.  For me, this is always present, and to offer the same to others is my key to peace, happiness, and wellness.

Allowing another to be as they are offers a gateway for all concerned to evolve–or not.  To be received without judgment or crucifixion is a powerful experience, and the possibility for change–or not–is always available, to know that it is okay for me to be who I am.  I also get to be reminded that, even though it is okay, it does not guarantee that I will be accepted within another’s world.  Choice & responsibility are always present—for everyone.  What we do with it as individuals is a gift and, of course, a choice.

For those we love, including self, having unconditional love is a unique and powerful source and resource.  For individuals we encounter, showing unconditional love for self is an extremely strong stand and foundation for growth in our daily lives.  In the BIG picture, when I experience others, it is not, in the end, about the other person:  it is about me, and others appear within my world as a blessed reminder of “I am that I am”—not “you are right, or wrong, yadda, yadda…”

ME, PAPE and MOM

My offering to Oops50 today is my knowing that all of life is created from a space of freedom and unconditional love.  Why then is it such a challenge for humanity to live life from this same formula?  Could it be that our individual histories, beliefs, habits, choices and past experience, our ‘baggage’, which we continue to carry, becomes a large part of the ingredients that go into the unique individuals we are?

The key questions for me to ask myself are these:  “Do I continue to come from my past ‘baggage’, my comfort places?” or “Do I choose to do the work and  ‘Step up, Shift, Alter, Revive, Let go of that which may not be serving me for my highest good?’” “Do I trust in the unknown?

Part III of my writing will be on the subject of trust.

Thanks once again to Oops 50.

I am, Fatimah’ R. Shabazz

WRNU Internet TV w/ ‘SHABAZZ  7777’

www.viewerone.com/channels/wrnu

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JANE

My oldest daughter is getting married this summer. Even though I hesitate to say it, I guess she’s old enough. After all, she is 24. She has met someone who, in many ways, seems ideal for her. It’s all good.

And yet, I’m struggling to deal with it. I mean, for some reason, I can’t take it in. I can’t believe my little baby girl is getting married. There is no way that 24 years have gone by since she was first holding her head up in the hospital room, looking around with a look of total curiosity! I can’t believe I am actually planning a wedding. I can’t believe that, when the party is over and all the guests have gone home, my daughter will be married—and living her own adult life with someone else. She’s not coming home again, not now, not in the future.

My daughter’s fiance’s family was here this past weekend, and we had a wonderful time with them. They are great people. Everything is great. But there was a big part of me that kept waiting for this movie to end, so that all of us could walk back into our normal lives.

LOVE AND MARRIAGE

The whole wedding ritual doesn’t really help either. There are so many ways you can spend money that you do not have. There are so many people making a living off this industry. It can be overwhelming, and you can easily get caught up in the planning and the expense and lose sight of what the event is all about. A dear friend said to me recently, “Are you worrying so much that you’re taking all the fun out of it?” She drew me up short, because that’s exactly what I was doing. I was worrying and worrying and stressing and stressing, instead of trying to enjoy the whole planning process with my daughter. I was ruining it for her.

My daughter is well aware that we can’t have a wedding that’s straight out of one of those shows on TV, and she has been amazing about it. Even though the small, family wedding we’re planning may not be the wedding she envisioned, she is joining in the spirit of things and finding special bargains and creative possibilities. She has come more than halfway. I’m the one that has been hanging back, maybe waiting for this whole thing to go away?

WORDS OF WISDOM

My words of wisdom for others heading down this road:

1) Remember that your daughter is going through a major change in her life and needs your support.

2) Remember that you are gaining a son, not losing a daughter.

3) Remember that, when all is said and done, it really doesn’t matter if you have engraved invitations or white linen tablecloths, as long as you and your daughter arrive at the wedding still loving each other.

4) And decide, early on, what you can spend on this event and then give your daughter a budget and try to sit back and relax a little, every now and then. OK, I will try to take my own advice, starting NOW.

ARJUNA'A HAUS

We went to visit a friend who lives in a community about an hour away that is off the grid. I’ve been there many times before, but this time was special because it’d be the first time we would see Arjuna’s new home, named “Leila”, all finished and lived in.

Walking up to it, the curves and rounded shapes in the structure made me smile. Inside there were more rounded edges, with walls and floors having an earthiness and sensuality that is lacking in practically every house that I’ve even seen, and I have seen a lot of houses!

THE ROUNDNESS OF THE STAIRS

I have to wonder why most homes are not made to feel good?  Having lived in a 1903-built home in Switzerland, where the design was based on Pythagoras’ Golden Mean, where each room and every room that it touched was in harmony, I can truly say that this small detail makes a big difference. And since we spend so much time in our home, doesn’t it make sense that it should feel good?

It was a cold winter afternoon outside, but going inside “Leila” was like a familiar hug, and the fire that heats the house by heating the walls smelled so good! Alternative housing, alternative living, communal living: I’ve lived that way when I was in my 20’s. Being in a community of like-minded people is something that is hard to describe. And if I told you that it was the best time of my life, being in the middle of nowhere in Oregon, not owning a car, not getting paid but having everything that I could possibly want, either you wouldn’t believe me, or you would want to be living there right now!

Then in Switzerland, we often found ourselves living in houses with others.  One of the things that people often think is that there would be no privacy with this type of housing.  And the funny thing is that I had the feeling of being able to be more private!

And now, as I get older, having lived the chapter of my life called “remodeling the old farmhouse, having a nice garden and chickens and rabbits with my partner”, I can again see the benefit of having people around me, friends that share the garden, the shopping, and get together for things that matter to me, like meditation. I don’t know what the future will bring, but I can see it more clearly after spending that afternoon at Arjuna’s in her beautiful house at Earthaven.

CHIWA THE ARTIST'S WORK

Moi Zip Lining

The idea of a cruise first came to me in a dream while my husband was recuperating from a hip replacement last year.  I dreamed about being waited on hand and foot and not having to wash dishes, do laundry, cook or even think about cooking.  So, after my Dad passed away last April, my sisters and I decided to take a cruise with our husbands as a way of spending time together and not having to work at it.  And since my Dad loved cruises, we settled on a cruise for our journey together.

Norwegian Star

We boarded the Norwegian Star in Tampa Bay (Feb. 5-12^th) and sailed to Honduras, Belize, and the beautiful beaches of Costa Maya, and Cozumel in Mexico.  I have to admit, right from the beginning, I was struck by the customer service.  For example, when we first boarded the ship, it seemed like thousands of people were boarding with us and not only was the process quick and organized, the staff smiled all the way through it and were amazingly friendly – nothing like the airport scene where personnel often act like they are doing YOU a favor.  Everyone I came into contact with on the ship seemed to have one priority – to make sure all passengers have a comfortable, relaxing, and fun time.  If the crew was faking it, they did a great job.

What did I like?  I loved sitting on my private balcony listening to the ocean and keeping the door slightly ajar at night so I could hear the sound of the sea while falling asleep.  I loved sitting on the upper deck in the quiet zone reading, uninterruptedly, Deborah Reed’s new novel,  Carry Yourself Back to Me.

And, I loved the excursions on land.  We zip lined in the rain forest in Belize and later with headlamps on, we floated in tubes through the Mayan cave system.  Other days we relaxed on the gorgeous beaches sipping margaritas and pina coladas.

Coupe Car Cozumel

And when we were at sea, there was the spa with hot tubs, hydrotherapy pools, and cushiony lounge chairs looking out at sea.  Of course there is the dining and endless buffets culminating in the last night’s chocolate buffet.  And, should you get bored, there are endless musical shows that aren’t too bad.

Chocolate Buffet

What didn’t I like?  Just too many darn people – almost everywhere.  I also didn’t like not having enough time once we docked to truly explore any one place.  Basically, you get a sampling of what the country might be like.  It would have been fun to spend the week in just one place but clearly cruises are not designed for that.  All in all, the best part of the cruise was spending time with my two sisters who I don’t get to see enough and of course, not having to cook, clean-up or do anything but visit.

The Brown Girls Cruising

My husband never seems to remember what I have said to him.  For instance, if I tell him I want him to take the garbage out, he nods his head and smiles at me, as if he knows what I’m saying and is going to jump right up and do my bidding.  But then, hours go by and the garbage is still sitting there, lonely.  How do I know if he is hard of hearing or has Alzheimer’s?

Ignored in Ithaca

Dear Ignored,

If  he doesn’t remember you telling him that dinner is on the table, he may need to get his ears checked.  If he wanders around the neighborhood in his boxer shorts, it’s Alzheimer’s.  If  he hears you when you tell him the game is starting on t.v. but doesn’t hear you when you ask him to unstop the toilet, he’s a man who has been married more than five years.

Dear Johanna,

Lately I am eating all the time.  I pig out at meals.  I sneak out for ice cream in the afternoon at work.  And, worst of all, I suddenly find myself standing in front of the refrigerator in the middle of the night, a bagel with cream cheese in one hand and Oreos in the other!  My husband is starting to say that I am  a food addict.  What do I do?

Fat in Florida

Dear Fat,

You go to your doctor right away and tell him/her you are not sleeping well and need Ambien.  Then you tell your husband you’ve been taking Ambien for the past few months, and apparently it has caused you to exhibit strange behaviors around food.  Works like a charm! 

Dear Johanna,

I am afraid I no longer love my husband, but I’m too tired to make any changes in my life.  I already have a separate bedroom.  I’ve told him we can’t communicate, so there is no use even trying to talk any more.  The other day, he fell down, and I kicked him–and felt no guilt.  Is this normal at my age?  I’m 65.

Anxious in Anchorage

Dear Anxious,

Your reactions may be a little extreme, but I get where you’re coming from.  I hear that in some cultures, once women are past childbearing age, they all live together happily–and boot the husbands out.  I don’t think that idea would fly in America, but I hear you, sister!  But no more kicking!  Just make him a “man cave” where he can go watch TV and drink beer while you hang out with girlfriends.  You’re much less likely to end up in jail!

Johanna

Annice

For the last month, my Saturday night entertainment has been Animal Planet’s Pit bulls and Parolees. I am a devotee of this show that brings together an amazing cast of tattooed characters and critters. For starters, there is Tia Torres, a tough red-headed super hero mom over 50, who founded Villalobos Rescue Center(VRC) to save abused and abandoned pit bulls. With her on this journey are her family and a crew of ex-cons who work tirelessly caring for almost 200 pit bulls at their 10-acre facility.  It’s a story of wounded souls to the rescue, and I love it. No job is too difficult for this dedicated and tattooed team. I’ve seen them spend days out in the scorching desert waiting to capture and rescue one scared dog.

Tia and friend

This past week, I witnessed Tia and her crew trek out to Alabama (from CA) to help rebuild a dog rescue center that was destroyed by the tornado there. They conducted a memorial service for the twenty some dogs that were killed and at the very moment during the service when the name of each dog that perished during the tornado was being called out, the other dogs on the premise were howling as if they, too, heard the names and were saying good-bye. And don’t forget to keep a box of Kleenex close by…

The drama is gripping. Not only does this amazing super hero, Tia, run the rescue for these four-legged friends but a rehabilitation program called Underdawgz for the parolees.  Tia believes both pit bull and parolee have been maligned and feared and both are in need of training and rehab, and Tia is committed to that — no matter how long it takes! I love her.

Showing the Love

But if you’re thinking about adopting one of these doggies, Tia doesn’t make it easy. She is is very strict about who adopts these animals because they are not for the bleeding hearts, and she wants everyone to know what they’re getting into. It takes commitment and hard work to own one of these rescues, but from what I’ve seen on the show, the reward is great.

JANE

So, I’m back from Africa and settled back into my life (after considerable jet lag).  It’s hard now even to believe that just a week ago, I was driving around the wilds of Botswana in a safari vehicle, looking at rhinos and giraffes and elephants.  It all seems like a movie that I went to see, and now I’m out of the theater, dazed by the  bright outside light and realizing that I ate a little too much popcorn (or, in this case, one too many ‘fat cakes,’ a Botswana staple consisting of a big ball of friend dough dripping with grease).

This trip to Africa made me feel both younger than usual and older.  I felt younger to realize that I still had the nerve to go exploring and camping in remote places, with my 2 girls and some camping equipment.  It also made me feel younger to try new foods, meet new people, and to see new things.  However, the trip also made me feel older, in that I had more anxiety about things than I had ever had in the past.  Part of this is probably due to the fact that it was Africa I was visiting and not Wales (where I ventured when I was 19 and traveling by myself for the first time).

Part of my anxiety was also due, I’m sure,  to the fact that I didn’t have my husband with me—for the first time in about 28 years!  After all, Tom is always so on guard against every possible hazard to our kids that it makes it easy for me to relax and be laid back.

But the biggest part was probably just due to the fact that I’m 58 years old and a little too aware of the bad things that can happen to good people.  While Becky was excited to see the very interesting lizard on the roof of our camping tent, I couldn’t help but imagine that lizard dropping down on us in the night to give us a fatal, poisonous bite.  While Becky and Josie both enjoyed steering the rental car through the sandy roads into Khama Rhino Sanctuary, I kept imagining us stuck in the sand on a backwoods trail, with no one to come and rescue us or bring us water.  It made me feel old to be conscious of every mosquito bite, fearing dengue fever or malaria.

JANE ON SAFARI

I have to admit it:  when our plane touched down in Philadelphia, and I knew, for the first time, that I had gotten at least one of my girls safely back on this side of the ocean, part of me breathed a huge sigh of relief.

But then, I have to remember that there was also another part of me that was ready to pack up and go again.

I guess there’s still some life in the old girl.

Annice

I was inspired to cook a hardy meal for a friend who spent six weeks in the hospital after suffering from a perforated colon.  She left the hospital weighing 90 lbs having lost 20, and when I asked her what she’d like to eat, she said, “meat – red meat.”

I immediately thought of one of my Dad’s favorite dishes, Hungarian Goulash.  Being Hungarian, it was a dish he often made in the winter and one that that I love but rarely make.  Of course goulash doesn’t have the same mystique of Proust’s madelaines, but it still conjures up childhood memories.  And while I wasn’t able to deliver my goulash with fresh crusty rye bread, it was every bit as delicious and authentic as my Dad’s.

As you might have guessed, my Dad never used a recipe, so neither do I.  I’ve tried my best to construct one for you.  The key, I might add, is to use good quality paprika.  After all, you want to be sure to get the vitamin C found in paprika.  And, did you know, it was Hungarian Nobel Laureate Albert Szent-Györgyi who is credited with discovering vitamin C in paprika?

Serves 6-8 people

DAD's GOULASH

Ingredients

• Oil
• 3 ½ – 4 lbs beef chuck cut into cubes (my Dad liked beef shank or shoulder)
• 3 large yellow onions, chopped (my dad always picked the largest onions)
• 4 large potatoes, cubed
• 4-6 carrots, cut in circles
• Garlic, crushed   (not too much)
• 2 tablespoons Hungarian paprika
• Salt and pepper
• Water

1. Sauté the chopped onions in oil until they are a nice golden brown.

2.  Sprinkle the onions with the paprika, stirring to prevent the paprika from burning.

3.  Add the beef and sauté until they are a bit brownish in color

4.  Let the beef simmer in its juice and add the crushed garlic, some salt and pepper, pour water enough to cover the content of the pan and let it simmer on low heat for a while, stirring occasionally.

5.  When the meat is half-cooked (approx. 1.5 hrs) add the carrots and potatoes, and more salt if necessary.  You might have to add some more (2-3 cups) water too.  ENJOY.

Oops, I was supposed to post this for Jane as she was flying off to Botswana with Josie to visit her daughter, but I had too many things on my list this past week.  So, here is Jane’s post -  just a little late!  Annice

Tell me again, whose idea was it to schedule a surprise birthday party for her husband’s 60^thbirthday one week before Christmas?  It was worth it—I’ll say that.  The party was a blast.  Tom was surprised beyond my wildest hopes.  Our friends and relatives came from far away places.  My wonderful niece and her husband came from Virginia with their two baby girls to complete our workforce made up of Lizzie and Janson (her fiance), Josie, and my wonderful friends Heather, and Nora, her daughter.  Together they decorated, cooked food, took pictures, arranged the room, welcomed guests–and generally made it all possible.  And Sadhvi gets an Oscar for her acting job that led Tom into the room “to borrow chairs for the weekend.”  Josie made an incredible 4-tier cake with the theme of “A Man For All Seasons” (with a season on each tier).  I got so wound up from seeing so many people  I love in one place that I’m still having trouble unwinding!  It made turning 60 seem like a great thing, and I’ll let you know about that in a few years.

Tom, Josie, and the Birthday Cake!

But whose idea was it to schedule a trip to Africa 3 days after Christmas?  This trip promises to be an adventure, and, most importantly, I’ll get to see my baby girl instead of missing her for another six months!  But, needless to say, I’m not ready for Christmas, and I’m not ready for Africa.  I’m guessing it will all come together, “one way or t’other,” as my mother used to say.

Here is what remains to be done today:

1) Shop for about five things that are still missing for Christmas

2) Find a plug that can convert to African power, so that I can plug in my C-PAP machine and sleep at night while I’m traveling around Botswana

3) Buy wrapping paper and wrap presents

4) Get international texting put on my daughter’s phone so that we can let my husband know that we arrived safely in Botswana

5) Call my credit card company to let them know I will, in fact, be in Botswana, so that they don’t kick out every transaction I try to do

6) Find the passports that I stored in a safe place for the trip

7) Get one of those passport holders you can wear around your neck

Go to the evening service at our church for Christmas Eve

Jane and Josie

9) Breathe deeply

10) Pack for Africa

11) Clean the house

12) Bake Christmas cookies.

I have a feeling that numbers 11 and 12 are probably going to go down the tubes!

Happy Belated New Year to all of our readers!  Off to Botswana!

Annice

This is one of my favorite recipe’s from my dear friend Va at Sheville.org.  I tried to make this Tequila Christmas Cake recipe for Chanukah again this year, but it didn’t work out so well.  So, I’m trying again for New Year’s Day.  Here goes:

 Ingredients 

.

.

Sample the tequila to check quality.  Take a large bowl; check the tequila again to be  sure it is of the highest quality.  Repeat. Turn on the electric mixer.

Beat one cup of butter in a large fluffy bowl.  Add 1 teaspoon of sugar.  Beat again.  At this point, it is best to make sure the tequila is still OK.  Try another cup just in case.

Turn off the mixerer thingy.  Break 2 eegs and add to the bowl and chuck iin the cup of dried fruit. Pick the fruit up off the floor.  Mix on the turner.  If the fried druit getas stuck in the beaterers, just pry it loose with a drewscriver.

Sample the tequila to test for tonsisticity.  Next, sift 2 cups of salt, or something.  Check the tequila. Now shift the lemon ice strain your nuts.  Add one table.  Add a spoon of sugar, or somefink. Whatever you can find.

Greash the oven.  Turn the cake tin 360s and try not to fall over.  Don’t forget to beat off the turner.  Finally, throw the bowl through the window.  Finish the tequila and wipe the counter with the cat.

Too Much Tequila

Pahhpy New Gears!

FATIMAH'

I offer my heartfelt congratulations to each of you—to each of us—for at some point on your journey, you may become a Proud & Gratified Parent of a Parent.  Ladies 50-plus, you are my sistah’s in many an unknown way.  Thus the subject and title of my first sharing with Oops 50!

Yes, indeed, one of my highlights in life is having the honor of caring for my parent(s).  For those whose parents are still with us, I say again, “Congratulations!”  And, for the parents gone on, “Thank you!”  Some of my friends say that I have a lot to share regarding the honorable role of care-taking for a parent.  And I just might agree.  Here is my first 50cents on the subject.

Over the years, I have had, and am still having, powerful transformative experiences through caring for both of my parents.  My mom (R.I.P) was challenged with dementia, but this little, yet extremely powerful lady was with us until she was 98.

MY MOTHER

My pape’ is still with me at the tender age of 105.  One thing that’s for sure – the role of parent is not an easy one.
I have come to realize (considering my parents’ ways, ideas, beliefs, habits & histories) they did absolutely the very best they could for me.  From the time I was a little girl until high school, my mom and I had some moments, mainly to remind me that she was the boss, the goddess, the doer, the artist, the one who stuggled.  I now know that within those ‘who’s boss’ experiences, she was empowering me—by standing in her own power.  Little did I know then that her ground rules were roots for my survival – her creative gifts, food for my soul.  Her fierceness was my foundation for growth and empowerment.

