What do people see when they look at me…?
If I robbed a bank, the police report would note the white hair, the wrinkles. They say “old.”
Until I open my mouth.
I am frequently perceived as younger than my age. Because I swear? Because I stand straight? There are tremendous misconceptions about old people. We are assumed to be either senile, incompetent or only good for babysitting (though if we are so befuddled why would you trust us with an infant?). I know many such elders who are condescended to as sweet or simpleminded. Some of us are; some aren’t.
I read obituaries (another habit of old people). They are usually written by their children and they are infuriatingly insipid: “She loved her grandchildren.”
Duh.
Matisse nailed it…
"Each picture, as I finish it, seems like the best thing I have ever done, and yet after a while I am not so sure. It is like taking a train to Marseille. One knows where one wants to go. Each painting completed is like a station-just so much nearer the goal. The time comes when the painter is apt to feel he has at last arrived. Then, if he is honest, he realizes one of two things— either that he has not arrived, after all, or that Marseille is not where he wanted to go anyway, and he must push farther on."
Was My Mother Right?
Can Fascism happen here? Is there a Hitler in our future; has he already arrived? Friends pooh-poo me, I’m overreacting, they say. Am I? Is the American experiment coming to an end? We will see, won’t we; like it or not.
Pingo and Me
They say people resemble their pets. It’s certainly true for me and my Corgi. We’re both stocky, short legs, have big ears and are cheerful. Beyond that, we share the same sleep patterns…
He has a large round bed with high bolster sides, he stands in it and turns around and around multiple times until he collapses against one side, with his head on the bolster
I have 4 pillows on my bed, I use 3 of them, fluffing, turning, flipping them over, moving them around until I am satisfied and finally close my eyes.
We both twitch when we’re dreaming.
We both snore.
Clara’s Goulash
Clara was my mother’s dearest friend, She and her husband Gustav had no children; they were family to me. She was funny, smart and a wonderful cook. I think sharing her Goulash recipe would please her.
The key here is equal amounts of onion and meat. Increase the meat, increase the onion. DO NOT brown the onions. The slow simmer produces a rich brown sauce without any flour or other thickening agent.
2 lbs cubed beef 2 lbs onions, peeled, chopped roughly
2T oil, 1 tsp butter
Kosher salt, pepper
Paprika-start with 1-2T
tomato paste, 1 small can, (optional, I usually don't add)
In large, heavy casserole, sweat the onions in the oil/butter over low heat. DO NOT let them brown. Add spices, then beef. Simmer, at least 4-5 hours. Can do in crock pot, or in Dutch Oven at low (250-275 degrees). Check periodically, add water if drying out. Taste, adjust seasonings, serve over egg noodles, or rice.
Bon Appetit!
Dear Doctor
Have you ever been fired by your doctor?
I was. It’s a very odd and unsettling experience. I’ve thought about sending him a letter. Would he even read it, toss it in the trash? I haven’t done so, and don’t know if I ever will, but if I did, this is the one I would send.
Dear Doctor,
After some 20 years as your patient, you fired me.
I’ve never been fired by a doctor. I’ve never heard of a doctor firing a patient, am I your first? Or is this standard procedure for you?
When I first started seeing you, I’d heard you had a reputation as a bit of a prick, but I stayed because I liked you and thought you were competent. You were certainly brusque and impatient, but I recognized and related to that smart-ass, Jewish kind of humor, and it didn’t faze me; I rather enjoyed it. Besides, your staff of middle-aged women were pleasant and helpful, and I figured you couldn’t be a complete jerk and keep such nice people.
I once asked you for a referral to another specialist, you named someone and added the warning, “but he has no bedside manner!” Which I thought was hysterical. Clearly, you are a man with little self-awareness, or am I being redundant?
There were hints of problems, the time you wrote a prescription for new glasses which I had filled and spent several days with increasing bouts of nausea and dizziness. I returned to the optician, where he explained he filled the prescription as it was written and gave it back to me to show to you. When I did, you blustered, brushed it off, and never admitted your mistake (maybe that’s something you learn in medical school—never admit you’re wrong or you’ll be sued.) But you gave me a corrected prescription and the optician kindly filled it at no charge.
Where it finally fell apart was your impatience in explaining my options for my second cataract surgery. You had done the first one, which went well, but I was becoming anxious as to the choices available to me on the second eye. Based on experience (see all of the above), I was pretty sure that if I asked for a further explanation, you would brush me off, “I already told you what we’re doing!” and so I asked a friend for the name of a different doctor and went for a consult.
