Feb 17, 2012
“People expect old men to die,
They do not really mourn old men.
Old men are different. People look
At them with eyes that wonder when…
People watch with unshocked eyes;
But old men know when an old man dies.”
Ogden Nash – Old Men
Donald Hall has an essay in the January 23, 2012 issue of the New Yorker about the strange country of old age. At 83, he is no longer able to do much of what he loves, including write poetry. He spends his days looking out the window at birds and trees and weather, on the New Hampshire farm that has been in his family for generations, and writing about what he sees. It is a beautiful piece, tinged with humor, love, anger, and acceptance.
.“…[O]ld age is a ceremony of losses, which is on the whole preferable to dying at forty-seven [as his wife did] or fifty-two [his father]. When I lament and darken over my diminishments, I accomplish nothing. It’s better to sit at the window all day, pleased to watch birds, barns, and flowers. It is a pleasure to write about what I do.”
He says he has lost the gift of poetry, but his prose is enviable. His view out the window is illuminated by memories. He hasn’t lost the eye for detail, the wit of metaphor, the ear for assonance and alliteration. Hummingbirds “enter the horns of hollyhocks, gobble some sweet, and zig off to zag back again for another lick.” Through the seasons “…the flowers erupt and subside.”
HUMMINGBIRDS AND HOLLYHOCKS by STEPHEN A. ASCOUGH click
My mother died when I was twenty-three, and I’ve always treasured friendships with older women. I have several friends in their eighties. None of them are sitting by the window yet. But one swears she will not. She hopes to find a way out before she loses her ability to get around. Another has given up doctors as an aggravation. She refuses to spend her remaining time sitting in waiting rooms and being treated like a worthless piece of meat.
Old age is not so bad when you consider the alternative, said Maurice Chevalier. Some old people I know do consider the alternative, and think it preferable to the inexorable progress of loss, diminishment, dependency.
I think what I fear most about old age is loneliness. I am not yet at an age where the obituaries usually bring news of my friends. My father was 98 when he died. He was the last of his generation, and all the friends of his childhood and youth were gone.
The Muu Muu Mamas focus on fun and frivolity, fortified by wine, but we also count on each other in times of need and trouble. click Though we are all under seventy, I can’t help myself; I wonder how we will age. Hall says, “…However much we think we know what will happen, antiquity remains an unknown, unanticipated galaxy. It is alien, and old people are a separate form of life….”
It would be easy to let go of old friends as their quick wit slows, or they become garrulous bores. Hall believes that kindness to the old is always condescending. He is already in that alien land, and there’s no telling how I’ll feel if I get there, but I think he’s wrong. We began our lives dependent, and if we hang around long enough, we’ll need help again. I hope my friends and I will shore each other up when we are failing, and feel no pride nor shame in it.
IMAGE BY AMY_LEDERER AT PHOTOBUCKET.COM
I think of old age as a hard part of life that I wouldn’t want to miss. As I become more needy, maybe some of my arrogance will fall away, and I will learn humility. Maybe I will gain deeper understanding as I move from loss to loss. Acceptance is not a sprint, but a lifelong marathon.
My view may be too rosy. At 64 I’ve had my troubles. Sometimes I’ve responded with anger, whining, and paralysis, sometimes soldiered on. I’m not confident that I have found the appropriate mix of howling, whimpering, and stiff upper lip. Donald Hall, sitting at the window looking out, loving the world as he prepares to leave it, encourages me.
IMAGE BY RENTON PIRATE AT PHOTOBUCKET.COM
“An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress…”
William Butler Yeats – Sailing to Byzantium
Donald Hall is still singing.
NOTE: I had thought I could link to this article, but it is only available to subscribers. If you’re not a New Yorker subscriber, it’s worth a trip to the library to read it, or you can go to this link to access the whole issue for $5.99. click
Dec 16, 2011
When I was employed at a little legal think tank, I spent a lot of time on causes dear to my heart: welfare rights, abortion rights, indigent health care. Most of my companions in these causes were volunteers, who had to follow their fervor outside of whatever job they were paid to do. But at my job, which was largely self-defined, I was encouraged to engage with the community, and even had a secretary to help me with it! So people were always asking me to do things – go to meetings, chair committees, give speeches.
For years, I was The Girl Who Can’t Say No. And like most yes-sayers, I got in over my head, floundering to avoid drowning, dropping balls, mixing metaphors. Then one day I had a vision*** of a strange bird sitting on my shoulder. It turned out to be the No Bird. Since then, whenever anyone asks me to take on a project, the No Bird asks three questions. “Is it worthwhile? Do you have time? Do you want to do it?” Unless I can say yes to all three, I’m required to say No. This is harder than it sounds.