MY PAPE'

My pape’, a gentle man indeed, has his ways, beliefs, history and experiences too.  Pape’ and I flow 97% of the time with ease.  The few confrontations we’ve had only began as he got older and realized that his physical self and gentlemanly ways were changing. His man-ness, too, was shifting.

So, from then to now, what have I gained through the honorable role of being ‘A Proud & Gratified Parent of a Parent’ –that makes me congratulate myself…in gratitude?  I’ll start with some critical words for me:

Allow, Trust, Remember, Stand,

Give Choice, Be Responsible, Respect, Create Authenticity,

Let go!

From these engaging and transformative words and ways of being, creative and wondrous experiences happen.  They are mandatory for me within the dynamics of any relationship.  Telling a full-grown adult what they should or should not do is a no-win situation, and when it is your parent, forget it.  It creates separation, mini wars, challenges, heartbreak, sadness and a host of unhealthy energies and experiences…experiences that, in all honesty, we really do not want.
At any given moment, my Mom or Dad makes a choice to do something or say something that I might think will not be good for their overall well being or for their mental & spiritual wellness.  Once I have remembered to say, “It is your choice, and you are responsible for the results,” I have experienced each of them shifting, maybe not right there in the moment, but afterwards. It is an amazing gift to give another.  To be reminded of the freedom of choice, the result, the responsibility, has been an invaluable gift for my parents and for myself.

It is also good to remind them of the responsibilities that come along with choice.  This is my truth, from my experiences.  Learning this through my interactions with my parents has been an invaluable gift to me.
Once the choice is handed back to them, freedom is offered.  Once they get to remember “My Choice, My Results, My Responsibility,” an amazing shift happens.

I have experienced this shift many, many times—both with my parents and within myself.  Freedom for them and for me!  When I am no longer responsible for their choices, I am free to handle other, less challenging aspects of caretaking.

This is where those words above come into play: it is important to allow them to make choices and to give them the responsibility for those choices, and then I get to let go!  Parents are grown.  They have paid their dues.  They all have earned an invaluable place on this planet: to be acknowledged as the gift they are.  And NO, it is not an easy journey for any of us…but PROFOUND experiences, BLESSED moments and more come of it.
My choice has been to be authentic and respectful, stand in my truth, trust, while allowing & letting go, getting creative, be authentic to myself & to them—and I can testify it truly created a meaningful, loving, nurturing bond between my parents and me: a most whole, wholly holy experience.

Part Two of this session will follow.  In the meantime, I thank you for your readership & feedback!

Fatimah’　

SADHVI

I’ve started to get into the Holiday spirit.

It started with the first snowflakes last week, the Christmas songs I’ve been playing while baking the things that I love to send to my family, and the tangible joy I feel when I roast chestnuts as a street vendor with my husband.

This year there are more and more people who are trying chestnuts for the first time.  And loving them.

Knowing that they aren’t nuts, that they are a complete protein (you can live on them), that they’re alkaline, and they contain very little fat might be the reason.  Or could it be that they’ve been growing all summer in Italy, so that you are, in fact, eating “Italian Sunshine”?

HOT ROASTED CHESTNUTS!

Without chestnuts, I don’t know if I could handle winter.  I’ve made a simple Chestnut soup for dinner tonight.  I like easy, simple, and satisfying.

For my family who are far from me every year, I used the recipe that I have for making my Swiss Linzer Torte.  But instead of rolling out the dough for the torte, I just pinch off some pieces and roll it in a ball, press down in the middle with my thumb, and fill with raspberry jam, if I have it.  And some other kind if I don’t.  I bake them for about 15 minutes, and then sprinkle with some of the ground almonds.  Everyone loves them.  You will too!

“Swiss Linzer Thumbprint Cookies”.

SWISS LINZER COOKIES & ST. NICK

It’s not that I’m not happy about the news—or that we think it’s happening too fast.  Lizzie met Janson last summer, and he’s a wonderful guy—with a great sense of humor—who has found his way easily right into our hearts.  She met him through a friend of hers—at a time when she was not expecting to meet anyone.  Isn’t that how it always happens?  And they hit it off instantly.  He seems perfect for Liz:  their temperaments are compatible; they love each other; they share many of the same values.  What more could we ask for?

It’s just that, once all this happened—and after I’d come down from the cloud of excitement—I realized that maybe I wasn’t prepared for our baby girl to be taking this next step.  First of all, it seems impossible that she could be old enough.  After all, just a minute ago,  she was only four years old!  I keep thinking of “Fiddler on the Roof” and Tevye’s song: “Is this the little girl I carried?  Is this the little boy at play?  I don’t remember growing older.  When did they?”  How in the world did she get to be 24 so quickly?  And how in the universe could I be old enough to have a daughter old enough to get married? 

How quickly these big, momentous things happen! I guess that’s the terrifying thing:  life is always faster-moving and less predictable than you think it is when you’re stuck down in the weeds, dealing with the day-to-day mess. In any case, it’s great.  They are great!  And I’m going to have a share a picture of the cute couple, so people can see how darling they are! 

 I’m sure I’ll get used to this soon.  I know one thing:  no matter how long it takes me, I’ll adjust sooner than Tom (my husband), who has been laid flat out on the floor!!

 Here are 10 things I’m thankful for this year:

1)  We have wonderful friends who make us feel thankful to be alive and sharing this planet with them.

2)  Our daughter Becky in Africa is feeling better, so maybe she doesn’t actually have dengue fever or some other horrible tropical disease (what I immediately assumed upon hearing that she had a fever and muscle pains). And our daughter Josie does not have a stress fracture on her leg—just shin splints!  Yaay!  And she’s going with me to see Becky soon.

3)  Our daughter Lizzie has Janson in her life—a thoughtful, loving guy—and Janson may even have a job soon, thanks to some great folks who read about him in the paper and decided they wanted to go out of their way to help a Marine veteran!

4)  Our son, Parker, is very happy at Bard College—and, even though he won’t be home for Thanksgiving, he gets to have turkey dinner with Janet and Jerry, our wonderful friends in New York.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING FROM OOPS50!!!!

5)  I have three powerful and loving sisters (and a host of wonderful blood kin) and terrific, loving in-laws (how lucky is that?).

6)  Tom can still, after 28 years (is that possible?), make me laugh so hard that I risk embarrassing him in public (but I never really do).

7)  Obama is still in the White House.

  Even though I’ve gained some pounds and need to get rid of them, I’ve managed to keep off most of my weight loss.

9)  Our dog Tater loves to chase a laser around our floor—over and over again—without ever getting bored or tired.

10)  Ultimate Ice Cream (in Asheville, NC), especially the Coffee Heath Bar (perhaps this last one should be avoided). 

I didn’t think it would be possible.  I could not imagine how I could ever get there.  I had resigned myself (sorrowfully) to the idea that my daughter would be in Botswana for a year, and I would not get to see her—or to get any glimpse of her amazing new world.  We knew we couldn’t afford to bring her home for Christmas; and we didn’t see any way that we could get over there.  I was just going to have to stop worrying about her and accept the fact that I would not see her for nearly 10 months.

Then, the miraculous happened.  First of all, I had a visit with my wonderful sisters at the beach, who all encouraged me to think creatively about getting there to see Becky.  My sister, Katie, told me about how people can donate frequent flyer miles to other people.  My other sisters talked about ways to raise money for the trip.  My youngest daughter, Josie, said she was determined to go, and, since she suspected I would not let her go by herself, she offered to pay for herself and for part of my trip out of her hard-earned babysitting money. 

Africa, here we come!

After I got back from the beach, my sister, Sheppie, sent me a donation in the mail, “for your trip.” That was just the beginning of a string of incredibly wonderful, generous acts by friends and family.  Here’s a summary:  my wonderful roommate from college, Cindy, donated her frequent flyer miles to me; my incredible mother-in-law, Henny, gave hers to Josie. 

So, we knew we could get to Africa—and that we could even stop in Holland on the way to visit with family!  But we still had no idea how we could afford to do anything once we got there.  And then, the miraculous happened:  a friend of a friend of my husband’s, a wonderfully generous man who will remain nameless (in case he doesn’t want the publicity), offered us the use of his house and his car, for an extremely moderate fee, during our visit.  And, he told us how to see all the things we wanted to see—the elephants, the lions, the rhinos, etc.—without breaking the bank.  He told us about the out-of-the-way nature parks that tourists don’t usually visit.  He gave us tips about how to camp and cook your own food, instead of staying in luxury safari lodges.  As things turned out, he even designed a 9-page itinerary for us, with tips on all the little things we should know, such as which line to stand in for Customs, how much a taxi ride from the airport should cost, what to bring with us from the States, etc.  I consider him our Fairy Godfather for this trip—and this is a man that we will not even get the chance to meet in person, since he and his wife will be away on a cruise when we are in Botswana!!!!

Beautiful Beach in Capetown, South Africa

In any case, this post is the first in a series about our trip to Africa.  I thought our readers might find it interesting to share in the adventures of a 57-year-old woman and her 15 and 19 year old daughters, as they take on Africa!  I hope you will, anyway, since I know I’m going to feel like writing about it.  As my Fairy Godfather said in a recent email, “This will probably turn out to the be the adventure of a lifetime for you.” 

Rhino

P.S. The pictures in this post were taken by our daughter in Africa!!!

Annice

What a year – so many friends and family with serious health problems, starting with my husband’s fall last February, the loss of my Dad, and then both my dogs.  There has been no reprieve.  I am shocked about all the friends that have had serious to critical health problems accompanied by extended stays in the hospital as well as long recuperation’s at home.  If I made a list of all the sick people (and animals) I’ve known this year, it would add up to more than a dozen, and that’s way too much in one year.

Just a few weeks ago, I made a huge pot of matzo ball soup and delivered it to four sick friends.

Matzo Ball Soup

It’s depressing and stressful worrying about them.

So, I created a way to cope with the year of sick friends.  I built an imaginary wishing well in my heart and when I’m about to do a yoga practice, (whether in class at One Center Yoga or in my home), I dedicate my practice to all those who need well wishes.  I sit in Sukasana and take five long breaths and say their names in my head and breathe them out and down my wishing well.

Sukasana

Today, another friend just told me about her Mother who suffered a major heart attack after falling and breaking her hip and knee.  Tonight, I will add her to my ever growing list of well wishes.  I hope it helps because I don’t know what else to do.  Like chicken soup, it can’t hurt, right?

JULIA

My thoughts on learning that I am going to be a Grandmother are as follows:

Okay, so I had more than 10 thoughts in a row.  This doesn’t happen every day.  I just had to write them all!

Julia Coward lives in Asheville, NC with her husband, in a house made entirely of dog hair.  She has held many varied and interesting  jobs in her career as a person, but her favorite has always been raising and caring for people and pets in all different ages and stages of life.  Plants have to fend for themselves.

Dee Charlton

I’m grateful to be one of the lucky, reunion re-connections that formed over the past 18 months with Annice, one of the co-founders of this wonderful blog Oops50.com.  Our friendship goes back to 6^th grade summer camp, and if my math is right, that’s 47 years ago.  The camp was devised by the school district to facilitate kids from several grade-schools to meet and spend time together prior to the major transition into the adult world of 7^th grade!  We became fast friends.  We were 12 years old.

October 23, 2011 – I turned 59.  How strange it feels to be writing for this blog and and saying, I’m almost 60 !!   How did that happen? The Bonnie Raitt song; “Nick of Time” keeps playing over and over in my head, especially the lyric; “… no matter how I tell myself – it’s what we all go through,  those lines are pretty hard to take when they’re staring back at you..”   In the Nick of Time  You ain’t never lied sister Bonnie!

My husband, Scott and I have been traveling the country in our motor coach since April.  We just returned to beautiful Sarasota, Florida Nov. 1^st, and I’m sitting in front of the computer looking at our wedding photo taken in Italy.

Dee's wedding in Italy

Next to that is the photo we had taken last month in Las Vegas, it was our 5^th anniversary – wow.  What a life, what a journey this has been!  I can’t say I remember what I wanted my life to be when I was younger except that I wanted to be independent and travel, and now I can say yes to both of those goals.

I’m also feeling how fortunate I’ve been to experience the wonder of this country – the canyons, the mountains, the Bad Lands, Death Valley, White Sands, Alaska and hot air balloon festivals.  I’ve even jumped out of an airplane and para-glided off a mountain.  I’m grateful for it all, and for Scott.

Next - Pilot's license

Back to my birthday – it was harder than I expected it to be.  All day, I was fighting back tears.  I know I’m not afraid of death, I’ve been faced with it on more than one occasion.  So what was tearing me up?  Aging?  Vanity?  Am I that vain?  I guess I am, but is that worse than death??

I think it finally hit me when I texted Fran (my wonderful step-daughter) something my mother said to me on my birthday: “Welcome to the last year of your 50s!”  Thanks Mom.  Her stand-up routine could use a little refining, but I love her anyway.  And thank you Fran for letting me cry on your long distance shoulder.  For every year that passes me by, I come one more year closer to losing my Mom, and that hurts a lot.

Dee with Mom

Honestly, I’ve just gotten to know my mother well about seven years ago, and I cherish her as my real best friend.  I am a lucky 59 year old woman in so many ways!

Born in Collinwood (Cleveland) OH, Dee’s family followed what she likes to refer to as the Italian Migratory Route from Little Italy in Cleveland to the ‘burbs where her mother still resides. 

After graduating from high school, she struck out on her own in her first apartment, later to be hired by the same people who built, owned and managed the complex.  

Her career in Property Management took her to New York, New Hampshire, and finally Florida, a place she wanted to stay.  In the early 90’s, Dee was hired by a national company and traveled the country promoting motivational speakers to help people get rich quick – just like they did.  It wasn’t unusual for her to come home with half a million dollars in her briefcase.  Eventually, Dee settled down in Sarasota.where she met her husband, Scott, and married in Santa Maria di Castellabati, Italy, just south of the Amalfi coast.  Today, they live in Sarasota during the winter months and travel the rest of the year in their motor coach.

College Boyfriend's Horse Pic

There are the people who go through a horse period, when their child is taking lessons.  Maybe they even buy a horse.  But as soon as the child loses interest or the horse becomes unusable, they’re done with it.  That horse may get passed along to the next brief enthusiast and the next, then maybe to a riding stable, but eventually there’s no real use for it—other than just being a horse.  What happens then?  More than likely, the horse ends up in a bad situation, gets put down or goes to the slaughter house.  

One of our horses came with a long line of impressive show wins, and with a little notoriety from his time at a local barn, so, after having him for about 10 years, I called the previous owners to let them know how he was doing.  I could tell from their response that they thought I was nuts.  Like a lot of other people, they had no interest in finding out what had happened to their horse after they were finished with it.   

I’m fortunate in that we have a farm, so we have never had to board our horses.  Of course, that is a double-edged sword—because if we had had to board them, we’d have never ended up with so many horses.  Some we got as sad-story rescues, such as the horse show jumper who wasn’t ever supposed to jump again who was being used as a jumping lesson horse, or the retired thoroughbred with the bent leg, or the little Arab, “Rosie”, we found on the side of the road.  (When I was little, my parents accused me of yelling “pick me up!” every time we passed some unfortunate creature on the side of the road.  I guess they never imagined I’d find a horse that way.)

Jackson

Rosie was a mess.  She was loose that day, grazing beside the road, but she normally lived in a muddy garage with a piece of barbed wire across it, right next to a busy road.  She’d gotten out in an ice storm and fallen.  There were wounds all over her.  When I found the owners, I offered to pay them $200 for her or to call Animal Control.  We brought her home that day.  Local men that came to help us pick up hay that season knew her.  They said she was always in a local parade.  One day I put a saddle on her.  It felt unnatural.   I wasn’t used to her high-head Arab carriage.  It was unnatural for her, too: she associated riding with fear, noise, and stress.  I never road her again, and that was ok.  To see her put on weight and just be a horse in the pasture was payment enough.  She has arthritis now, and one leg is bending at an odd angle.  When it gets cold outside, I blanket her, but every morning she’s there with her ears perked up, waiting for her food.  I doubt she’d be alive if we hadn’t brought her here.

When people adopt dogs they are forewarned to be prepared for a lifetime commitment, but horses aren’t viewed that way.  Just because we don’t eat them, are they as disposable as pigs or cows?  Anybody can buy a horse with no questions, such as are they properly able to care for them?  Fenced yard? (please no barbed wire)  Enough yard? (2 acre minimum per horse) Intent to breed? (ever check Craig’s List to see how many are looking for homes??)  Will they be able to handle yearly worming, hoof trimming, vaccinations and feed, for goodness sake, all essentials for a healthy happy horse?

Nobody polices potential horse owners to see if they “get” what all is involved.  In this day and age, when Bob Barker is pleading to our lawmakers for protection for circus animals, there ought to be some kind of minimum requirement for horse ownership—and not just the last resort intervention of animal control when the horror story makes its way to the local news. 

People watch “The Horse Whisperer”, “Secretariat” and soon “War Horse” and marvel at these magnificent creatures and all they sacrifice for us.  It shouldn’t be a one-way street.

Dinner Time

Years ago, when I would get a new puppy, I’d calculate what my age would be when the dog reached the end of its life—and would figure that, by that time, I’d be able to handle it better.  Somehow that never worked out.  When my husband surprised me with a weanling about six years ago, did he calculate how old I’d be when it reached 30?  I just hope that, at 86, I can remember to go outside and feed it!

Bob Miller

One of the things I love about blogging is the ability to meet people anywhere – anytime.  When Sue Counts (guest blogger) wrote about co-housing a few weeks ago, we got tons of emails and comments from readers everywhere.  One such person was Bob Miller, and the next thing I knew, I was inviting him to be a guest blogger – our first male blogger on Oops50!  Thank you, Bob. 

Annice

My wife and I became members of a co-housing community called Wolf Creek Lodge earlier this year.  The lodge is currently under construction in Grass Valley, California.  We expect to move in sometime late in 2012.  We have chosen Wolf Creek Lodge as an appealing environment for our senior life style.

Future Wolf Creek Lodge

The conventional American living environment can be hostile to the senior species.  They want community, walking access to stores, entertainment and recreation.  They want low maintenance, sustainable housing.

Community is important to me and my wife.  Earlier in our lives we found this at our workplace, through our children’s activities, our extended family, our church and sporting activities.  We no longer go out to work and our children are living their own lives and our older family members have passed away.

We watched our parents become isolated in their later years.  We believe we can do better by taking action now before change becomes challenging.

Who's Slowing Down?

At Wolf Creek Lodge we will have our own condominium-style apartment, one of 30.  However, we will also use the common room, living room, patio and gardens.  We will invite friends to stay in one of several guest apartments.  We will stroll on the adjoining trails, walk to the nearby shops and enjoy the cultural activities of Grass Valley.

Community will be at our front door.  Most evenings we will dine in the common room sharing cooking and clean up activities.  We will join others over coffee and relax on the patio.  We will continue to ski, bike and hike in the northern Sierra, which are only an hour away.

What a Ride

We realize that as the years pass we may become unable to drive and our physical capabilities may become more limited.  The Wolf Creek Lodge environment will continue to work for us.  The lodge even includes an apartment for a care-giver, should we need extra help.

Wolf Creek Lodge is a creation of its evolving community.  The community worked with the architect on the design to oversee the construction and formulate the processes which will guide the members’ common activities.

Already, months before moving in, we are enjoying the community.  We are in constant electronic communication with all the other members and attend the General Meeting in Grass Valley once a month.  My wife has a key role on the landscape committee reviewing the planting plans and identifying members who want to work in the gardens.  I help on the marketing and technical committees.

Under Construction

On the marketing committee I am working to find people to join us and fill the remaining 6 apartments.  It’s fascinating to talk to potential members as they try to understand this co-housing concept.  They pay us repeated visits to decide if they want to spend the rest of their lives with us.  They finally take the decision and pitch in.