Doesn’t all the medical literature say, “get a second opinion?” Which is what I did. That doctor contacted your office, and you, offended at my disloyalty, called me, said that I’d obviously be happier with this other doctor, so “you should go see her” and hung up. Wham, bam, thank you, Ma’am. Just like that.
My new doctor is quite competent, we have a polite, professional relationship. But I gotta confess, sometimes I miss you. But I’m never going to beg and ask you to take me back; I’m not that kind of girl and you….you have lived up to your reputation..
Still waiting…
“I have done nothing all summer but wait for myself to be myself again." Georgia O’Keefe
In Limbo
Is that the appropriate term for someone between life and death? Someone who is conscious, but uncomprehending?
She sits right in front of you, she's on your iPad screen, but her words are halting, gibberish. What did you do today, I ask. She went to church that morning. Wonderful, I say, who took you? She cannot remember the name of the person or retrieve the piece of paper where she'd written it down. I say, "never mind, it's not important " but she is fixated on finding the missing slip of paper, and I cannot bring her back.
These conversations drive me to despair; it will not get better. She still exists, she’s alive, but the friend who knew all my fears, hopes, happiness and sorrow, is drifting away, slipping out of reach.
Another friend suggests a different tack: Don't ask questions, instead, talk about the past, remind her of things we did together.
Next week, I will try again.
Made Up Words
Have you ever wandered through Ikea and wondered if the names of their products (Lena, Torva, Sundvik) are real Danish words, or just made up? Here are some (rejected) names I’ve come up with over the years for different products: Snoodle, WavyGravy, Tabletotter, Spinoza, Funfer, Balzook, Zoola.
Adrift
So I’ve published a memoir, write (infrequently) on this blog, regularly play pickleball, and see friends at book club, occasional lunches, dinners and town events, especially the evening outdoor summer concerts sponsored by the non-profit I started over 7 years ago. As for painting…I am not doing much, but hope as summer winds down, that I will be inspired,, especially as my studio is the coolest spot in my home.
I feel like I’m waiting… not sure for what, but watching people I love decline, as I feel my own mortality, the reality of what lies ahead weighs on me. I removed the rug in front of my kitchen sink, its been there for over 25 years. Now, I think it’s a fall hazard. I never thought of stuff like that before.
Along with cranky, am I becoming cautious and querulous?
The Doldrums
I dislike summer. Especially the heat, which seems to be getting hotter earlier--it's only mid-July and the AC's been on for over a week already. Yes, it keeps the house comfortable for me--and especially Pingo, who gladly stays inside, but I much prefer open windows and breezes. It's also a lonelier time. Everyone seems to be off vacationing. I gaze with envy at photos on Facebook of families, gaggles of friends, by the seashore, in front of the Eiffel Tower, hiking or on roller coasters.
I no longer have my travel companion and have no desire to find another. I have twinges of regret never having visited Spain, Thailand, or Australia... but not that much.
Is this what old age means? the diminution of desire? The loss of everything, bit by bit? I watch as if from a distance, the shoulder that aches continuously, the inability to read anything without "cheaters," the stiffness in getting out of bed each morning. I realize I'm better off than many of my cohort, so try not to whine. But still...how naive to imagine that 83 is the same as 70.
I know better, I've written about this! I just didn't think it applied to me.
A recently read Facebook post sums up the gap between my idea of old age and what seems to be the prevailing ideal...."The older you get the more you realize how precious life is. You have no desire for drama, conflict or stress. You just want good friends, a cozy home, food on the table and people who make you happy."
Really? That's it? Shoot me now.
What about passion? Exploration? Creativity?
I do realize "how precious life is," or more accurately, how lucky I am to still have most of my marbles, but I want more than a “cozy home, people who make me happy.” I feel an urgency to still do things that give my life meaning, to be relevant while I can.
Surely, I'm not alone in this?
Crack me up…
From my 7-year-old granddaughter, about her older sister. “She really loves the ocean; I’m more of a fruit person myself.”
July 4, 2024-a final goodbye
This was my 7th --and last time-- organizing July 4th for The Town Center Project. Next year, someone else will recruit the readers, singers, poets and borrow the sound equipment from Parks & Rec.