We do not really know what it will be like to live at Wolf Creek Lodge.  We are working hard with our new friends to make it happen and having both fun and challenges along the way.

Bob Miller is currently a ski bum in Truckee, California.  Born in England of an English mother and a Scottish father, he moved to Scotland at the age of 11.  After graduating from Glasgow University with a degree in Physics he married Claire, started a family, and moved to the Boston area in 1978.  Bob’s career was in the computer industry.  Since his retirement, he moved with Claire to Truckee.  Besides skiing, he rides his road bike and hikes in the Sierras.

.

Every autumn, it’s the same thing: it takes me a while to get used to the idea that all the leaves will fall from the trees, it’s going to get cold, and winter is coming.

I have never lived in a place where there were NOT four seasons, so why does it come as a shock each and every year?

Maybe it’s simply because I don’t like to be cold!

Here’s a joke that I find funny ever time I read it:

On a small iceberg, somewhere near the North Pole, a little bear goes up to his mother and asks, “Mom, what kind of bear am I?”

“You are a polar bear, son,” replies his mother.

“Are you sure I am not a brown bear?” he asks.

.

“Quite sure, son,” she replies, “you are a polar bear.”

But the little bear is not satisfied. “Mom,” he says, “maybe I am a grizzly bear?”

“What are you asking these questions for, son?” asks his mother. “You are a polar bear.”

So the little bear walks across the iceberg to his father.

“Pop,” he says, “am I a panda bear?”

“No, son,” says the father, “you are a polar bear.”

“Not a koala bear?” asks the baby bear.

“No, you are a polar bear,” says his father. “Why are you asking all these questions?”

“Because,” moans the little bear, “I’m cold!”

So postponing the inevitable is why I like to have as many Zinnia’s around me as possible.  They seem to continue to bloom and flower until the first hard frost, which around here can be in November.  They require nothing more than putting some seed in the ground once the Spring frosts are behind, and then continue to sow some in little corners until mid-Summer.  Oh, and deadhead when needed, saving the spent flowers to use for next year’s blooms.

Remembering to do this is not hard, once you’ve experienced the joy of their colorful blooms.

Wishing you Well,

Sadhvi

Zinnias from a few days ago!

JANE

This news came on a day when we had not heard anything from Becky for a while, since she was traveling with friends to South Africa, so she wasn’t anywhere near a computer—and her phone had no service.  I didn’t think I could stand it, but I had to wait another two or three days before I could actually hear from Becky in person that  1) she was alive 2) she had a fabulous time in South Africa and 3) yes, she was indeed standing less than a foot away from the rogue Great White when it rammed the protective cage, pushing through the bars with its teeth.  According to their guide, that sort of thing “has never happened before.”  He was totally shocked that it happened this time.  Becky said it was “awesome,” since she could see its teeth—and could have put her whole arm down its mouth if she’d wanted to!

Needless to say, I’m having difficulty having my girl so far away this year.  The bleak reality – that hits me in the middle of the night or at times when she is sick or hurts her leg or loses her phone—is that 1) I can’t get to her quickly 2) I can’t get her home quickly 3) I can’t think about what might or might not be happening to her, since I can’t do a damn thing about it.

A few days after her computer died, she lost her phone.

So, for the past few weeks,  we have had no way to reach her in an emergency—no link to her sweet self.  I suppose that, if we had to, we could call the University of Botswana’s International Students Office—and they would track her down.  I think of that sort of thing when I’m thinking logically, but, I must admit, that doesn’t happen very often.   What happens instead is raw panic—usually in the middle of the night—that 1) she is sick with the flu 2) she has lost her passport  3) she’s in an African jail for bumping another car in traffic (this actually almost happened!).

My sister said that the best thing I can do this year is to try to put Becky on a shelf in my head, a nice, safe, little shelf where I can always imagine her safe and sound and healthy and happy.  So, that’s what I’m  trying to do.  I recommend it to anyone sending a student abroad:  it usually works during the daytime, at least.  I also recommend giving your son or daughter the request I gave to Becky, “Next time you decide to do something like go underwater to look for Great White Sharks, please don’t tell me about it until after you are back safe and sound in your dorm room (read, “on your safe little shelf”).

Lynne

Our guest blogger, Lynne Roche Matthews, grew up in the suburbs of Cleveland, Ohio and went on to study at Kent State University.  After college, she worked in the hospitality industry for over 29 years.  She moved to upstate New York in 1990 and became Vice President for the motorcoach tour & charter company she and her late husband owned until retiring to Punta Gorda, Florida in 2001.  She now spends her time volunteering for the yacht club, chairing the PR & Marketing Committee, and the annual Bridal Expo.  She also is active in city politics, serving on the Planning Commission and Board of Zoning Appeals.  In her spare time, she loves to go boating, read, travel and shop.  AND, she just got married this past Saturday and looks forward to many new life adventures with her new husband.

Thanks to my High School Reunion, I reconnected with Lynne after 40 years.  And, by the way, if you’re going to a reunion any time soon,  just pray you have someone like uber-planner, Lynne, running your event.  This woman knows how to have fun!  After our reunion, I asked Lynne to write a blog post about her experience locating all our classmates and what it all meant to her.  Here is her story.

Annice in 1967

I recently had the wonderful opportunity to chair my 40^th high school reunion, reconnecting with so many great friends that I had lost contact with back in the day.  It was truly an inspirational weekend after planning it for almost two years.  I got on the plane to return home to Florida, only to see one of my classmates, Annice, who had also been at the party, so we sat together on the flight and talked non-stop for a couple of hours.  It was great fun just catching up with each others lives.  So she told me about this blog she started with some friends of hers, and one thing led to another…well you know how these things happen.

When asked to write a blog for Oops50, I started thinking of all the things I could write about.  I’ve often thought about writing a book about some of the crazier things in my life, but I just never had enough time to do ii…ah yes, TIME.  That evil four letter word.  If only I had TIME.  It made me think of something that really stood out in my mind, something that I wish I had made the time for.

Reunion Fun

When I first started working on the reunion a couple of years ago, I discovered a classmate (Roberta) who lived just 5 miles from me, here in Florida.  So after almost 40 years, here we were, almost 1000 miles from where we grew up, living the good life in sunny Florida.  After a couple of months of knowing she was so close, I called her one day (it blew her away), we laughed, we cried and found each other again.

I had already found another one of my BFF’s from high school (Barb) just a few miles away, and she and I have gotten together frequently over the past 10 years to have lunch every month or two.  So we made arrangements for the three of us to meet for lunch.  Here’s where the “if only” comes in.

Roberta announced to me she had just come through a rather intense session of chemo, having a rough round with ovarian cancer.  What a true trooper she was, braver than most, and she was doing well.  Sporting a beautiful wig and her ever present smile, she arrived, nervous as all get out, but we quickly settled in for a wonderful lunch and conversation.  We did the same thing several other times since, hooking up with other classmates I found nearby (there are 17 of us here in SW Florida), and had a wonderful time reconnecting everyone.

There was to be a group dinner with spouses back in late winter of 2011, and she opted out, saying her husband was out of town on business.  And then she cancelled out on a girl’s day lunch.  Well I think you know where THIS is going.  I had a bad feeling, but I just didn’t follow up on it.  And then I got the call from her husband…she had succumbed to that evil disease in May.  I hated myself for not doing what I knew I should have done, but I also know she wouldn’t want anyone to dwell on the illness.  She kept it very private, and that’s the way she wanted it.  But it was way too soon to see her go, and I will always second guess myself for not doing better at keeping in touch.

That's Roberta next to Lynne

I’ve mourned the loss of my dear friend, Roberta, and not a day goes by that I don’t regret waiting to get in touch with this beautiful, kind soul.  It just proves that there’s no time like the present – don’t leave this place we call earth with any regrets, and don’t wait to reach out to those who mean something to you.

If only I had started sooner, I would have had more time to spend with her, and maybe, just maybe I could have helped her get through the times when she really needed me to be there for her.  I know she loved that we reconnected, and she loved the time we spent together.  I just wish there had been more of those times.  So RIP sweet Roberta – I will miss your beautiful smile always, and I’ll see you on the other side.  Dance like no one’s watching ladies – you never know what’s around the corner!

Betsy

Originally from Canada, Betsy lives in upstate New York in the Catskill Mountains, with her cocker spaniel and two domestic long-haired cats.  She is very close to her two sons, both in their 20s.  Her family, 3 older brothers, their wives, children and grandchildren, still live in Nova Scotia.  An aspiring writer and stained glass artist who loves nature and the quiet rural life, Betsy currently teaches composition at the State College in Delhi, NY. 

Before I sat down to write this blog, I was totally stymied by where to begin.  It’s a long convoluted story that began more than 5 years ago, when my now 23-year-old son, Alexander, was diagnosed with schizophrenia.  And it hasn’t ended yet.  Perhaps I should begin at the end, which is to say, when it comes to mental health care in this country, beware!  Trust your gut about the quality of ‘subsidized’ treatments and if at all possible, pay for private care.

Alex has been hospitalized numerous times.  Each time was a crisis situation – delusions, psychoses, panic attacks – and each time he was patched up and sent home into my care, with minimal follow-up care at the county mental health clinic.  By minimal, I mean only once every two weeks or so.

The county mental health professionals were clearly operating on their own agenda and enjoying the self-imposed power they possess by being the only gig in town (we live in a very rural area).  I can’t even add up the number of hours Alex spent meeting with counselors, with the ONE AND ONLY psychiatrist (who wielded his prescription capabilities like any good autocratic dictator) and with psychiatric nurses, only to be told that he should practice deep breathing during a panic attack, or take Benadryl for insomnia–all the while denying him a medication that was helpful because they didn’t think it was needed.  It was their way or the highway.

Alex, being more intelligent than any of them, had his own ideas.  He began self-medicating himself with alcohol,  in order to get relief.  So here I was dealing with erratic behavior in my son, who was unable to find any relief for his very painful mental health issues.  At one point, out of sheer desperation, I reached out to the county people for help.  I felt Alex needed medical attention, but I couldn’t convince him to come with me to the hospital.  The county people told me they could arrange a “pick up”.  I thought this would be a good idea, as I envisioned a county nurse or some other sympathetic person who would come and, with professional care and sensitivity, convince Alex to go with her.  Instead, two burly policemen came to the door and insisted that Alex be cuffed and placed in the back of their unmarked (oh how sensitive of them) cruiser.  I was horrified.  They had no patience with him, and they threatened him into compliance.  This episode eroded Alex’s faith in the helpful nature of these ‘systems’ in place and shook his trust in me.

When he was admitted to the ER at the nearest trauma center, they had no beds.  According to rules, he had to stay in the ER until a bed could be found somewhere – anywhere – in New York State.  Finally, close to midnight, about 5 hours after he was admitted, they found a bed in Saratoga Springs– about two and a half hours away.  He was transported by ambulance there, where he stayed for the minimum of 4 days, while a doctor who didn’t know him from Adam, diagnosed him with paranoid schizophrenia and sent him back to be followed up with our illustrious county mental health people.

The best thing we ever did was to finally give up on the freebies and hire private care.  This has not been easy.  But it was worth the effort.  Alex is currently stable and improving.  He has a long road ahead of him, managing this kind of illness, but there’s no accounting for feeling well.  As for me?  I’m taking it one day at a time.  Hope springs eternal.

If anyone else should find themselves in this situation, I would say listen to your instincts!  I think we knew early on that the county people were not going to be able to help him, but somehow it just seemed easier and cheaper–at the time–to continue.

Sue Counts

My friend, Sue Counts, retired three years ago as the Director of the North Carolina Cooperative Extension in Watauga County after more than 40 years in government.  During her tenure, Sue initiated educational programs in the areas of sustainable tourism, sustainable energy, Hispanic outreach, and women in agriculture.  Sue says, “At this point in my life, I’m seeking a better life for the Baby Boomers who are entering that stage of their lives known as ‘the senior years’.”  So, when Dene Peterson, the founder of ElderSpirit Community came to Boone a few weeks ago to talk about her life’s work, Sue was there attending meetings about the possibility of creating such a community in Watauga County, NC.  She graciously shares important information on “Retirement Housing.”

IT’S OFFICIAL!  We are now in the “ERA OF THE GOLDEN BOOMERS!”.  On January 1, 2011 the very first Baby Boomer turned 65, and 10,000 boomers will turn 65 every day for the next 19 years.  This gigantic generation has transformed America as they have passed through every stage of life…..and housing for the elderly will not be any exception.

It's Official

Co-housing communities if you will!  These communities bring together the value of private homes with the benefits of more sustainable living.  That means common facilities and good connections with neighbors.  All in all, they stand as innovative answers to today’s environmental and social problems.

According to Charles Durrett, author of Senior Cohousing Handbook — 2nd Edition, A Community Approach to Independent Living, “No matter how rich life is in youth and middle age, the elder years can bring on increasing isolation and loneliness as social connections lessen, especially if friends and family members move away.  Senior co-housing fills a niche for this demographic — the healthy, educated and proactive adults who want to live in a social and environmentally vibrant community.  These seniors are already wanting to ward off the aging process, so they are unlikely to want to live in assisted housing.  Senior co-housing revolves around custom-built neighborhoods organized by the seniors themselves in order to fit in with their real needs, wants, and aspirations for health, longevity and quality of life.”

Elderspirit Community

The ElderSpirit Community at Trailview in Abingdon, Virginia is the living example of a community of mutual support and late life spirituality.  It is the first mixed-income, mixed ownership Elder Co-Housing Community in the United States and in this capacity it is making its way as it “walks the talk.”  The founder of ElderSpirit Community is Geraldine “Dene” Peterson, a “spry” woman in her 80’s who recently received the “Lifetime Achievement Award” at the 2011 National Cohousing Conference in Washington, DC.

Dene Peterson

At eighteen, Dene  Peterson left her parents and ten siblings to join a convent. She ultimately chose to leave the religious order, but her spirituality remained deeply rooted. In 1995, at age 65, she created the ElderSpirit Community in Abingdon, Virginia. Inspired by a Danish model, Peterson wanted to form a co-housing retirement community that would allow friends to live together in a collaborative and supportive setting while also offering some of the autonomy of private dwellings.  Peterson also envisioned an alternative to institutional long-term care, a place where community members would have the emotional support of their peers as well as the necessary medical assistance to live out their lives at home.  Using a creative patchwork of funding from public and private resources, Peterson raised $3.5 million, and her vision materialized.  Construction of the 29 residences, common community building, and a prayer room was completed in late spring of 2006 and houses both the moderate and low-income.  The model has gained national attention, and an ElderSpirit outreach extension program in now helping to plan similar communities in Florida, North Carolina, Ohio, Kansas, and Virginia.

The ElderSpirit Community is dedicated to making possible new opportunities for Elders in the 21st Century.  The ElderSpirit Community values are: To live in a community of diverse spiritual paths; To give and receive support in relationship with neighbors in community; To belong to a community who make the decisions on how they will live together; and To encourage each other to live simply and care for the earth.

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

I’ve heard from some baby boomers that high school reunions are nothing but a terrifying rite of passage, but for me, four decades after graduation, it was a blast.

It started with the preparation and anticipation of going back.  I think I received the first announcement (at least 6 months before the event) from our uber organizer and former majorette, Lynn.  Preparation for the Reunion would not be without challenges for me.  After all, there was pressure in high school and it didn’t have to do with grades.  Grades?  That was the easy part.  My anxiety came from the lack of dates and boyfriends.   I scored a big zero in that department so why wouldn’t I feel a tiny bit of pressure?  I’m not perfect, you know.  Then, there was the issue of what to wear.  I prayed I would find the most flattering outfit I could fit this 50 something body into short of liposuction in time for the Reunion.   Thank you very much J. Jill.  

40 years later

So why would I go to my 40^th reunion?  Simple, I wanted to reconnect with people I shared my youth with – after all, I spent the most formidable years of my life with these 480 kids with raging hormones.  You see, I grew up in Mayfield Hts., Ohio, attended Mayfield Rd. Elementary School, Mayfield Jr. High and Mayfield Senior High school as did my two sisters, my brother, and my five cousins.   Oh yeah, I must also confess, I love stories and the Reunion was filled with them – stories of former cheerleaders, majorettes, football heroes, wrestling champions, thespians, and merit scholars.  There were stories about divorce, ex-husbands and their girlfriends, children, step-kids, ageing parents, dead parents, and even dogs (yes, baby boomers love their dogs).

The first night we all met at a bar which I thought was a brilliant idea.  It facilitated the initial shock of seeing each other grown up.  Understand, I hadn’t seen or in most cases, thought about my classmates in 40 years.  Well, that’s not exactly true because many of us have been reconnecting on facebook in anticipation of the Reunion.    Another brilliant idea was posting our graduation picture on our nametags.  Purposely, I kept reading glasses in my pocket so I wouldn’t have to squint all night to read the nametags and distinguish the photos.

my reading glasses

The first night, all I could think of was who were all these people hugging, and saying hello with huge smiles across their faces,  and why didn’t I recognize them right away?  Too fat, too skinny, too gray, too many wrinkles?  And of course, they were thinking the same things about me.

Saturday night was the banquet and so much dancing and gabbing and I must’ve been having a great time because I didn’t get home until 3:00 a.m. –  just like old times.  And memories, so many memories and laughs that made it all worth it  My advice, if you get a chance to go to your Reunion – don’t miss it.  Life is short.

Annette

JANE

My baby girl (Becky, who is 19) is now southern Africa.  And she’s there for the next 10 months.  I’m still trying to take in that information, so I thought it would help to write about it!

We took her to the plane last Sunday morning (6 a.m.!), and I swore I was going to be brave just long enough to get her on the plane.  I almost made it.  My eyes started tearing up when I saw her being friendly and cute with the other passengers in line to go through security with her.  She was starting conversations with at least three different people.  That’s just how she is.

After putting her on the plane at the Charlotte airport, our sadly diminished family group went to the local IHOP for breakfast and cried into our pancakes.  It was a bleak morning.  My spirits rose when I got a text message: “I’ll call you when I get to Africa.”  How ridiculous is that?

So she’s gone for a year of study and I’m trying to adjust.  I’m adjusting to the fact that I won’t see her for the next long ten months.  I have to keep from thinking about that one.  I’m adjusting to the fact that if she gets sick or needs help in some way (she loses her passport/her debit card/the key to her dorm room/her computer/her camera/whatever), I can’t do a damn thing about it.  I can’t get to her quickly—no matter what.  The shortest I could get there would be 19 hours of travel—and that’s assuming that my passport is up-to-date!

BECKY

So, I’m  adjusting…  I have to say that I don’t know how all those mothers survived who shipped their children off to cross a lone ocean back in the days before airplanes or computers, not knowing when they would even hear from them to know they were safe on the other side.  I feel incredibly lucky to be in the generation that has Skype, so that I can talk to her at night and see her face and hear about her eating her first fried grub or seeing her first baboon.  How cool is that?

We’ll all get through it, and I’m sure she’ll have a fabulous year.

And here I thought it was hard raising teenagers, but this makes it look like a piece of cake!

SADHVI

I wanted to share my secret to eternal youth this week, but I couldn’t think of one.  Then I thought I could let you in on how at the age of 53, I’ve invested wisely and am now retired, except that this is not the case.

So instead I’m going to share something that I think is pretty interesting.  I was looking at the data collected from GoogleAnalytics, a free service from Google that shows which key words people are punching into their search boxes, and how many of them there are.  What I discovered is that the majority of people using the web are trying to find their perfect mate!  Uh oh, wait!  I think that also includes porn sites.  Geez.  I shouldn’t be surprised, since just about all of my single friends use online dating these days.  I even have friends who tell me, “I’ve got to find time to get on Match.com!”.

If only they realized that their type of “Mr. Right” is not anywhere but between the pages of a book.  Because having been in a relationship for over 25 years with the same partner, I can attest that it ain’t like what these single friends are yearning for.  It is not necessarily bad, it just isn’t romance every day!

MR. RIGHT THERE ALL ALONG

If I were looking, I definitely wouldn’t look for a potential relationship online!  They pick the picture themselves and they write things that make them appear like they are auctioning themselves off on the block!

If I were looking for love, I would join a tango class, or a bowling league, or maybe just go the library and get some Harlequin romance novels and drift away in a comfortable chair.  Or just order online at my favorite book site: Better World Books.  A much better company than Amazon to support, by the way.

Here’s a quote from a summer read that I recently picked up (no pun intended).  Let me know if you agree with me that reading about romance might be better than an actual relationship.  It’s cheaper. There is no compromise.  When your heart gets broken, vicariously of course, it will be better by the end of the book.

Enjoy!

Sadhvi

Monica Devine

Monica Devine is an author, photographer, therapist, and baby boomer who lives in Eagle River, Alaska. She also studies and practices yoga – one of the most beneficial practices (spiritual and physical) for women over 50. Today, Monica reminds us of what yoga teaches us about Ahimsa.

Ahimsa means to do no harm; to practice non-violence. When non-violence in speech, thought and action is established, one’s aggressive nature is relinquished, and others abandon hostility in one’s presence.

This is one of the teachings in the Yoga Sutras that I’ve given a great deal of thought to lately. Have you ever noticed how angry speech begets defensive behavior? How violent behavior begets retaliation? We see this on the world stage, between nations and cultures at war with one another. And we also see it on a smaller scale at home with the people we love most.

Explosive anger and negative speech towards another creates a climate of defensiveness and hurt that can last for years. Sticks and stones may break your bones? Sure, but violent and aggressive speech toward another is just as damaging. I remember my sons resorting to shouting matches and highly charged fighting when they were younger, the days when sibling rivalry was intense. This was a highly stressful time for me as a parent; I’d immediately get sucked into their disagreements and feel I had to diffuse the argument with an even louder voice; I had to take control, offer a quick solution, make everything okay again. But in doing so, I was trying to bring about peace in a way that wasn’t, in and of itself, peaceful. So I began to examine these behaviors by practicing staying in the midst of an argument and remaining peaceful inside. By pulling myself aside mentally, breathing deep and slow, and staying consciously aware of the encounter, a neutral ground was established where emotions were not allowed to run amok. Over time, I learned to shape the encounter, rather than control it, and to calmly shift the responsibility for a resolution back on them rather than carry it myself. When I spoke softer, so did they. When I offered and modeled an alternative way to communicate, they responded. This was a huge accomplishment for all of us and took years to hone.

Monica & Mt. Drum

Kind speech begets kind speech. Carrying the thought of peace in our hearts naturally invites a more loving and clearer expression from others. We would do well to remember that families are microcosms of nations. The knowledge and courage required to lay down our sticks and stones and practice daily the essential and vital energy of peace, starts at home, with ourselves.

If you want to hear more about Monica and her life in Alaska where she writes about about art, nature, travel, and more, visit her at her very own blog.

Multi-media piece of my Mom by Monica Devine

SADHVI

I knew the moment we saw our house that it was the one.  The place where I would plant the flowers and things that I loved.  I didn’t do much the first summer, wanting to see what kind of things were here…an old snowball tree, lots of “Rose of Sharon”, an old Lilac tree, a huge Oak tree, and lots of hemlocks.  That was also the first year they started to die off around here; some sort of aphid was killing them.  It also started to get warmer and we went from Zone 6 to Zone 7.

MY POTTING BENCH

I got a tree man to come and treat all 24 hemlocks, and they are still standing.

I feel cozy and protected with those hemlocks surrounding our little half acre.  This month it’ll be 9 years living in this old farmhouse.  It was so much work to gut it and redo it, but it’s wonderful having a place that feels like a haven from the world each night when I come home.

Each year what grows and blooms is a little bit different, and maybe in a different spot.  It’s as if the plants and flowers start to have a life of their own – and I love that.

I would be lost without the Maria Thun BioDynamic Planting Guide.  It’s now online, and it is easy to read and use.

MARIA THUN

I highly recommend planting at the time that Maria Thun says to!  It’s the best thing you can do to get the strongest plants and best harvest.

ONE PURE DAISY

With such a small life, with such a small energy source, it is simply stupid to waste it in sadness, in anger, in hatred, in jealousy.

Use it in love, use it in some creative act, use it in friendship, use it in meditation: Do something with it which takes you higher.

And the higher you go, the more energy sources become available to you.

At the highest point of consciousness, you are almost a god.

OSHO

ZINNIA'S ARE MY FAVORITE!

ARJUNA

Our friend, Arjuna da Silva, lives at Earthaven, an aspiring ecovillage in a mountain forest setting near Asheville, North Carolina. Everyone living there is dedicated to caring for people and the Earth by learning, living, and demonstrating a holistic, sustainable culture.  Arjuna helped start Earthaven in 1994, where she’s lived for the past twelve years.  She just moved into her earth & straw temple of a house there. Everyone who knows this beautiful woman over 50, celebrates her spirit.  Here is what she has to share…

ARJUNA'S HOME

Originally, I wanted to write a piece about what a joke it is to work my way through a day of living on the land, off the grid, learning to grow food, and recycling my waste into valuable (fertilizer) resources.  But after several tries, I realized those choices deserve much more credit and that my inner voice is the one who’d rather let someone else do all the hard stuff.

So, yes, I do start my day by (sometimes anxiously) checking the meter to see how my batteries held up overnight storing solar-accessed electric power; and I do pay attention to the weather report regarding the day’s anticipated power access.  I even pay attention to the calendar that tells me if the stars would treat my tomato seedlings better today than if I waited to plant them on Friday.

When I first started to write this piece, I called my draft, A Drop in the Bucket, intending to convey the double meaning of the “sustainable” life I choose to live.

• Meaning 1: peeing and pooping in containers so those resources can be utilized as soil amendments (instead of depending on fertilizers that have to be bought and shipped, possibly scraped off another part of the earth).
• Meaning 2: then there’s the more cynical reference being the effort us folk (who live in this valley) put into recycling, preserving, using renewables, etc., which is just a drop in the regional (let alone global) bucket.

ARJUNA ON THE LAND

But, today I’d rather tell you I’ve found ways to minimize the things I don’t like (carrying what’s too heavy, smelling what’s too foul, etc.), and feel pretty happy refining my rugged life into something that even fussy people might be able to handle.  In fact, I’m thinking others might choose this path if they could feel the inner rewards that come from paying attention to what we do and what we use to do it.

The  choice to take risks (as if anyone lives without them) and move in what looks like “the right direction” for oneself, one’s neighborhood or the planet, is such an uplifting choice!  The experience of following through on the nitty-gritty details of trial and error with new systems and organic self-reliance is exhilarating at times and is mostly just deeply satisfying.  Maybe you’d like to try it?

Please post your questions and comments here so we can have an open discussion.  Arjuna’s workshop, “Your Enneagram and Your Sub-Personalities” airs August 10-21 at Earthaven.  For more information, please email: arjuna@earthaven.org.  All power to the people!  Make your own, grow your own, and use your own!

THE ROAD TO EARTHAVEN

Annice

I wanted to write about my dad on Father’s Day and now it’s too late.  You’re probably thinking who cares about Father’s Day now?  But I do.  You see, my dad, Sanford Brown, died April 28^th, barely two months ago, and I’m still grieving.

Me and my Dad only 2 years ago

It feels like I always will grieve, and maybe that’s why I haven’t been able write about him.  If it were any other topic, I’d just call it procrastination, but here, now, it’s more poignant.

I want to write about how close I was to my dad–tell you how I miss our telephone conversations about politics, books, current events, my work, and family, especially his grandchildren and great grandchildren.  At times, I find myself reaching for the phone to call, and then I realize that I will never hear his voice again.  Yes, it’s very sad.

My dad was 85, and one week before he died, I traveled to Cleveland to celebrate his 85^th birthday and Passover with our family.  He was especially proud to witness his nine-year-old great grandson, Jacob, conduct the entire Seder not only in English but Hebrew, too.  It was truly a spectacular day.

His great-grandson Jacob wanted to see the company my dad founded

Days after I got home, my sister called to say Dad was in the hospital, and it didn’t look good.  Back I went, hoping it would all work out.  Like many of you with aging parents, I always knew that dreaded call would come one day, but somehow, I still wasn’t prepared.  Despite the fact that my dad was 85 and had lived a good long life, it still seems too short.  And, despite the fact that he was not really sick and lived in the same house for the last 56 years surrounded by family and friends, it’s still too short.

Dad and grandsons Alexander & Mason in DC

If anyone were to ask me what I learned from my dad, I would tell them: how to love unconditionally, the importance of family, loyalty, forgiveness, charity, to travel and see the world; maintain a strong work ethic, and make sure there is laughter in your life.

While I haven’t perfected all of these qualities, I am forever grateful to have my dad’s teachings to guide me through my life’s journey.

Dad's 83rd birthday with a rare glass of cognac

Annice

.

It seems like the media is never short on scandals about married men behaving badly.  Even Marlo Thomas has written about it.  I admit, I am fascinated by scandals about men in positions of power or men who put themselves up as role models and then get caught with their pants down.  (Check out our archives about other stories I’ve written abut men behaving badly).   And, isn’t it great that wives today (many are women over 50) can decide for themselves whether to stay or go?  But, I am waiting for one of these wives to stand up at a press conference and call her husband a big jerk.

I played a little game with myself to see how many of these jerks I could remember, with little effort, I came up with this list:

• Rep. Anthony Weiner (D-N.Y.) for sexting
• Strauss-Kahn (Director of the IMF) accused of rape
• Schwarzenegger (no explanation needed)
• John Edwards (former Senator and Presidential contender) for having an affair and love child while his wife was dying of cancer
• Newt Gingrich – ditto (minus the love child)
• Governor Sanford (South Carolina) for having an affair who he claimed was his “soul mate”
• Elliot Spitzer former Governor of NY caught in a high-priced prostitution ring
• Tiger Woods professional golfer and admitted sex addict
• Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas (sexual harassment scandal)

Seems like the cure-all for all these boys behaving badly is simply to hold a press conference, tell us they are seeking professional treatment to focus on becoming a better person, and then they’re all better.  Really, Rehab for Jerks?

Rehab for Jerks

Where are they?  I’d like to refer a few.

Jane

My sister Pattie

Happy this day to accept
Problems beyond comprehension,
Beyond solving,
Beyond changing,
To sit home at night,
Because they’re out and might
Have to call,
Though they don’t call as promised
When they get there,
If they get there.
Most likely they did,
Chances are they’re there,
Concerned with their own unsolvable problems,
The ones you just guess at,
Of which you are one–
You hope the biggest one,
Happy if you’re the only one.

Forgetful in Florida

Dear Forgetful,

I am just happy to say that I don’t have this problem any more, and I’m as old as the hills.  My children praise me all the time for remembering stuff.  In fact, I even keep track of my husband’s meetings.  And when I go out with my girlfriends, I’m the one who remembers where we parked the car.  It’s amazing, isn’t it, how some people get memory loss with menopause and some just don’t?  Now, tell me again, what was your question?

Dear Johanna,

What can I do about my “chicken fat” arms?  I’ve lost weight recently, and I look fairly good in every place except the very flabby undersides of my arms.  They flap in the breeze and make me feel totally unattractive.  I can’t stand to wear short-sleeved shirts any more.  Help me, Johanna!

Flabby in Forest City

Dear Flabby,

I’ve heard this complaint from lots of people, and I, for one, am tired of women worrying about their flabby arms.  When I see a woman with flabby arms, I just think to myself, “There is a woman who has lived through a lot, experienced a lot, probably picked up a lot of babies with those arms or carried a lot of some man’s dirty clothes up and down stairs. She is certainly not someone who had time to go work out at the gym all the time and keep her arms looking trim.”  I think we should start a movement to protest people’s prejudice against flabby arms.  I say wear those no-sleeve shirts with pride!  You could even get a t-shirt printed that says, “I’m no spring chicken!  I’ve got chicken-fat arms!  Watch out! I might knock you out with one of them!”

Dear Johanna,

I am always tired and have very little energy.  I don’t have hot flashes, but I seem to have every other symptom of menopause, and I’m really tired of the whole deal.  To top it all off, my husband still thinks I’m beautiful and wishes I were interested in sex more often, but the thought of it doesn’t do wonders for me.  In fact, it’s the opposite: I’d almost rather do anything else!  Will I ever feel normal again?

Droopy in Detroit

Dear Droopy in Detroit,

Honey, you need to tell that man the truth:  unless they invent a drug that reverses menopause, he won’t be getting back the hot young thing he married any time soon, so he needs to either get used to living like a monk or come up with some new strategies.  Here are some time-honored ones that have been found to work well with women over 50 (and I actually recommend doing them all, in order):  HE SHOULD 1) cook dinner for the family; 2) clean up the dishes; 3) scrub the toilets in the bathrooms; 4) fold all the laundry; 5) plan the family vacation without any input from you; 6) tell you he loves that one little hair on your chin–it turns him on–and he especially loves your adorable, flabby arms; and 7) promise you that you can sleep late the following morning and he’ll get up and let the dogs out!

SADHVI

SEDUM AND ROSES

I don’t watch TV.  I just don’t have the time.  Sorry Oprah!  Sorry Dr. Oz!  I realize I am in the minority, and to tell you the truth, that is where I have felt the most comfortable my whole life.  Under the wire, so to say.  I don’t go to the gym.  I don’t go shopping and I don’t belong to many clubs.  Really, I am not that social and am somewhat of a hermit when I am not working.

I would even say that I need a lot of down time these days in order to survive and stay somewhat sane in a world that I find increasingly fast and intense.

GROUP SHOT OF ORIENTAL POPPY'S

I am a big fan of all the flowers that open in my garden.  That wonderful progression starts in late winter, and doesn’t stop until late fall.  And to think that leaving Cleveland, Ohio back in 1976 made this all possible!

BELLO, MY SHADOW!

It’s funny, but I’ve planted things only to find them in completely different places the next year.  Like the hundred or so larkspur’s coming up in a corner completely different from where they were originally planted; and they were originally maybe a couple of dozen from a seed pack!  Oh I know, those are from the many seeds that were blown there in a strong wind.  But I find that magical!

Then there’s the 3 butterfly bushes which have now multiplied into a dozen thriving plants in different parts of the yard!  It’s like: “Where did those come from?”

I like to let the garden do what it wants, because it simply thrills me to know that I am not in charge!  And it really feels like it has a life by itself, and will continue long after I am gone.

SAGE

These are the pictures of what I saw this morning.  I hope you are finding beauty and joy in the flowers and fragrances that you see in your world.

MANY RED POPPY'S

PINK POPPY

BEAUTIFUL MULLEIN

PURPLE POPPY

SADHVI

These days I seem to be running into people who are either dropping out of Facebook, etc., or they are trying to keep up, and are feeling overwhelmed.  And then there are folks like my husband, who never wanted any part of it and thinks it is a complete waste of time! Someone sent me the following email; I don’t know who wrote it, and I hope no one is offended. No matter where you are in the spectrum, I do hope you enjoy reading it like I did.

“When I bought a Blackberry cell phone recently, I thought about the business I ran for 30 years with 1800 employees, all without a cell phone that plays music, takes videos, pictures and communicates with Facebook and Twitter.

I only signed up for Facebook and Twitter because of the pressure from my seven kids, their spouses, 13 grand-kids and 2 great-grand-kids who told me they would be able communicate with me in the “modern way” if I did.

Not wanting to be left behind, I figured I could handle something as simple as Twitter with only 140 characters of space.

That was before one of my grand-kids hooked me up for Tweeter, Tweetree, Twhirl, Twitterfon, Tweetie, Twittererific Tweetdeck, Twitpix and something that sends every message to my cell phone and every other program within the texting world.

My phone started beeping every three minutes with the details of everything except the bowel movements of the entire next generation.

I was not ready to live like that.

So now I keep my cell phone in the garage in my golf bag.

The kids then bought me a GPS for my last birthday because they say I get lost every now and then going over to the grocery store or library.  I keep that in a box under my tool bench with the Blue tooth headset (it’s red, by the way).

Which I was supposed to use when I drive.  I wore that Blue tooth while standing in line at Barnes and Noble talking to my wife and everyone within 50 yards started glaring at me.  Maybe it was because I had to take my hearing aid out to use it, and I think I got a little too loud.

As far as the GPS goes, it did look pretty smart on my dash board, but the lady inside that gadget was the most annoying, rudest person I had run into in a long time.

Every 10 minutes, she would sarcastically say, “Re-calc-u-lating.”  You would think that she could be nicer.

It was like she could barely tolerate me.  She would let go with a deep sigh and then tell me to make a U-turn at the next light. Then if I made a right turn by mistake, well, let’s just say it was not a good relationship.

Now when I get lost, I just call my wife and tell her the name of the cross streets and while she is starting to develop the same tone as Gypsy, the GPS lady, at least she loves me.

To be perfectly frank, I am still trying to learn how to use the cordless phones in our house.

We have had them for 4 years, but I still haven’t figured out how I can lose three phones all at once and have to run around digging under chair cushions and checking bathrooms and the dirty laundry baskets when the phone rings!

The world is just getting too complex for me.

They even mess me up every time I go to the grocery store.  You would think they could settle on something themselves but this sudden “Paper or Plastic?” question every time I check out just knocks me for a loop.

I bought some of those cloth, reusable bags to avoid looking confused, but I never remember to take them in with me.

Now I toss it back to them.

When they ask me, “Paper or Plastic?”,  I just say, “Doesn’t matter to me.  I am bi-sacksual.”

Then it’s their turn to stare at me with a blank look.

It’s only fair.

I was recently asked if I Tweet?

I answered, “No, but I do toot a lot.”

I just want to end by saying that I really don’t need any more gadgets to connect.

The TV and the garage door remote are about all I want to handle!”

I want to enjoy life…how about you?

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

Jane

My mother always said she hated Mother’s Day.  Like a few other women over 50, members of the baby boomer generation, I grew up in a household where Mother’s Day was looked down upon as something artificial, created by marketers in order to sell products.  So, I believed that when/if I had kids, I would probably continue to look down my nose at Mother’s Day—and would say to my kids the kind of thing my mother used to say to me: “Please don’t give me anything on Mother’s Day.  Every day of the year is Mother’s Day for me.  You certainly don’t have to prove your love for me on some artificially-selected day!”

When our first child was born, and my first official Mother’s Day rolled around,  I was surprised to see how happy I was to get flowers from my husband.  But my real change of heart didn’t happen until those years when my children’s pre-school teachers (bless their wonderful hearts) started helping my children to create little Mother’s Day presents.  I remember when my oldest daughter brought home her first creation: a big flower made out of paper that opened up to reveal all kinds of nice words about mothers.  (The poems were furnished by the teacher, but the flower itself was cut out by my daughter.)  I found myself having to sit down—because I was crying!  I couldn’t believe it: I was a complete sap!  The marketers had won!

Give Mom the gift of love with a photo book filled with loved ones and cherished memories.

But what’s a girl to do?  Just consider these: the Mother’s Day in 1992 when our third child, Becky, was born—right on the very day!  Or the time when my son drew me a heart, that was signed, “I love you, Mama, Love, Parker Hatley.”  Or the Mother’s Day when my youngest, Josie, brought me a bouquet of paper flowers attached to straws (that are still sitting on my desk at work).  Or the more recent time when my adult daughter, Lizzie, brought me a little sign for my desk:  “I smile because you’re my mother.  I laugh because there is nothing you can do about it.”

Or this year:  when all four of them put their hard-earned money together to buy me flowers, a gift certificate for Ultimate Ice Cream (how well they know me!) and a locket with their pictures in it.

So, I’m in:  I love Mother’s Day.  Every year, I am caught, again—not by the sappy ads on t.v. (although I have to admit that when I was pregnant, I even cried over these)—but by the loving actions of my kids.  I’m a complete convert to Mother’s Day.  I say: Hurray for Mother’s Day!  Down with disbelievers!  I guess every good thing has to also have some accompanying hype.  Just consider Christmas!

A follow-up:  I’m happy to say that I stopped doing everything my mother told me to do when I was a teenager—and one of my rebellious acts was to bring her flowers on Mother’s Day.  Although she still pooh-poohed the day, she admitted she liked the flowers.

I wish I’d rebelled sooner.

I used to like to travel by myself for work.  I remember a time, when our 4 kids were little, that I looked forward with huge excitement to the occasional business trip, knowing that I would get to watch a movie on the hotel TV, or stay up all night reading if  I felt like it–or even take a midnight dip in the pool!