For me, July 4 is about THE IDEA of America. The values represented by "We the People”: Liberty, Equality, Justice for ALL.
Right now, our world feels crazy, dangerous. It's easy to feel despair-- to give up, to withdraw--to turn your back on your fellow citizens, to allow hate speech or lies to flourish and not say anything.
Don't do that. We are ALL so lucky to live in America!
As the only American-born daughter of refugees from Hitler's onslaught in Europe, America was the "City on the Hill," the place that took my family in, that saved our lives.
If not for America, my father, my sisters, my mother, and me-- in her belly--would have become just 5 more added to the 6 million Jews murdered by the Nazis.
83 years later, America today is a very different place. But we are still in search of that, "More perfect union."
Today is about the promise of what we can be. Yes, we fall short of our ideals, but we pick ourselves up and try again. And again.
I choose to believe that America’s best days are to come. and I, for one, am grateful that I’m not in Gaza, or Ukraine, Iran or Sudan, or any of the other places in the world that face civil war, famine, earthquakes, and devastating disease.
Have a wonderful holiday.
Never Again
Having just left a 2 hour meeting where one person monopolized the conversation with wildly inappropriate and unrelated matters, I have decided that with the limited time remaining to me on this earth, I need to make choices—and I’m choosing not to waste another minute, much less two hours— on blather, or stupid shit.
I feel better already.
Prize Winner
Writing a memoir has forced me into the past, I’m remembering all sorts of things, like the time I won Sales Rep of the Year. The company I worked for had a barter arrangement with a luxury cruise line, and my reward was a trip anywhere I wanted. David was reluctant, but after I threatened to take someone else, he agreed. We picked a trip from Istanbul to Venice, with lots of stops along the way. We rented him a tuxedo, I found a cocktail dress at a thrift shop in Fairfield County, the “Gold Coast” of CT, where high-end clothing pickings were to be found, and off we went.
The ship had 79 passengers and 69 crew members (tiny compared to the gigantic ocean liners that block out the sky when in port). This was our first—and only—cruise, and probably the last time I will ever be around so many really wealthy people. We were country bumpkins compared to our shipmates.
At the first port of call, one woman, the wife of the CEO of a large pharmaceutical company, purchased 8 oriental carpets for her multiple homes, while David and I obsessed and dithered over the tiny 3x5 rug we ended up buying. We spent most of the. trip hanging out with a young woman with the fabulous name of Fiona Peacock and her companion, a Scotsman, who owned a chain of supermarkets, plus a gay couple from San Francisco, and a very chic Frenchwoman and her mother.
The most startling coincidence occurred midway through the voyage. There were two middle-aged men, one tall, heavy-set, the other slightly built, always in the company of an attractive young blond woman and a boy of about 9 years old. Chatting one day poolside, it turned out that the gay couple, which is what they were, were also from New York City, and the tall man, whose last name I recognized, grew up in the same apartment building as I did, and his mother had been friends with my mother! His partner was a doctor, the child was their adopted son, and the girl—a Scandinavian nanny.
It was the most luxurious holiday we ever took. The rug and a green glass vase from Murano that I carried home on the plane, swaddled in bubblewrap, remind me of that magical adventure every day.
37 years…
…of old calendars. That’s what’s in the third drawer of my 4-drawer file cabinet. Why, if I am trying to simplify my life, do I still have them? The last 24 are the “AT-A-GLANCE” two-full pages per month, spiral bound versions from Staples. This year’s , sitting open on my desk, will make 25. Glancing through the first one: 1987—is full of cryptic notes: January 23, “DInner with S+A.” Who is that? Some entries are in David’s handwriting, and involved our Belgium Sheepdogs. We went to dog shows where David showed the dogs. We made friends, became “dog people.” Most took it very seriously; I did not, but other than the miasma of dog shit hanging in the air at the shows, it was fun and David loved it.
Overheard at a party
A woman chattered merrily—yes, merrily—about her husband’s ashes which were in a vase next to their son’s ashes. There are still moments when I want to rent my clothes and tear my hair out—and she chats about the urns. I excused myself. What’s the matter with me? What’s the matter with her?
Me and food…
“Eating is the only vice you can practice in public.” I think William Buckley said that; it’s true..
From Leonard Cohen’s Anthem
“There is a crack in everything, that’s how the light get’s in.”
I love that.
Think about it…
If fate throws a knife at you, you can catch it by the blade or the handle.