I’ve been doing a lot of traveling for work lately, and, although I still enjoy watching a movie in my hotel room, I’m pretty much over the rest of it.  I dread packing and unpacking.  I don’t like forgetting to bring toothpaste and having to go downstairs to buy some.

I don’t mind listening to good speakers or participating in helpful workshops, but I can really do without the “networking.”  I’ve never really enjoyed talking to strange people about whatever mess we can think up to talk about, but I’ve about gotten to the point where I can’t even fake it any more.  And I hate hotel breakfast buffets, full of cold cereal, fake waffles, and tasteless bagels.

Even the hotel lobbies depress me–with their aging carpets and their late-night bars full of conventioneers yukking it up and drinking too much. 

They remind me of airports, with their crowds of people walking around, passing each other, all of them unfamiliar, except that I like people-watching in airports, and it’s no fun in the lobby of a Sheraton.  There’s something about staying in a big hotel that gives me the same kind of limbo feeling I felt entering John F. Kennedy High School in the tenth grade–the new kid on the block, newly home to the States from our last tour of duty in Germany.

I’m a fish out of water.

I miss my husband.  I miss my kids.  I miss my friends. I miss my dogs.

I want to be back home, in my own bed, with my own pillow, and with my clock radio scheduled to wake me up to the sound of NPR, instead of a automated wake-up call.

I guess I’m just too damn old for this!

KATINA

I’ve known Katina since 1983.  We were young and had no fears about anything, and, we laughed a lot.  We share the same guru, we share astrologically, the same degree of moon and sun, and we share that wonderful connection of being loved and accepted by each other, no matter what.

I hope you enjoy what I found out about Katina that I didn’t know before this little interview.

1.  What was the name of the first record you ever bought?

I remember buying the Beatles album with the song, “I wanna hold your hand”.

2.  Who did you like more, The Beatles or The Rolling Stones?

The Beatles.

3.  What is the one thing you have to put on or have on that makes you feel good before leaving the house?

My push-up bra from Chantelle!

4.  What’s your favorite lipstick?

I like lip glosses instead of lipstick.  I like to go to Sephora online and try different ones.  I like one now that’s called “Sephora: Nectar Shine”.  It’s in a tube.

5.  What is your favorite comfort food?

I would have to say it’s a glass of Shiraz or a Zinfadel.  Lately I really like the Predator 2008 Red Zinfadel that’s around $13.99 a bottle.  Oh, and Archer Farms Cheddar Sourdough Twists!

6.  What’s your favorite and least favorite thing about being over 50?

My favorite thing is that I still feel and look OK.

My least favorite thing is that I have been dealing with a back problem for the last 7 years…and thankfully it’s getting better and I am starting to feel like my old self again.

7.  What is your most favorite thing to do that is “creative”?

Meditation is my most favorite thing to do because it makes me feel so good and connected and I’m creating awareness within.

Ah This!

Jane

But it’s heaven.

Here’s my schedule: I wake up with the sunrise in the morning and go out and sit on the deck, watching the ocean, maybe sipping a cup of decaf coffee.  A little bit later, after the family wakes up, I have some breakfast, lovingly prepared by someone other than myself (beach vacations include freedom from cooking!).  Then, I take a morning walk on the beach, stopping every now and then to pick up a shell or pat a passing dog.  When I get back to the cottage, I might read a book for a while or do an acrostic puzzle from the book my husband gave me for Valentine’s Day.  Then, what do you know, it’s time for lunch!  One of the kids is on lunch duty, so I wait to eat what they prepare.  Later in the day, I might sit on the deck for a little longer–or take another walk–depending on my energy.

Josie in the Water

Sometimes, I take a nap in the afternoon, listening to the sounds of the waves breaking on the beach and the seagulls flying around, calling to each other.  I’m often hungry here–something about the ocean air!  So I have to be careful about not eating, eating, eating, every spare minute.  I’ve been good so far.

Double Rainbow at the Beach

Later in the afternoon, I read my book again–or write–or have another walk.  It’s difficult sometimes to choose!  There are no phones ringing.  No emails to be answered, since I don’t look at them.  No places to go or people to see.

Then, before you know it, it’s time for dinner, once again prepared by someone else, followed by a board game with everyone or, perhaps, a rented movie on the t.v., with popcorn.  Then, time to go out on the deck and look at the stars before climbing into bed.

There are ways to spend lots of money down here.  We could go go-carting or eat at fancy seafood restaurants or take a ferry over to Ocracoke Island for the day.  But why bother?  We’ve got the ocean out our front door, carrying away months and months of stress each morning and lulling us to sleep each night.  Oh, and did I mention the moon over the ocean at night?

I recommend it to all women over 50!

We had to take her to the vet in Clayton, an hour away from our farm in Rocky Mount, and she hadn’t been in a vehicle since we’d first gotten her.  We’d always had to drug her with Ace to get her there for regular visits, and even then, she drooled, panted and tried to escape from the truck for the first 30 minutes.  I figured that by the time we’d get there, she’d be practically asleep– but I knew it would be stressful on her system.  The vet wanted to try her coming without drugs.

On the fourth trip there, we made it, with just some hard breathing, and Ems was the perfect lady in the waiting room.  She let the vet techs draw her blood with no problem.  Turns out you can teach an old dog new tricks.It worked—for a while.  Her appetite returned.  We had read that a high-protein diet would combat the cancer, so she feasted on stew beef, pork chops, turkey burgers and chicken.  No more biscuits for treats: she had beef jerky.  As a vegetarian, I’ve never bought so much meat in my life.  Thank you, Costco!  My carnivore stepson, who became Emmy’s personal chef,  also benefited from this diet–probably not in a good way.

She was eating and maintaining her weight and energy, so we had high hopes for the follow-up ultrasound to see if the tumors had shrunk. We were wrong.  But, since they hadn’t gotten any bigger either, we took that as a positive sign.

Emmy had always been a tough character.  She appeared a little over seven years ago near the road in front of our farm, limping—probably from a run in with a car—and we had to trap her to catch her.  She was just about the homeliest dog you can imagine, maybe a cross between a pit bull and a sharpei.  Plain black and tan, and tough.  We were afraid to let her near our other dogs, so somehow she ended up ruling the kitchen, prime real estate that I’m sure the other dogs grouched about.  She wouldn’t go in a crate, wouldn’t ride in the car.  She was highly opinionated.  She didn’t like thunder and would bark for hours at a storm: she wasn’t afraid, just pissed off by it.  And she didn’t like people other than us.  There were two instances where she actually bit people, one being the horse vet.   (How embarrassing!)

She seemed destined to live out a solitary canine life, until Otis came along.  Otis appeared in my yard in Hillsborough, an obviously purebred pitbull, wearing one of those massive spiked collars and dragging a huge chain behind him.  My first thought was to look for my cat, but I quickly saw Taff checking him out from the barn.  I got the chain, and Otis obediently followed me into my kennel.  He had little wounds on his cheeks.  I took his picture, printed it out, and took it to the convenience store, about two miles away.  About an hour later,  I went back and took it down.  He didn’t deserve to be chained, and if those wounds were from fighting, I didn’t want him to go back to that environment.  I decided if he was a beloved pet, I would check for lost ads, and if they didn’t care enough to look for him, then I would find him a better home.

That was wishful thinking—because, although I did post him at my vet’s and asked a couple of people if they were interested in him, I knew he wasn’t going anywhere.  But he was scary looking.  I walked him on a leash, and this was before I had my knee replaced, and one day I fell, on him, and I thought I was going to die.  I looked at him; he looked at me.  We were both scared of the other.  I think it was at that point that we jointly realized we had nothing to fear.

Otis didn’t have a mean bone in his body, but I was afraid to let him in with our other dogs, so, with Emmy in the kitchen, Otis took over the living room and the couch.  This arrangement went on for a while, until we finally had had enough of the put-one-out-then-take-out-the-other-one stuff.  We took them out together on leashes.  The two of them walked along as if they’d known each other for years.  I think they saw they were evenly matched, so there was no need for that aggressive silliness.  After that, they became inseparable.

So, along with my stepson, Otis reaped some of the benefits of the new diet.  As Emmy got thinner, he got fatter.  He loved her beef jerky treats.  But Otis also seemed to know something was wrong.  Ems didn’t run out the door so much any more, and she didn’t rush down the fence line after the squirrels.  She did enjoy sunbathing, which is what she did all the time.

She did it on her last day.  She lay in the sunshine with Otis.  I saw him give her kisses.

When I went to the truck to take Emmy, Otis jumped in.  At first I got him back out.  Then I selfishly let him jump back in.  No one else was going with me, and I wanted his company on the way back.  I also thought that Emmy would be calmer with him along.  I always struggle with when it is the right time to let go.  But the chemo wasn’t working.  Emmy wasn’t eating.  She was losing weight, and her breathing was becoming labored.  To an outsider, I suppose it would have been obvious that the time had come–but it is so hard to say goodbye.  The vet made me feel better.  She said she would rather see an animal come in before they get to a crisis and everyone is stressed.

Otis and I drove home.  My daughter sent me a text picture of Otis and Emmy.  Not wanting to stop and text her back, I just sent a picture of Otis back.  She asked, “Did Otis go with you?”.  I stopped and wrote “Yes”.  She wrote,  “Makes me think of Up.”(the movie).  I wrote back:  “Of the couple or Doug, the dog?”  She replied, “The couple”.

Emmy’s buried now in our front yard– right by the fence where Otis runs to chase after squirrels.

Annice

Is it just me or is it because I live in NC where basketball is king that I’m overwhelmed with March Madness?  To be honest, I really don’t care about it.  There it is.  I’ve said it.  I’ve got enough madness in my life, thank you very much.

Another truth, I never even heard about it until I met my husband 16 years ago.  He loves college basketball, and all sports except NASCAR (thank God).  Come mid-March, Madness lives in our living room because we are not a home with multiple televisions, something I insisted on long ago.  That means whenever there is any kind of tournament  (World Series, Super Bowl, PGA Golf, Wimbledon, etc.) the T.V. is on and on and on until I try to convince my husband to go downstairs to his office to watch this Madness on his laptop.  Needless to say, he doesn’t enjoy that AT ALL.

When I can no longer endure the basketball game in our house, I politely hand over the Sennheiser wireless headphones (which I highly recommend)  to  my husband before muting the T.V.

Sennheiser Headphones

When I question him about all this basketball, he thinks I’m crazy.  “Everyone watches college basketball this time of the year,” he assures me.  Really?  I’m pretty sure most of my friends don’t watch it.  I’m sure if I had sons who played basketball I’d be more interested.  Don’t get me wrong, I admire, even envy the talents of super athletes and their victories.  Who doesn’t like to see their team triumph?  But two weeks of basketball?  So, I’m asking, how many of you are really into all that March Madness?

Gwendie

There’s a blog that’s getting lots of attention.  It’s called “postsecrets”  (http://www.postsecret.com).  People send in anonymous handmade postcards with a personal secret on the back.  Things like “I wish my life were exciting”, and “When you see me in public and I seem to be reading a book, I’m really eavesdropping on you”.  Some are darker, more intimate.  I’ve been thinking about sending in one myself.  One of the things that holds me back is that, unlike the postcard makers who get their submissions posted, I’m not the least little bit creative in the visual sense.  Check out the website to see what I mean.

But my secret, like most of the ones on the website, is one that possibly a lot of other people, especially women, share with me.  It is this: I don’t feel sorry for women whose husbands have died; I feel envious.

There, I’ve said it.  Another problem with this secret, unlike the ones on the website, is that it needs more explanation to make any sense.  And that won’t fit so easily on a postcard.

I have friends and relatives (sometimes these are the same people), men and women, whose marriage partner died, and they were devastated.  They grieved and cried and missed their mate fiercely.  They yearned to have him or her back.  Some of them really look forward to reuniting in heaven.  They feel awful, at least for awhile, sometimes for a long while.  But still I am envious.

Here’s why:  to feel that bad about the loss of a spouse, there must have been a lot of good things about the marriage.  Good times, good experiences, good feelings to be so acutely missed.  Even the good memories are bittersweet; they remind my friends of their depth of their loss.

I never had that.  So I am envious.

I would trade places in a heartbeat.

Annice

Okay, I said I wasn’t going to write about Len’s hip replacement anymore, and I’m not.  But, as a result of our wretched winter, I believe I see a Caribbean Cruise in the very near future for one deserving woman over 50.

I see a Cruise in your future

I’ve never been on a cruise, and honestly, as someone who prided herself in being adventurous, I poo pooed them.  Len, too, felt cruises were rather beneath him.  We both cringed at the idea of being stuck at sea with thousands of strangers trying hard to vacation on an ocean liner.  How appealing could that be, I asked.  Well, now that I’ve had the life force sucked out of me, I’m thinking about being stuck at sea with a boatload of strangers basking  in the sun with Margaritas, lobster salad, spa treatments, yoga classes, trashy magazines, and no email, facebook or cell phones unless I want them.  Even Len is thinking cruise.

Admittedly, watching too much daytime T.V. (while taking care of Len) made me very susceptible to compelling commercials about Carnival Cruises to the Caribbean. In a flash, I saw myself sliding down a giant water slide on the   ship’s pool, and laughing all the way.

Oh yeah!

The seed of desire was planted, and for the past few days I’ve been searching the internet for affordable cruises.  And guess what?  There are so many to choose from.   The one that is calling me leaves from Miami, and then sails  to Belize, Honduras, and Mexico.  I’m certain Len will be ready by May, and as for me, I was ready yesterday.

P.S.  Do you think I could bring Gus?  He could use a vacation, too and he loves to swim.

Annice

I hope this is the last post I write about taking care of my husband and all my tsores (yiddish for troubles).  As expected, Len turned the corner from being in pain all the time and taking lots of drugs to moving about more, going up and down the stairs, and reducing his pain meds.

Better Days

Like him, Gus  also turned the corner so we are all doing better.   I’m even back at work part-time.  Being home-bound with Len has been a true learning experience, and, as a woman over 50, I feel liberated enough to say, I didn’t like it.  It made me feel isolated and anxious, and considering I am a 7 (Enthusiast) on the Enneagram that was tough.  By the way,  if you’re not familiar with the Enneagram personality profiles, check it out!  Seven’s are extroverted, optimistic, versatile, and spontaneous.  At their best, they focus their talents on worthwhile goals, becoming appreciative, joyous, and satisfied.  At their worst, well, let’s just say that nursing would not be good for a 7, as being patient often feels like being stuck.  Needless to say, I have work to do on that one.

.

Being home-bound has made me realize how much I like my work.  I’m not a workaholic, but I like my work and love the interaction with people.  Friends and family asked me what I did all day during the downtime.   Well, what kept me from going over the edge emotionally was getting on the yoga mat, reading wonderful novels, facebook, and re-visiting cookbooks.  I’ve been preparing 3 square meals daily for almost 6 weeks, and I’ve never done that before.  I’m pretty much cooked out!  Last night I made an “Indian Samosa Casserole” and a Green Bean Salad with Miso dressing, compliments of the  January issue of the Vegetarian Times. You can be sure with me back at to work part-time, the food fest is over.  Let the diet begin!

Last night's dinner

Ingredient List

Serves 6

Crust

• 1/2 cup all-purpose flour
• 1/2 cup whole-wheat pastry flour
• 1/4 tsp. salt
• 2 Tbs. vegetable oil

Filling

• 1 Tbs. black or yellow mustard seeds
• 1 tsp. curry powder
• 1 tsp. ground ginger
• 1/2 tsp. ground cumin
• 1/8 tsp. red pepper flakes, optional
• 5 medium potatoes, peeled and quartered (1 1/4 lb.)
• 1 1/2 tsp. vegetable oil
• 1 medium onion, diced (1 cup)
• 1 medium carrot, diced (1/2 cup)
• 3 cloves garlic, minced (1 Tbs.)
• 1 cup frozen peas
• 1 cup low-sodium vegetable broth
• 2 tsp. agave nectar or sugar
• 2 Tbs. soy milk

To make Crust:

1. Preheat oven to 375°F.  Whisk together flours and salt in bowl.  Stir in oil until clumps form.  Add 6 to 10 Tbs. cold water, 1 Tbs. at a time, until dough holds together.  Shape into ball, cover with damp towel, and set aside.

To make Filling:

2. Stir together mustard seeds, curry, ginger, cumin, and red pepper flakes (if using) in bowl; set aside.

3. Cook potatoes in boiling salted water 15 minutes, or until tender.  Drain, return to pot, and mash, leaving small chunks.

4. Heat oil in skillet over medium heat.  Add onion, carrot, and garlic, and sauté 5 minutes, or until carrot is tender.  Move onion mixture to side of pan, and add mustard seed mixture in center.  Toast 30 seconds.  Stir in peas and broth.  Fold onion mixture into potato mixture; stir in agave nectar.  Season with salt and pepper, if desired.

Spread Filling in 9-inch pie pan. Set aside.

5. Roll out Crust dough to 11-inch circle on floured work surface.  Cover Filling with dough, pressing down to make sure no air pockets remain.  Trim away excess dough, and crimp edges with fingers.  Cut X in center to vent steam; brush with soy milk just before baking.  Place pie on baking sheet, and bake 40 to 50 minutes, or until crust is golden. Let stand 5 minutes before serving.

6. Frozen cooking instructions:  Preheat oven to 375°F. Place casserole on baking sheet, and bake 75 to 90 minutes, or until Filling bubbles and Crust is golden. Let stand 5 minutes before serving.

Nutritional Information

Per slice: Calories: 299, Protein: 7g, Total fat: 7g, Saturated fat: <1g, Carbs: 54g, Cholesterol: mg, Sodium: 469mg, Fiber: 7g, Sugars: 7g

Farmer Nancy

Nancy, who lives in Hillsborough and Rocky Mount, NC and takes care of so many stray animals on her farm, contributed this recent piece about the frustrations that can come with people’s troubles–and to ask for readers’ suggestions for help! 

I’m writing this story not because I want to say, hey look at me I’m a good person, but because I’m upset about what is happening and don’t know what to do.  First, the back story.

When I built my house in 1984 at the end of a dead-end road that was mostly inhabited or owned by members of one family (who resembled the Hatfield’s and McCoy’s), there was one odd bird on the road, a gentle man named Jay, who took walks on the road with his mother and her twin.  The threesome occasionally ended up outside my house to see the progress on my house and talk.  Jay had a small antique store on the main road and traveled  to buy inventory, while his mother and aunt tended the store.  Jay lived upstairs in the store, and his mother and aunt lived in a small farm house on the adjacent lot.

Cats!

They had cats.

Aunt Caroline developed breast cancer at some point, and Jay moved into the farm house to help care for her.  She died after being ill for seven years.

The cats multiplied.

More Cats!

Then Jay’s mother developed Alzheimer’s.  One day, as I was driving by, there seemed to be a swirl of cats in the yard, so I called Jay to ask him if he needed help getting them fixed.  Yes, he said, he would be so grateful, since he was too busy caring for his mother.  I caught some of the kittens and found them homes, taking two of them to my house, where they still live, and we focused our attention on the breeding females.

There were about thirty cats in all, and they were essentially feral, but they all had names.  There were a lot of Henry’s (the eighth, the sixth, etc.).  I would take two cat carriers down and leave them on the front porch.  When Jay came out to feed them, he would catch two and call me.  I would then bring them to my house to spend the night, taking them first thing in the morning to be fixed and get shots.  Things went along pretty smoothly–except for the time that one calico talked me into letting her out of her carrier inside my greenhouse, and I realized I had essentially let out a wild squirrel!

Jay’s favorite cat was his beloved Cappy, an all-white sweetheart who would sit by his mother’s window and watch her.  He told me about her mother, Happy, who had been killed on the highway, but that’s another story.

One day, I noticed that the license plate on Jay’s van was gone, and I called him to ask how he and his mother were getting food.  Apparently, food arrived randomly when a nurse came by to see his mother.  I offered to get them food, and thus began several years of grocery shopping for Jay.  Weekly, Jay would give me a list, confounding me with his memory for detail, asking for things such as one particular red wine vinegar.  I became a better shopper, paying more attention to prices.  Jay and I would talk on the phone about what he was preparing for his mother, and I would tell him that he should write a cookbook for caregivers.  To keep her weight up, he would get real butter, whole milk and ice cream.  He’d make her omelets and give her lots of vegetables.  She deteriorated despite his care.  Sometimes I could hear her yelling from inside the house.

...and even more Cats!

I began to feed the cats too.  Jay was now suffering from rheumatoid arthritis and was having a hard time.  His mother was staying up all night—and Jay with her.  He became the classic case of the caregiver going downhill with the patient.  He started pushing a chair in front of him to help him walk.

I would leave the groceries at the front door, and he’d get them sometime during the night.  I started leaving the food in insulated coolers after seeing it a few times still sitting there on the porch in the morning.

Hospice started showing up every now and then, but Jay’s mother, nourished by all that good food, kept on living, and Hospice eventually stopped coming.  The county sent the occasional helper, but Jay said he discovered one helper going through his dressers and stealing, so he would never let anyone come again.

Occasionally, Jay would be talked into hospitalizing his mother, and the doctors would suggest all sorts of tests that Jay would refuse.

Jay’s cousin lived across the street from him, but he and his wife never came to help, even though Jay’s mother had cared for this cousin’s father, her dying brother, year’s earlier.

Jay's House

It made Jay resentful, but Jay had other issues with this cousin.  When the father was dying, this cousin had promised to restore the old home place, prompting the father to leave it to him in his will.  This same cousin promptly had bulldozed it and put a trailer in its place.

All this time, I was juggling being in Hillsborough, at my farm, helping Jay, and going back to be with my husband in Rocky Mount.  I tried automatic feeders for the cats that dispensed food three times a day.  Some nocturnal thief kept turning them over and emptying them.  I barricaded the feeders with cinder blocks and hardware cloth, but it was an ongoing battle.

For seven years, Jay’s mother was bedridden.

Then, one day in August, Jay called, upset that Cappy was missing.  I tried to reassure him that she would show up.  Then Jay called back to say there was a terrible smell coming from under the house.  I went over to see.  I could see Cappy’s little body near the back of the house, close enough for me to pull her out with a rake.  I called Jay and told him.

He told me his mother had just died.

You would think that things  could not get worse. You would be wrong.

I drove Jay and his cousins to the funeral and gave Jay a picture of Cappy to slip into his mother’s coffin.  Jay looked good but had difficulty walking.  We went through a drive-through restaurant on the way home and took a little tour of Hillsborough.  It was the first time Jay had been out in years.  He was ghostly pale.

The routine resumed.  I fed the cats twice a day and bought Jay’s groceries, leaving them on the front porch.  Jay was depressed and lost without his mother–and mourning Cappy.

I did Jay’s banking, which up until then had consisted of keeping track of his mother’s social security check. I ran errands. I mowed the yard. The house was crumbling around him, and it was leaky and cold, so I put plastic on the windows.  I tried to put plastic around the openings in the foundation, but the pipes froze.  The insulation in the house was nonexistent, and there was a hole in the roof.  You could see termite damage in the siding.  I got Jay a little electric-heated shawl at Costco.  He called it a lifesaver.

Without the impetus to care for his mother, Jay started going downhill.  I wondered how much of the food I brought actually got prepared and eaten.  Jay paid me $25 every time I would go to the grocery store.  I didn’t want the fee, but there was no use arguing with him, so I put it toward cat food.

Sometime in March of this past year, Jay fell and couldn’t get up.  He refused to let me come into the house and began scooting around the house on his back.  I called social services, and they came to the house and called him, but he refused to let them come in.  Without his consent, they said there was nothing they could do.  It was obvious that he couldn’t get to the door to get the food any more.  He finally let me come in the back door, where I saw a caved-in ceiling, water damage and mold.  I was allowed to come as far as a curtain at the kitchen and leave the food.

I sometimes felt like I was talking to the Wizard of Oz.  Jay talked about how he couldn’t get into his bed and how his back hurt from being on the floor.  I brought a thick mat and slipped it through the curtain.  I got one of those automotive dollies to see if he could push himself around on it, but he couldn’t get it over the door sills, so I brought  a rolling computer chair, but he couldn’t get in it.

Time passed.

I wanted to call his cousins, but he was adamant against it.  I began cooking for him and leaving the food there but also pressuring him to call for help.

Finally, this past September, he called 911.  They came and took him to the hospital.  He weighed a mere 100 pounds.  When I visited Jay at the hospital, I didn’t know what to expect, but he looked relatively good, and he was cheery.  Amazingly, the doctors could find nothing wrong with him—other than starvation–and signs that he had broken something in his knee when he’d fallen.  He probably stayed in the hospital 12 weeks before they could find a rehabilitation home for him.

Did I say rehabilitation?  It was more like a hell hole, worse than “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.”  It was in the next town over, and Jay shared a room with an ever-changing population, many of them needing to be in mental hospitals.  When not tied down, one roommate would crawl around on the floor at night under Jay’s bed.  There was a woman across the hall who screamed rhythmically all day long.  One roommate had an alarm on the bed that went off every time he got out of bed, which was often.

There was no rehabilitation.

Jay was desperate.  He wanted to get out of there, but that was not easy.  The state was involved now, and the cousins were trying to get him on disability, but he hadn’t worked in 14 years, other than care taking for his mother, so he had no income. I’m not sure what programs he finally got on, maybe Medicaid, but at any rate he wanted out of there.

After being there for maybe three months, Jay moved to an apartment in Hillsborough.  It seemed miraculous that he was there.  Apparently the cousins helped arrange it.  I’m not sure what the arrangement between them was, but Jay was finally in a clean, warm place, with Meals on Wheels coming by and a helper from the state to clean up and shop for him.

But he still wasn’t happy.

He wanted to get back out to the country.  He told me the cousin was after him, trying to get his house.  I was still feeding the cats at the house twice a day.  Jay was in a wheelchair, and there was talk of his getting rehab, but to go into Chapel Hill was too grueling for him, and nothing seemed to work out locally.  I tried to get him to go to the local senior center, which provided transportation.  I even offered to meet him there.  He’s a stubborn man, and, although so lonely, he refused.

Cats! Cats!

He became obsessed with getting back out to his house.  I reminded him of the cold and the deterioration–and that he wouldn’t get any services out there.  It got to the point where he said that he would rather be out there on the floor than where he was.  I saw less of him, mostly, I confess, because it became so draining to hear the same complaints, over and over.

This past week he called, in a panic.  He wanted me to drive down to his house and check on the cats.  I did and reassured him that they were fine.  I knew they were, since another neighbor and I have been feeding them–and I will continue to feed them.  There are nine left, plus a maverick who has tried to join the group.

When I saw him last week, I noticed that  something had shifted.  I’d taken some food by, but instead of smiling and being pleased at the company, he looked angry and stressed.  He would not tell me anything.  This week, he told me he’d given his house to his cousin, but he was afraid of what was going to happen to the cats.  I was shocked and asked if the cousin had paid him for it.  Even though the house wasn’t worth anything, the two and a half acres of land under it were.  The answer was no.  Did he sign something?  Yes.  Did he have a copy of it?  No. (Years before, a “friend” had basically stolen the antique store from Jay, paying him a pittance for it.  Jay had been shocked when he asked me about land values, but he was so ensconced in care taking that he hadn’t questioned the sale.)

Jay told me he was confused and didn’t know what he’d done. I told him he needed to call a lawyer, but I don’t think he will.  I called an old friend of his, a retired nurse/pastor, who is herself disabled, and she called him just to give moral support.  I called protective services, who speculated that there was some deal between Jay and the cousins to cover the cost of his apartment in exchange for the house.  They were going to call him, but I know he is very distrustful of them.  So, I called an 80-year-old cousin of his in Florida, Jean, who seemed to be the only relative who had ever given a hoot about him.  Bingo.  She told me that she and another cousin, Bobby, a 59-year-old whom she had never met before, had driven up from Florida to visit Jay the week before.  Jay had called the other cousin and offered her everything in his house, so she’d decided to come up and see what was there.  Jean, suspicious about Bobby’s motives but appreciative of the ride, had come along. They’d visited with Jay, then gone out to see the house, meeting the cousins from across the road.  They’d been appalled at the condition of the house, and Bobby had taken digital pictures of everything and gone back to see Jay and show him how bad the condition of the house was.  They’d convinced him that he should give the house to the cousins across the street because those cousins had said they would restore the house for Jay to return to.

So, as things turned out, the good cousins had railroaded him with good intentions, not knowing the history of the cousins across the street.  They didn’t know the story of the bulldozing of the old homeplace, which had been in far better condition than Jay’s house.  The male cousin had had papers drawn up before, when Jay was first taken to the hospital, and Jay had refused to sign his house over to him, but this time, the cousin had run home to get the papers, and Jay had signed.

Jean told me there was talk of moving Jay to a “retirement” home, where he could have his own room but be around other people.

I’m afraid for Jay.  I’m afraid that if there is some arrangement about the apartment and the house, the cousins will quit paying for the apartment as soon as the house is in their name.  I know there is no way they will restore it for Jay to return home to, although that is their song and dance.  I called them and was reassured that the cats were fine to stay there, but I fear for them, too.  I mostly fear Jay will be put back into another hell hole.  My urging Jay to get a lawyer just upset him, so I called and apologized to him and tried to reassure him that the cats were fine.

But I feel like a lamb is being led to slaughter.

I feel helpless.

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.

Jane

Now that all 4 of my kids are either adults or within spitting distance of adulthood, I have moments where I  actually get a glimpse of the things—good and bad—we did in raising them, and the things I wish someone had told me when I was starting out.  (“Oh, so that’s how it works!”)

I’m never going to write a book on the subject, since I still feel pretty clueless on the whole subject. (Being a parent offers you such a host of ways to feel like a failure at your job.) But I do have some off-the-top-of-my-head suggestions for young parents (not in any logical order, since raising 4 kids has destroyed any logical sense I may have ever had before):

1) No matter how bad things seem when your children are infants and toddlers (and you are a) sleep deprived b) at your rope’s end with frustration over ‘potty training’—I put that in quotes because I no longer believe in it—or c) ready to blow up at your child’s pediatrician/teacher/fill in the blank because they don’t “get” your kid, keep in mind that some day you’re going to look back on these days as the glorious time when you still had control over their physical location!

At the beginning: my husband, Tom, with Lizzie

2) When a toddler is defiant, try to keep your sense of humor.  Try to avoid letting their defiance go deep down into your gut where it can threaten your whole psyche—or at least your confidence in yourself as a parent.   Remember:  even if you are in the middle of a grocery store and a really patient mother of toddler triplets is watching you with mild condescension or a highly professional and important-looking person is trying to step over the massive pile of cereal boxes your child has created by emptying a shelf, and even if it is all being broadcast over the store’s tv monitor, it doesn’t matter in the big scheme of things.  Think of it this way:  keeping a sense of humor now will be good practice for later, when your child is a teenager.

3) When a teenager is defiant and insists on doing something that you know is bad/dangerous/unhealthy for him/her, don’t back down!  No matter what!  Try to remember the 2-year-old inside that teenager body, when he/she says something like, “You are completely psycho, Mom.  Why in the world should I do that?” and answer proudly the words you should have learned at your mother’s knee: “Because I’m your mother, and I said so!”

4) On the other hand, when a teenager really wants you to let them try something new, even if you know they will struggle at it and even possibly fail, hold your breath and let go.

Teenage Years: the 3 Girls

5) Grades aren’t everything, but they also aren’t unimportant.  No one wants to be the parent who is obsessed with grades, but you also don’t want to end up watching kids who are dumber than your kid delivering the high school valedictory address just because they had parents who gave them $10 for every A!

6) Sometimes your children will get a) physically injured or b) mentally or emotionally pained or c) both, and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it, except to avoid falling down the rabbit hole with them.  When they are going through terrible times, your job is not to empathize, it is to sympathize and help pick up the pieces.  If you empathize too much, you either make them think things are worse than they are or you make them feel responsible for your happiness—and that’s no fun, especially not to a teenager.

7) Enjoy the time you have with them at home and try to make it about something more than chores or homework or responsibility.  Even if the house is a pigpen, play with them every now and then—and even if they get to choose the game—and even if it’s Monopoly!

Pat yourself on the back occasionally.  It’s okay, as long as you don’t overdo it and become Ms. or Mr. “ Perfect Parent,” which is really obnoxious to all the other poor schmucks struggling through.  But remember to do it when you know you’ve done something right—or at least that you haven’t botched things too badly—because those moments are few and far between and you need to grab hold of them.  They give you strength for the moments when you really screw up.

9) Remember to take time for yourself every now and then and take good care of your health.  Nobody needs/wants/or likes a martyr! Besides, if you’re just starting down the parenting highway, you’ve got years ahead of you of getting up in the night to a) change a diaper b) help Santa Claus deliver his presents c) hold a sick child’s head while he/she throws up oatmeal and blueberries d) make a screaming kid get up out of bed and walk out the cramp in his/her leg e) deal with a child’s “night terrors” without giving them a heart attack f) talk them down from whatever ledge they are on.  Conserve your strength. You’ll need it.

10) Remember that love is everything—and the best guide you have.  I seriously do not believe that you can love a child too much.  You might do stupid little things because you love them.  You probably will say the wrong thing, over and over (“I’m sorry” is a handy phrase, even for a parent.)  But if you really love them the way you probably can’t help and the way you’ve probably done since you first saw their little monkey face in the delivery room or at the adoption,  you won’t mess up the big things.

Now

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.  

SADHVI

As a woman over 50, I’m amazed at the number of products and plans to help me stay slim, healthy and young.  As if I better do something now or else I will get old, ugly and fat!

I had the “Lifetime Achievement Award” from Weight Watcher’s before I graduated from high school.  I also knew about the state of ketosis, fasting, and complete protein shakes before I started college.

I remember going on a cleanse and becoming a vegetarian in 1978, and believe me, not only was it considered odd, but so was I.

I even had the perfect morning yoga routine down in 1980 when I was 22 years old that incorporated Pilates!  Funny enough though, the older I get the more relaxed I become and all the rituals, along with the “should’s” in my head are disappearing.  And I feel good.

Lately I’m meeting more older women who become instant friends, and after talking with them for a short while, I feel like there is some sort of magical transference of wisdom that makes me smile.

For instance, I met Helene at the Swiss Club that I belong to the other night.  I was hungry and there was this incredibly addicting spinach dip that was mostly sour cream and mayonnaise.

I looked over while dipping my umpteenth pita chip into the dip, and saw Helene doing the same a few feet away.  She looked over at me and we both just laughed.

Helene told me about growing up during WWII, in North Africa, and how they had no food for 2 months and were starving.  It was a very hard time in her life.

We talked about how there are so many people on some sort of prescription drug, and how so many of the commercials on TV are for drugs that make you fall asleep at night.  She laughed, saying she has never had much trouble falling asleep.  She told me that after she gets into bed, she goes back over her day and remembers three wonderful things that happened to her, and then drifts off into a peaceful slumber.  I told her I was going to have to remember to try that; it sounds like something that could become a nice little ritual.

Then I ask Andrea (who turns out to be 72 but looks my age: 52), who was sitting across from me what her secret to looking so fantastic is?   She told me that her only secret is that she never thinks about getting old.  I found this to be quite profound!  I thought she was going to tell us about her daily routine of juicing, meditating, yoga, chanting to the One, and fasting every seventh day because she looked so vibrant!

Instead Andrea simply said that we are all going to die, so why spend so much time preventing it?  She prefers to enjoy it!  She paints, drinks coffee and eats well, but is not fat.

So maybe instead of feeling guilty about anything and often having the thought that I can be better,  I will become more aware of those thoughts, and I will enjoy life, including the spinach dip moments, because they don’t come every day!

“You only live once, but if you do it right, once is enough.”
— Mae West

MAE WEST

Jane

I just heard about a website that may be of interest to our readers:  the North American Menopause Society’s website at www.menopause.org.  It’s got all kinds of interesting information, so it’s certainly worth a visit!  Also, they now have a special extra resource:  a whole page about sexuality and menopause.  Who knew?!  I’ll just attach the press release they sent, since I might get too embarassed if I tried to summarize it:

THE BRIDGE

A man on his Harley was riding along a California beach when suddenly the sky clouded above his head and in a booming voice, God said, “Because you have tried to be faithful to me in all ways, I will grant you one wish.”

The biker pulled over and said, “Build a bridge to Hawaii so I can ride over anytime I want.”

God replied, “Your request is materialistic; think of the enormous challenges for that kind of undertaking; the supports required reaching the bottom of the Pacific and the concrete and steel it would take!  I can do it, but it is hard for me to justify your desire for worldly things.  Take a little more time and think of something that could possibly help mankind.”

The biker thought about it for a long time.

Finally, he said, “God, I wish that I, and all men, could understand women; I want to know how she feels inside, what she’s thinking when she gives me the silent treatment, why she cries, what she means when she says nothing’s wrong, why she snaps and complains when I try to help, and how I can make a woman truly happy.”

God replied, “You want 2 lanes or 4 lanes on that bridge?”

guest writer Kathryn Wilson

Following Kathryn’s story on Monday, we’re continuing with Part II of E., One Intrepid Senior

E. worked as a model in post-war Manhattan for the Elizabeth Arden Salon and lived in the famous Barbizon Hotel in the mid 1940’s. This glamorous part of her life led her to meet Gloria Vanderbilt, Marlene Dietrich, and her first husband, D.      

After marrying D. and living in New York and Cincinnati, E. returned to her hometown of Louisville after the death of D. to start Louisville’s first finishing school. Once the charm school was successful, E. moved on to pursue her true love—art.  She and two friends started Talents Unlimited, a company that sold art supplies, taught classes, and specialized in unique Christmas dioramas that E. designed and crafted.  These wreaths were hot ticket items, frequently requested and often selling for more than $300 a piece.  Each wreath was highly specialized, electric, and musical, and featured detailed Christmas scenes.  E. even had one of her more elaborate wreaths, modeled after the Kennedys’ last Christmas in the Blue Room, accepted by the Kennedy Memorial Library.  The wreaths have been showcased in museums and craft shows across the country, winning many awards.

Eloise's wreath

E. has traveled to many exotic locales, including Paris, Hong Kong, Haiti, and Thailand.  She has had many adventures abroad, including meeting Maria von Trapp and, in a separate instance, nearly being kidnapped.  E. and I spent an entire day viewing slides of these beautiful trips to near and far.  She will soon be leaving for her yearly sojourn to her condo in Highland Beach, where she will wait out the icy Kentucky winter in the peaceful warmth and light of Florida.

In short, E. has had an amazing life, one worthy of transcribing and well-deserving of the title she’s chosen: Yes, I’ve Had a Life.  She is an admirable woman who has made the most of her life.  I have found myself inspired continuously throughout the process.  Yes, I hope my life will be just as exciting as E.’s, but I also hope to never forget the importance of each person’s life story.  I know now that these small anecdotes are always worth observing more closely, no matter how high the pile of surrounding souvenirs may be.

Kathryn Wilson

Our friend, Kathryn Wilson is not one of us.  She is NOT a woman over 50,  but we want to introduce her to you anyway.    She lives in Louisville, Kentucky, and is currently enrolled in Pacific University’s M.F.A. in Fiction program.  She is an aspiring writer and editor.  She hopes to one day relocate to the Pacific Northwest with her boyfriend and two cats.

Kathryn is writing an autobiography of a beautiful woman 85 years old, so we’ve invited her to share part of her work with us.  So, sit back and read Part I of this lovely woman called E.

Eloise Then

For the past two months, I have been assisting a charming 85 year-old woman with the writing, formatting, and editing of her autobiography.  As you can imagine, this is no small task.  This lovely woman (let’s call her “E.”) is a somewhat disorganized and very busy woman with mountains of newspaper clippings, photographs, and other detritus that must be incorporated into her story in some way.

Why, you may ask, did I take on this arduous task?  There are two reasons.

First, I have always gotten along with elderly folk; I love their stories, their idiosyncrasies, their endearments, and free cookies, so getting paid to spend time with someone from my favorite demographic seemed too good to be true.  Secondly, I have always been inspired by my own grandmother’s stories of her life in the coal country of southern West Virginia.  My grandmother was recently diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, so I have quickly learned the importance of recording memories.  I related to E.’s wish to record her life story for future generations.

E. is, on the surface, just as sweet and amicable as your own grandmother; she frequently calls me “honey” and shares delicious Modjeska candy.  But it was in working on E.’s story and delving into the details of her life, that I found she is so much more than a delightful, polite elderly woman who just happens to live in a condo with seven bathrooms.

E. has witnessed a great deal of tragedy in her life.  She married three times; her first husband, the love of her life and a famous radio and television personality, died in a car wreck after they had only been married nine years.  Her son contracted polio, but luckily survived.  Her second husband, who she was married to for over thirty years, died after a lengthy and painful illness.  E. lives now with her third husband, J.  They were married in their childhood church and just happened to be the oldest couple ever wedded in the chapel.

E.’s adventures were not limited to her love life, however.  To read more, stay tuned for Part II.

Eloise Now

I know this is a blog about smart and beautiful women over 50, but I could not, in good conscience let this day pass without honoring Dr. Martin Luther King Junior.   And, in an odd way, it reminds me of how much I like writing for   us women over 50, because Dr. King (like so many other great people of our era) is etched in our memory, and I       don’t  have to explain a thing.  All of us come to this blog with similar reference points in life which means so much   between us does not have to be explained.

Every year, I make it a point to listen to MLK’s 17 minute I have a dream speech delivered on April 28, 1963 on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial.  It’s hard to believe I’ve been listening to this speech for over 40 years, and every year when I hear it, I’m amazed at how relevant and prophetic Dr.King’s words remain, especially given the recent I have a dream tragedy in Tucson.  So, without having to say more to my fellow sisters, I hope you’ll to listen to MLK’s great speech before the day is over, and I encourage you to share it with your children, and grandchildren who might  need some explaining about what this great man stood for.

To quote MLK, “Let freedom ring. And when this happens, and when we allow freedom ring—when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God’s children—black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics –  will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual: “Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!”

Jane

I  just finished watching an episode of “North Carolina People” where William Friday interviews Lillie Sanders from Magnolia, North Carolina (July 2010). Mrs. Sanders is a 2007 recipient of the Nancy Susan Reynolds Award given by the Z. Smith Reynolds Foundation to  ”recognize the unsung heroes of North Carolina whose vision, determination, resourcefulness and strength of character have caused them to make a positive difference in the state.”

This incredible woman spends her life helping the people of her community by finding ways to give them the basic things they need for life.  She grew up in poverty, working hard on her grandmother’s farm, and she has had lots of hard times in her life, but instead of getting overwhelmed or depressed, she has  “taken every negative and turned it into a positive.”

She started in 1998 with the Clothes Closet in Duplin County,  in order to “make sure that people could stay warm and look decent, whether they had money or not.”  Giving her own clothes away first, she soon attracted donations of clothes from churches, agencies, and concerned citizens.  People can come to the Clothes Closet and shop for clothing, and they can choose to leave a money donation or not.

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!

Photo Courtesy of AP

I have a voicemail from Elizabeth Edwards saved on my home phone.  It joins five from my good friend Lolo.  I have room to get one long message or maybe two short ones before my mailbox is full, but I won’t delete any of those precious six.  I thought I was being punk’d when I first heard the message.  She identified herself and proceeded to recount how we had played softball together in the seventies and how I had come to her wedding–and even mentioned the present I had brought. I listened rather stunned by it all.  She ended by leaving her contact numbers and putting an old friend of mine, who was there with her, on the phone.  It was her voice and his voice, but, for the life of me, I had no memory of personally knowing her. Yes, I had played on a softball team, and, yes, I had a roommate who made handmade baskets, the gift I had brought.  But going to her wedding?  You’d think I would remember that.

I had actually had two close encounters with Elizabeth Edwards over the years.  We rode on the same plane to Atlanta probably ten years ago, and about four years ago, as my daughter and I were leaving a basketball game at the Dean Dome, I reached out to touch my daughter’s hair, and this woman walking behind me commented on how beautiful it was.  I turned and recognized her and stumbled through something about how glad I was to hear that she was doing so well. She thanked me, and we continued walking.

After hearing the voicemail, I waited a few days and then tried the numbers.  She had said that there was no voicemail at her house so if no one answered, I should try her cell phone.  When I did that, the message said her inbox was full.  We were preparing to leave on vacation, so I left with a thrilling curiosity nagging me.  Then came a day when I found myself alone at our cottage on Cape Cod, and I tried the home number again.  She answered and asked who was calling.  I identified myself, and the first thing she said was, “I bet you don’t remember me.”  I replied that she wasn’t supposed to ask me that right off the bat. (No pun intended.)  I didn’t remember, but she had too many facts right for it to be a mistake.  We talked on about her marriage; she talked about not going back to her maiden name because she wanted to be buried next to her son.  She talked about wanting to sell her house and her upcoming trip to Japan.  It was an easy conversation, and we left it that sometime in August she would get that old friend to arrange for all of us to get together.

It never happened.  Right after I got back from vacation, I discovered my husband was going down the same road that John Edwards had gone.  I was such a mess that I didn’t think it would be doing her any favor to hear about my pain, and it would have been impossible to disguise it.  I have no doubt that she would have been a great support, but I felt the energy around her should be positive.

So I’ve got the voicemail, and I treasure it–and if anybody has any of her wedding pictures that show the guests, please let me know.

Nancy in College

Nancy Now

Jane

Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Forget this,
and attaining Enlightenment will be the least of your problems.

A friend of mine sent me this as part of her holiday greeting this year, and I love it.  It sums up how I’m feeling about things these days.  This has been such a stressful year for so many people, with the economy’s troubles hitting people directly in the pocketbook and on their nerves!  It has made it difficult at times to feel very optimistic (and I’m speaking on a personal level)—and even harder to take a minute to just breathe in and breathe out.  I feel that I’ve been running around this whole year, chasing my tail, figuring that if I just moved faster or worked harder, things would somehow turn out better!

Well, birds are soaring outside my window today.  And we are due to have snow on Christmas—a white Christmas for the first time in at least 15 years!  Our Congress just passed some major legislation to make our world a better place:  the Stark treaty to limit nuclear proliferation, medical coverage for 9/11 rescue workers, and getting rid (finally) of “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.”   Too bad they couldn’t find the nerve to pass the Dream Act!  More good news:  home sales are up for the first time; teen births and our national crime rate are down.

So, I want our readers to take a minute with me and remember to breathe in and out, especially during the holidays!   And while I’m at it, all of us at Oops50 want to thank all our readers, advertisers, and guest writers for their comments and support this year.  It’s been a good year for us:  our numbers of subscribers are up; we’re reaching a wider audience of women over 50 around the globe; and we got noticed by Oprah Winfrey!  Life is good!  And we owe it to all of you.  To those who read us and never commented or subscribed, we hope you’ll take that big step into cyberspace next year and do it. To those who happen upon us from time to time, welcome!  A big Thank You from all of us at Oops 50!  In case you don’t know it, we love you!

And here is to breathing in and out in 2011!!!

Diane Puckett

Time really does go faster as we age. It has been a year since we moved to the mountains of Western North Carolina, but it seems like we just got here. The year has been quite a whirlwind of change.

Full Moon in DC

The biggest change – leaving the Washington, DC area, a place I had lived over half a century, (did I really say that?).  It’s my entire life. Though we had planned to move to Asheville for years, it was still a big deal, and happened far more quickly than anticipated. With a beautiful full moon and all the planets apparently in alignment, our house sold in two days.

Thus began the whirlwind. Three full moons later, we would move to the mountains, and there was much to do.

There were many people to say goodbye to, knowing I would never see most of them again. I closed the psychotherapy practice I had worked years to establish, bidding farewell to clients and colleagues. The local pottery studio, my hangout of kindred spirits was toughest to leave. Well, other than my sister, but that’s too tender to write about now.

We headed South on a cold December day, cars crammed full of stuff and our two beagles along for the ride. Not long after we arrived, a snowstorm followed, leaving us with no electricity and lots of tree damage. It was a tough winter, especially since we knew almost no one. Our holidays were non-existent, as we were busy moving.  The day I found myself strolling through Walmart for entertainment, I knew something had to change. Facebook provides an illusion of a social life, but it’s not reality. The North Carolina Center for Creative Retirement at UNCA was my lifeline during that long winter, feeding my brain and giving me a connection with other people.

Molly

Molly Beagle, my best bud for thirteen years, slowly wound down and passed on to the Rainbow Bridge. Our last day together was a sacred time – we cuddled up, and I talked to her about the good times we shared together.  At the end, I sang the Golden Girls theme song to her. I’m grateful Molly had some time here in our beautiful new place. We buried her next to my studio where she will have her own garden of the flowers she loved.

Diane's studio

Living here feels like I’ve finally come home. I love the spirit of this place, the creativity, the energy.  It’s been a year now, and I feel like I’m finding my niche. I’ve made good friends and know many of our neighbors.  I have an almost-finished pottery studio, a dream-come-true.

I’ve given in to my craving for a hammered dulcimer and have begun music lessons again after a 45-year hiatus. Maybe this time around I’ll practice.

Most of all, I love the magnificent mountains. I cannot even think of adequate words to describe them. May I never take them for granted or stop seeing them.

Being a woman over 50, I find myself starting to reminisce about food from my childhood.  It was bound to happen, right?  Nut rolls and Poppy Seed rolls, along with Kolachi’s filled with apricot, cherry, or plum jam, were a part of the Holiday season for me growing up.  My Mom and Dad used to make them just about every year, and it was a BIG project.  I can remember that my 3 brother’s and I stayed clear of the kitchen when this was going on, because it was just so intense!  They had to be made just right; the dough had to be rolled out thin (which was not easy), and there was no scrimping on the filling.  Sticking with the basic recipe was important: no raisins in the poppy seed filling!  Once my Mom put coconut in the nut filling, and well, let me just say that Christmas was not very special that year.  

I spent months trying to get the perfect recipe; from my old boyfriend’s Mom, to hours online researching all the many and complicated recipes that are out there, watching YouTube videos of these rolls being made, studying old cookbooks on my shelves, until finally, my Mom came through and gave me a recipe that she used which was given to her by her best friend’s cousin’s Mom, who made my Mom swear not to give it to anyone until she died.  This is the recipe I want to share.  

POPPY SEED ROLLS GO GOOD WITH COFFEE!

I hesitated for many months.  I thought they would be so time-consuming and difficult.  Being the baker that I am though, I decided it was high time to try.  And besides, my Dad really wanted me to make them, and even bought me a grinder online that cost a lot of money.  It didn’t work at all, so please don’t order it!   They emailed the company, Otto’s Import Store and Deli, asking for a refund and are still waiting to hear back from them, so don’t use them!  I ended up grinding the poppy seeds with a small amount of the sugar in my inexpensive Black and Decker blender and guess what?  It turned out fine.  

SPREADING THE POPPY SEED FILLING

Oh, before I forget, I also ordered bulk poppy seeds online from a company and they were rancid.  The company is called NutsOnline and they were not very nice when I called them to ask about their return policy.  I hate returning things, and of course, I had to pay the postage.  I am happy to recommend Mountain Rose Herbs though, which is an online source of many quality herbal products, teas, and oils.  What a pleasant experience ordering from them!  I did put the poppy seeds in the freezer when I got them, which I think is a good thing, since they do tend to go bad quickly.  

MIXING THE FLOUR

So here is the recipe:  Good luck!  Have fun because they are so good and they are not really difficult!  

Sally’s Poppy Seed or Nut Roll Recipe   

(6 rolls)  

In a big bowl, whisk the following together:  

7 cups Flour    

 1 t. Salt  

 ¼ cup Sugar  

Then cut up 8 ounces Butter and with your hands, incorporate the butter into the flour mixture until it is mixed in.  

Now add in 8 ounces of Sour Cream, and blend it in.                  

Then, add ½ cup lukewarm milk (a little at a time), and mix in.  

In a separate bowl, whisk:                               

 1 ½ packages of dry Fleishman yeast,  

 ½ teaspoon sugar, and  

3 ounces warm water  

Wait about 5 minutes until it foams & then add this to the flour mixture.  

And lastly, add 3 beaten eggs, a little at a time, mixing in.  Let dough stand for about an hour, covered and in a warm spot.  

THE DOUGH IS RISING

 Then cut into 6 parts and put a tea towel over the dough to cover for another 1 hr. (or double in size)  

 Roll on flour and powdered sugar surface and fill with either of the following:  

 FOR 6 rolls: use 5 lbs. ground walnuts OR 2 lbs. grounded poppy seed  

 (You can add yellow raisins to the nut filling: soak in hot water first)  

FILLING:  

In a big bowl, for every 1 pound (around 4 cups) of ground Walnuts or Poppy Seeds,  

add 1½ cups Sugar, and  

2 T. Butter, melted  

Mix  

Scald 1 cup Milk & add little at a time to the filling mix until you get a nice, spreadable consistency.   

If it thickens before used, just add more milk  

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.  

ROLL OUT each dough ball on a little bit of flour and spread filling to edges.  Roll up like a jelly roll.  3 rolls should fit on a pan.  Cover each pan until the rolls rise a bit.  

Then poke the tops with a toothpick.  I washed the tops with an egg yolk wash.  If you don’t, then sprinkle powdered sugar on top when they come out of the oven, after cooling a bit.  

Bake for around 40-45 minutes.  Enjoy and share!

HOW I LOVE POPPY SEED ROLLS!

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

Jane

I’m having trouble with the season this year.  First of all, it’s been a hard year—with everyone having financial troubles, getting by on getting by.  And now, here comes the time of year when people are expected to be happy and cheerful and—most of all—to spend money.  It’s almost your patriotic duty to spend money this year, since it will help the economy! But spending money is hard in hard times, so why do we do it anyway?  Even though the economy is in terrible shape, Americans are out, crowding the stores, buying presents.  I sometimes get a physical feeling of revulsion when I go in a crowded mall full of people spending money they don’t have.  And I’m not excluding myself from that group.  I’m out there, with the best of them. 

My family celebrates Christmas, and I wish the burden of our particular holiday could be lifted a bit.  I think it’s wonderful to give people gifts and show people you love them, but I wish there were not so much guilt wrapped up in this season.  The mother’s version goes something like this: “But if I don’t buy my daughter those $200 boots, she might think I don’t love her.” Or, “But she has been wanting that Wii for ever, so really we should just put it on the damn credit card.” Or “If I buy this present at the bargain store, will she be able to tell somehow?” 

I suspect the guilt factor is worse for mothers than for fathers, but fathers feel it, too.  They just express it differently:  “I should have gotten him that warmer jacket, no matter how much it cost!”

I’d like for there to be a big confession booth in the sky, where we could all step into at this time of year and say, “I have sinned.  I came up short.  I couldn’t buy all the presents I wanted to for people.  I couldn’t give my children the trip to Europe that so-and-so gave to theirs. But could I please just get some extra credit for wanting to give them those things?”  In my dream confessional booth, there would be a spiritual guide behind a curtain who would say, “Don’t worry.  You are doing the best you can.”  Then, maybe, we could walk out, our shoulders lighter, and enjoy the season more.

 I hope we’ll hear from our readers about their ways of dealing with the stresses of this holiday season.  I know that, for many of our readers, it helps to focus on the manger scene or the menorah or their own religious symbols that remind them of the wonder of life on this planet.  And I agree that is important. But religious belief doesn’t always eliminate the demands of the season that can drive us to distraction.   So I’m going to pretend that booth is there for me, and I guess I’ll have to be my own absolver, so that I can relax a bit and think about what really matters:  my family will soon be gathered together for Christmas, all in one house, safe and sound for a little while, before we all scatter again to the four winds.

      8.  I’m thankful that somebody at Duke invented Magic Mouthwash for the mysterious sores in my mouth.

9.  I’m thankful that the latest stray dog we have hasn’t gone into heat yet.

10.  I’m thankful that my collie who almost died this year is now healthy.

11.  I’m thankful that Obama, bless his heart, is president, even though nobody else in the country seems to be.

12.  I’m thankful for Lolo, my 85-year-old, extraordinary friend.

13.  I’m thankful when the dogs sleep past 7 in the morning.

Sadhvi

Now that I am definitely over 50, I have been thinking and really trying to figure out what it is that I like, and honestly, I cannot think of anything yet.  

And since I don’t want to be thought of as a whiner, I won’t just write about what I don’t like, so I will just take a bit more time until I can come up with BOTH answers, OK? 

I thought it might be interesting to ask other women and Yvette just happens to be the first one, so I hope you enjoy what she has to say. 

Yvette, what do you like the most about being over 50? 

Yvette!

I love seeing the maturation of my kids.  I’m really enjoying what feels to me like a return on the investment of energy and self spent on parenting.  I love seeing their characters, ideas and creativity begin to bloom into adulthood. 

I’m so happy that they are such nice people.

Yvette, what do you like least about being a woman over 50? 

What I like least about being over 50 is learning the lessons of letting go.  It’s hard enough to let go of your children as they go off to college (luckily I still have one more at home for a few years…) and to let go of youthful beauty and shape, such as it ever was, and to let go of owning so much junk (I need to work on that but there’s time). 

But there’s deeper letting go going on.  I have only recently let go of thinking that there are interests and talents not yet developed that realistically just won’t grow at this time of life (for instance, I don’t think I will ever be the conductor of a major orchestra).  It’s as if I can see the neural pruning happening right before my eyes!  It time to let go of so much and focus on what I am doing best.  It’s not that I’m inflexible or rigid in my path but rather that, well, for example in my younger days I was sure I could catch a  whole bucket full of ping pong balls tossed in my direction.  Now I know that focusing on and keeping my eye on one ping pong ball at least improves my chances of catching ONE instead of missing them all. 

And in this hologram of existence I see that in the hard work of letting go I find a gift of the freedom of being let go which is both frightening and wonderful at the same time.

Annice

Sending a Shout-Out to our beautiful women over 50 who’ve been asking about writing a post on the oops50.com blog.

We invite you (all women over 50) to share your stories and experiences with our readers.  We know there are tons of subjects you care about because we know, like us, you never tire of speaking your mind!  And, don’t forget to ask your mothers, sisters, cousins, friends, colleagues, etc.  We all have intriguing and important stories to tell.   We’ll take your article (not more than 250 words) and we’ll edit it, post it, and promote it.

Some of favorite categories are: Friendship,  Aging parents, Children/Grandchildren; Cooking; Gardening; Pets;  Relationships; Health and Wellness; Spirituality; Menopause; Sleep (or the lack of); Work; Retirement (I wish); Starting Over; Books; Films; and of course, if you are inspired, you can always write about Death and Taxes.

If you’re interested, please contact me at: Annice@oops50.com and I’ll send you our guidelines.

I’m all Ears

Please click below and see if you can help to stop this slaughter:

Jane

Anna Maria Johanna Margaretha Kok or “Ans,” is a beautiful and amazing Dutch woman (and career physical therapist until the mid 1990’s) who, at 53, when her husband (my husband’s uncle) was taking early retirement and she could easily have settled into a life of leisure, instead took on a major, at times overwhelming new project that consumed her for the next 7 years and made a profound difference for a village in Cameroon, Africa.

Here is her amazing story, which shows how much individual people, working together with other individual people, can do!

 Bitoutouck, Cameroon is a small village in the jungle of Cameroon, with about 800 inhabitants.  It is located around 60 miles from the capital of Yaounde.  To get there, you can take the train, when it’s running, but then you still have to walk an hour into the jungle.  The total trip takes 3 hours from Yaounde, and, no matter which way you travel to get there, you have to cross the River Nyong, a river infested with crocodiles and therefore not easily crossed in a canoe!

When Ans Heykoop and her friend Marthe went to Bitoutouck in 1999, to visit Marthe’s home village and her family, Ans was distressed to see that there was no bridge across the river—and not because it made the journey difficult for her.  What she saw was that the lack of a bridge meant there was no easy way for the villagers to get their goods to market in the city or find jobs for themselves.  The effect on the people of the village was obvious.  Most people in the village had no income and had difficulty providing their children with even one meal a day.  The village had no clean drinking water, so children had to walk hundreds of yards to get water out of a stream before going to school in the morning, and, since the water was used for everything, many people had intestinal illnesses.  A trip to the doctor in Libamba, however, a village on the other side of the river, meant walking 16 miles!  The school building had 3 classrooms, with 140 students spread over 4 classes, one of which was held in a small building meant to house a teacher.   There were large holes in the schoolroom walls;  the floor was stamped earth, and the children were plagued with sand fleas between their toes. 

That trip, coupled with a love of Africa that had started for Ans as a young girl when she spent time visiting her missionary uncle in The Congo,  inspired her to ask her friends and family to donate money to help the village build its first clean water well.  This project soon led to others, and, the next thing you know, she and Marthe had started an official foundation to continue aid to Bitoutouck. 

Called the “Bridge to Bitoutouck Foundation,” the organization had as its long-term goal to some day build a bridge across the river Nyong to Bitoutouck, but, in the meantime, there were short-term, more immediate projects.  For the next seven years, Ans served as the first chairperson of the foundation’s steering committee, working closely with Marthe to make sure that the projects undertaken by the foundation were ones that the villagers actually needed, ones that could make a significant difference. 

 And, boy, did they make a difference!  Just look at the list of projects:

 In 2001, the first drinking water well was dug.

In 2002,  the school was fully renovated with doors, ceilings, a cement floor, whitewash, and, perhaps most importantly, outhouse toilets.

In 2003, a new schoolroom was built, as well as a small house for the school director.  A small grain milling machine was acquired for the village.  A boy with polio was aided with an operation; a man received a new hip and could walk again, and a deaf girl in the village was helped by a foundation gift to enter a boarding school.

In 2004, a medical clinic was constructed.  Ten new palm oil plantations were started, which, 3 years later, were ready to provide palm oil to sell. 

Over the next few years, a motorized press was provided for pressing oil from the palm nuts.  A used Toyota was donated to the village for getting goods to market.  A small community building was constructed as a meeting place, with a small kitchen for providing two meals per week to the schoolchildren.  And a second well was built in a nearby village.

Most recently, more wells have been constructed, and the medical clinic now has a gravity-fed water tank, filled by pumping water from the first well. 

For more information about any or all of these projects, go to www.brugnaarbitoutouck.nl.  However, I warn you:  the site is in Dutch! 

After seven years of almost daily work for the foundation, Ans has now stepped down. 

The point I want to make about this amazing woman is  1) she didn’t have official training in “foundation development” or “non-profit management” 2) she had no outside sources of funds at first, although, over the years, she has attracted other foundations, other funders to the work of the foundation; all she had was a compelling need to help the people of Marthe’s village—that and a huge amount of intelligence, persistence, and courage 3) she did all this amazing work while also continuing her own volunteer work in Soest (for 25 years, for example, Ans swam every Saturday morning with handicapped people, helping them to be more physically active) AND taking courses in or teaching herself sculpture.  To quote her husband of 28 years, Jan Heykoop:  “(The foundation work) was in addition to taking care of many folks in need and jumping in to help handicapped friends and patients find their way through the maze of Dutch medical care.  Then there was the dog, and (myself), and not to forget that she has become quite a good sculptor in the past ten years or so.”  

Once again Ans Heykoop, we at Oops50 salute you: a truly amazing, beautiful woman over 50!

To make a donation to the Bridge to Bitoutouck Foundation, go to http://www.brugnaarbitoutouck.nl and click on “How Can I Help?”

Sadhvi

 As a woman over 50, I do notice myself becoming lazier as a gardener.  It’s as if I conserve my movements and tasks to adjust to where my body is now.  I still shift into automatic, where time just is, and my body is in motion with no sense of hurt or pain or overexertion.  I am just more like a slow-moving dancer, instead of a fast-moving one!  If I am sore the next day, that’s Ok, since my love of gardening will never fade; and I figure that’s what Epsom salt foot baths are for!  

Where I live, summer is officially over.  The leaves are falling, and the color of the sun feels more golden, like honey.  But the temperatures are still hitting the upper 80′s, and I still have the fans running.

Sadhvi's Quan Yin & Cosmos

It’s been such a hot summer with temperatures above normal that I am not feeling too melancholic about it slipping away this year.  Twice I had friends knock on our front door to escape the heat from where they live an hour south.  The night temperatures did not change much here, but where they came from, they didn’t change at all, they said!    

Sadhvi's Sally Chicken

With summer fading, I went out to take some pictures of what is still flowering.  And to show you a picture of one of our 11 hens, all named “Sally”, after my Mom.  It’s so funny to yell, “Sally” and see the whole bunch running fast towards me…it makes me laugh every time.  Well, I hope you are enjoying the shifting of the seasons, wherever you are.  Oh, and Happy Fall!    

Sadhvi's Everbearing Raspberries!

Sadhvi’s Sunset Torchflower

   

Jane

I don’t normally get enthusiastic about music videos, but I love this one, so I thought I’d share it with our readers.  The group OK Go made this video in one take, using mostly rescue dogs!  And, best of all, they are donating a portion of the sales of the video to the ASPCA.  Check it out!  It’s great.

This whole thing of releasing kids into the universe should be easier by now.  After all, parts of it are so much easier:   we are not ingénue parents going to our first college to drop off our first kid; we don’t take long, extensive notes at Orientation sessions; we smoothly navigate college websites. And we are no longer intimidated by the process of packing enough stuff to make sure she has all she needs.  We know there is always the U.S. Mail.  Most of all, we no longer stay up late, worrying that our child might be homesick—or worrying more when she isn’t. We know that, either way, there is nothing we can do about it.  Not a damn thing.

 But that’s part of what makes this whole process hard, every single, damn time:  there is nothing we can do about anything any more.  Once again, one of our children—in this case, our daughter, Becky,  has stepped over the threshold that takes her out of our home, out from under us, into her own world.  We may still be here to provide financial—and occasional emotional—support, but, really, our work is done.  As the colleges love to point out these days, she is on her own now, making her own choices, setting her own curfew (or not), and we won’t even hear about it unless she chooses to tell us.  No helicoptering allowed! 

Becky with her sisters at high school graduation

So, it’s damn hard.  First of all, there is the big, gaping hole that one person’s absence creates in a family.  Secondly, there is the emptiness of rooms once occupied by Becky.  But, worst of all, there is the suddenness of it all.  In one breath,  you have moved from waking up at night and feeding a baby to pushing that baby out the door.  Overnight, you have gone from soccer practises and piano lessons, in a land where time stands still, to this strange, alien planet where kids become grownups and function on their own. Overnight, you’re supposed to make that dramatic, sudden shift that is required—from being an active parent, overseeing a teenager’s actions, keeping track of a teenager’s hours, to being a calm, uninvolved, hip, laissez faire parent who trusts that her child will be fine, no matter what.  It’s not a natural process.  It throws off all your signals. It doesn’t come naturally to me.

Becky's stuff on the ground outside her dorm

 But I’m working on it. 

It helps to make promises to myself:  I promise I won’t go whacko and think up bogus reasons to drive to Greensboro in order to show up on her doorstep in tears, with homemade brownies in hand.  I promise that I won’t cry in my beer about the fact that I never read all the Harry Potter books to her out loud.  I promise that I won’t do again what I did the first night and eat five bowls of ice cream to try to make myself feel better.  But I also promise that I will cry, damn it, when I feel like it and to hell with how pathetic I look!  Most of all, I will celebrate the fact that our daughter is happily ensconced in college, so I will be a saint and not get angry when I read her Facebook status that says “Yaay, College!” at the same time that mine says, “Bereft.” 

Becky's dorm room

I need to give a plug to my very famous canine niece, Winnie, who belongs to my sister-in-law, Ellen, and her husband, Bill.  Winnie was recently the featured dog in an article on the website Ohmidog! because of her amazing ability to open and shut the front door in her house.  You have to check out the article called “Old Dogs New Tricks Good Times” at www.ohmidog.com.  Here’s a picture of Winnie from the article, just to whet your appetite.   Turns out Ellen taught her the trick, using dog treats!  I wish that were possible with our delinquent (but lovable) dog, Tater.

Jane

I need to rant today!  All four of our kids are home this summer.  All four of our kids are teenagers–or close enough for government work!  The youngest is 14, the oldest 23.  Here’s the deal:  they are all in transitional stages.  One is finishing up college by going to summer school.  One is doing a gap year from college and getting ready to embark on an adventure in Mexico.  One is starting college in the fall.  One is starting high school in the fall.  So all 4 of them are in an antsy, restless stage, wondering if their new life will be ok, wondering if they’ll be content and happy, wondering, off and on,  how they can stand to live with their parents without shooting them in their sleep!  It’s a lot of fun.  They go back and forth between unbelievable sweetness–the kind that brings tears to your eyes–and complete irritability with everything parental. 

Mostly, since they all 4 see their freedom coming to an end in the fall, they are determined to take full advantage of it now–and I mean full advantage, in the way that only teenagers can.  They want every hour of every day to be filled with interesting activity.  So they stay up as long as possible every night and sleep all hours of the day, while working whenever they can fit it in (my son, for instance, has a job that starts at 9 p.m. and goes until 4 a.m.!) and trying to see all their friends as often as possible (when they are not facebooking them or texting them). 

One of the results of this restless, live-for-today behavior is that we never know ahead of time  1) how many mouths will need to be fed at the dinner table 2) where each of them will be spending the night (except for our 14-year-old, thank goodness!) 3) when/if they will get their respective forms filled out for their respective financial aid, job applications, applications to programs, etc. and 4) if we can survive on sleep deprivation caused by loud, raucous laughter at 4 a.m. in the downstairs guest bedroom (on the good nights, when they bring their friends to sleep at our house).   Mostly, I’m turning into a crazy woman who thinks it’s 6 a.m. when it’s 2 and yells down the stairs at a room full of kids:  “Everyone go to bed NOW!” Don’t get me wrong.  I wouldn’t change a thing about my 4 kids.  They are loving, open, generous, funny, smart, hardworking (when they have to be) people, and we’re very proud of them.  And part of the problem is that I am a crazy, neurotic mother who cannot sleep without knowing that each one of them is safe in his/her respective location.  I don’t have this problem when they are away at college.  I sleep like a baby (that is, until the phone rings at 2 a.m. because one of them has had some kind of crisis).  I don’t know why it is that when they are home with us for the summer, I have to know they are safe inside a house somewhere before I can drift off.  I guess it all boils down to this: I wish that I had started having kids when I was 10, so that I would be 33 now instead of 56 and could handle this phase of my life with more energy and a better sense of humor!  I think the answer is clear:  

Here’s what my husband and I decided last night (after five interruptions of our sleep that created a situation where we were wide awake at 4 a.m.): if there is a God, he/she must have created teenager behavior in order to make the empty nest syndrome easier to bear.

Sadhvi

I remember reading the book, Eat Pray Love by Elizabeth Gilbert when it first came out in February 2007.  It was so good that I didn’t stop until I was done, and I continued talking like Ms. Gilbert for a few weeks after.  Then again, I also dressed and talked like Diane Keaton’s character in the Woody Allen movie,  ”Annie Hall” for a long time after seeing it.  I guess I’m just a wee bit impressionable, no?!   

I knew when I finished the book that it would be made into a Hollywood movie at some point, and sure enough, Julia Roberts bought the rights shortly after it came out.  She stars in the movie that is coming to the screens next month.  So if you have NOT read the book, DO!  The book is gonna be hard to beat.   

Here’s the trailer, take a look, and hopefully, we will all enjoy a good film this summer taken from a great book!

Sadhvi

It’s the 4th of July tomorrow, so before the summer is over, I want to share some pictures of the poppies that came up this spring in my garden.  I think I might have one or two that are blooming right now, but most are gone.  I’ve seen a couple of birds eating the seeds out of the pods, which helps the seeds to spread.   I always save some seeds to give to others…there is always more than enough poppy seeds to go around!

I picked my favorite pictures so I hope you enjoy them.  For me, having some joy in my life is important.  I don’t think I would be still around at 52 if I didn’t!  So I have planted my garden only with the flowers that make me happy.  It’s one of the main reasons that I love living in Western North Carolina.  It has such a long growing season.  Oh, one of the best sources of poppy seeds to plant is the online store onestoppoppyshoppe.  Seriously, this is the place to go and get you some poppy seeds!  They have an amazing selection…just looking through their online store is a simple delight!

So, on with the show…it really was a spectacular season of poppies! 

Pink Poppy

Purple Poppy

Watermelon Poppy

  

White Mauve Poppy

Red Orange Oriental Poppy

Double Red Poppies

 

 

Poppy close up

Oriental Poppies Group Shot

Poppy and Calendula

Sadhvi

Every 4^thof July we have to be aware of making plans so that we are home by dark.  Our dog, Bello, is so sensitive to the sounds of fireworks going off, that if we don’t come home by the time the fireworks start, then he will suffer.  We didn’t know this when got him, and so we put Bello outside on his leash when we went to celebrate with some friends that first year.  We came home with our front door bent, the screen ripped, and poor Bello’s paws all bloodied!  I am sure everyone who owns a dog or puppy will take care of their beloved pet, but when I saw this article on the Humane Society of the United State’s website, I thought I would pass it along.  Oh, and here is a picture of a very happy Bello!

Bello at the Beach

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.

Jane

 Jean Boone Benfield decided in her early seventies to do something she had never done before:  to write a book.  Jean was born in Buncombe County, NC, and the book, Mountain Born, tells about her life growing up on a farm.  Her first inspiration for writing the book was noticing that a lot of the “mountain” expressions she’d heard during her growing-up years were disappearing before her eyes.  So, she decided to write them down.  She started taking notes on little pieces of paper and then in notebooks.  And then one day, her sister-in-law suggested that she put them in a book:  phrases like “soft as a pocket full of mice” or “pee out the fire and call the dogs”. 

 Jean’s first plan was to just make a permanent record of all that wonderful language, but one thing led to another, and the next thing you know, she was writing about her childhood and her parents and growing up poor in Western North Carolina and Asheville during World War II, and on and on.

Jean Boone Benfield

Jean’s book, which is self-published, is worth a read, not only if you have an interest in what it was like to grow up in the southern Appalachians of the forties and fifties but also if you like etymology or are interested in the history of Western North Carolina—or if you just like to add interesting phrases to your vocabulary, especially ones with homespun wisdom, such as “Flit like a butterfly from flower to flower and land on a pile of cow crap.”

I had lunch recently with Jean, and she told me about how she’s descended from Daniel Boone’s brother, Israel.  She also told me that another of her motivations for writing the book was being fed up with all the “silliness” that is in books about mountain ways or mountain language, such as the “hillbilly books” that you can buy at tourist stops on the highway.  She wanted to, whenever she could, show the history and derivation of the words or phrases she was quoting.  This adds another interesting layer to the book for students of language.  As Jean said, she had to do “a lot of old-fashioned research” for parts of the book.

The book is written in a homey style, as if someone is sitting in a rocking chair and talking to you.  And that’s just how Jean intended it.  She said she just “listened to a voice in (her) head” and wrote it down.  She finished the book when she got “good and tired of fiddin’ with it” and was “ready to let it go.”  Good advice for any writer!

One of the questions I asked Jean was to name one thing that her parents gave her that ended up being important to her.  She said they encouraged her to think for herself and not go with the herd.  As she said, they didn’t worry about giving her a “sense of self-worth” the way that parents focus on nowadays.  They just gave her the “sure knowledge that they were behind her,” no matter what. 

I’d say they succeeded.  Jean is definitely an independent thinker.  When she finished her book and realized she was going to have to do some work publicizing it, she joined Toastmasters, to get herself ready for the ordeal of public speaking.  Before she went to Toastmasters, she called up a speech professor at AB-Tech and asked for help in getting ready.  Jean takes life by the horns!

I encourage our readers to check out her book! You can purchase her book by writing to the author at mountainborn@bellsouth.net.

If you are in the Western North Carolina area, you can also meet her in person:   at Accent on Books in Asheville, on June 18^th, at 6 p.m. or at the Carolina Mountains Literary Festival in Burnsville on September 10 and 11, with info at www.cmlitfest.org.

Gwendie

Gwendie is well into her 7^th or 8^thlife, this one in Asheville, NC as a late-to-the-pen writer. In past lives she has been a daughter, a wife, a mother, a Professional Woman. Now she is exploring the vast universes of past and present into which she delves for stories.   

I’m an old grandmother.  Well, I’m not so very old, just 68 years young, as my cancer doctor says, but old to be just now having a grandchild.  Actually that’s not even quite true.  I have three step-grandchildren from a previous marriage, but I’ve seldom seen them, and they don’t really consider me their grandmother.

But this one, this precious little angel girl who was born last Thanksgiving Day to my son Jonathan and his beloved Irena (no, they’re not married—does anyone do that anymore?), is one of the great gifts of my life.

You see, three short years ago, I was diagnosed with Stage IV breast cancer (the incurable kind).  At that time, my son was adrift in life—a college graduate with no permanent job, no “significant other,” no idea what he should do with his life.  He lived with me for the first year after the diagnosis, being there for me during the mastectomy and the first harsh chemo.  But as I grew stronger, so did he, and he left to find his way in life, several states away.  I was glad for him.  Even gladder when he found a job, an apartment, and some months later, a ladyfriend.  But when they got pregnant and were thrilled at the prospect of a baby, I was more than glad for them.  And then, when adorable Daisy was born, I was so happy for them and so grateful for me. 

Gwendie's Daisy

Grateful because I’ve been given this time, even with cancer, or maybe especially with cancer, to see my own progeny grow and mature and begin to experience the wondrous gifts of life—love of a spouse or partner and love of a child.  And such a child—the most beautiful, sweet precious little creature on earth—something most grandmothers say, but in my case, it’s true. (Smile.)

Although I would love to be here to see little Daisy birth her own little daughter, my age and my health give me next-to-no chance of that.  But for me, the very fact that she exists, that she’s so loved by her parents and her grandparents and the rest of her family, gives me great satisfaction and a belief that “my work here is done.”   The continuation of the species, of MY family, of my genes, has been accomplished.  It seems to tidy up the package of my life nicely. 

As it does for mothers and grandmothers everywhere, my heart melts when I see Daisy, whether in person or in photos, or on Skype video, smiling and bubbling and looking right at me.  At the same time, my spine stiffens and my resolve hardens to continue to contest this chronic cancer as long as I can.  For Daisy, but mostly for me.  It’s the Grandmother Treatment for cancer.   And so far, it’s working.

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.

Content coming soon.

1)    What was the first record/album you ever received/bought for yourself?

“Good Vibrations” by the Beach Boys.  It was a 45 and I bought it at Woolworth’s.  It probably cost 89 cents.  At the age of 8, I experienced the word “psychedelic” when I listened to that song.  It literally put my mind into another place.  I loved it and played it over and over and over again.

2)    What is one of your most vivid childhood memories?

The first thing that pops into my head is “falling in love” with Elvis when I was very young.  I had a dream of him and felt that physical sensation that one gets when one is “in love”!

3)    What lesson would you like to pass on to younger women, now that you are a woman over 50?

Hmmmm… what have I  learned to be able to pass along?  Well, I don’t know if I have completely got it yet, but maybe the most important thing is to try to be OK with how you are, how you look, how you react…everything.  Why?  Because everything changes so quickly, that to try to hold onto ideas of how to “be”, how to “look”, etc. are so irrelevant and a complete waste of time.

4)    What turns you on, as a woman over 50?

That’s a good question…not much!  Since I don’t have good sex any more, I would have to say my garden, painting, and being with friends.

Yum!

Oh, and a good bottle of wine actually turns me on too…  I can always count on La Crema’s Pinot Noir to make me feel something divine.

5)    What is one of your dreams for the future?

To be able to get away with my husband and dog more often, instead of working all the time.

6)    What is one product you can’t live without that other women over 50 might enjoy/benefit from?

I cannot go out without having my favorite lipstick on, and that is one by Chanel.  I have tried all sorts of different brands over the years, and this one puts me into a sensual frame of mind that I can say I enjoy…I think they use roses and raspberry and vanilla and I really like that smell.  Plus, the texture is perfect.

Thanks Sadhvi…that was fun!