THE NO BIRD
First, worthiness is hard to assess. Doing a kindness is always worthwhile. Fun is always worthwhile. Speaking truth to power is a moral imperative, and therefore usually worthwhile, though efficacy must sometimes enter into the equation, and one must beware of the self-aggrandizing tendency.
Time is elastic. If you want something done, ask a busy woman. Even if she consults her calendar for other commitments, she probably hasn't scheduled down time: time to lie in a hammock, drink a cup of tea, sit and stare. And as she considers the request, she'll probably ignore family obligations and general maintenance. So she's likely to say yes, and down time and all the rest get squeezed out.
“Do you want to?” can also be a tricky question. They like me, they like me. They’ll be angry if I say no. I’m the best (or only!) one who can do it. All these lead me to think, well yes, I kind of want to. But if the thought of it fills me with dread and depression, if my throat tightens and I want to hide under the bed – that’s a pretty sure sign that I don’t.
Sometimes I overrule the No Bird. When worthwhile really means essential, and I’m truly the only one who can do it, we argue quite fiercely, and eventually the No Bird has to shut up. (You can see that her beak is a little the worse for wear.) But by and large my silly bird has been very helpful, and I haven’t joined a committee in years.
*** Inspiration always comes to me in pictures. A house collapsing into a sinkhole, an infant left by a dumpster, a man standing in shadows at the edge of the woods – these sudden images generated my three novels.
NEXT WEEK: The Twelve Days of Houseguests
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Dec 2, 2011
I don’t understand the passion for purses, but the passion for shoes? – I get it. I used to mash my feet into spiky toes, pound my soles walking on spiky heels. Three inches was as high as you could go back then, unless you shopped in specialty costume stores. Now heels are up to five inches. I see women in these tottery-high heels everywhere, and my toes hurt. I see a young woman in platform shoes and fear for her ankles.
High heels screw up your feet, your legs, and your back. They hurt us and hobble us. Why do we wear them? Because our self-images are still shaped by fashion and media. Along with thin and young, we think sexy means that look you get in high heels – long curving calves, buttocks and breasts pushed out. Feminism has only taken us so far, and when we’re on the prowl we’re still willing to suffer to look sexy.
OUCH
I always loved shoes, and have lots of shoe-memories. As a toddler I had to wear ugly brown oxfords instead of Mary Janes. In elementary school, I wore saddle shoes, in junior high I wore loafers and flats, and then it was boarding school and back to saddle shoes again. When our dog chewed on Luli’s flats my mother had the cobbler turn them into peep toes. I was jealous; my mother wore open toed pumps and they were very fashionable.We dressed up flats and pumps with clip-on bows and brooches. I held color chips against my fuschia dance dress so the white satin pumps could be dyed to match.
When I was fourteen I took the train alone into New York City. I wore slate-gray high heels with pointy toes. It was my first time navigating the city on my own, and I strutted down Madison Avenue until my heel went into a grating and broke off. It was white plastic with a spike inside. I fitted the spike back into the hole, and limped the rest of the way to my appointment.
My first sexy boots were knee-high fake patent leather, and made my feet smell terrible. I sprinkled talcum powder inside. When I pulled them off my stockings were covered with powder and I left little white footprints on my first lover's carpet. The idea that my feet could smell? Mortifying.
I bought black patent leather sandals with spike heels and an ankle strap. That was when I first heard “fuck-me shoes,” from a lover who liked fantasy sex, but was otherwise annoying.
RUDE SHOES (KIRIAKI BY NINE WEST)
I was close to forty when comfort trumped style. After that, it was light weight hiking boots in winter, thick-soled sandals for summer and Naturalizer pumps with one- inch chunky heels in many shades for teaching or dress-up. I didn’t stop wishing I could wear snazzy shoes, but the pain was persuasive.
A couple of years after I got my new knees, my left arch collapsed. My ankle was pulled out of alignment, swelled up like a balloon, and left me limping. I tried ice, braces, arch supports, cortisone shots. The podiatrist finally gave up and sent me to a specialist, whose custom-made orthotic inserts fixed the problem. There’s only one catch – the inserts are very expensive and are made to fit one particular shoe. So I wear the same shoe style all the time, with fancy dress and jeans. Old lady shoes are acceptable anywhere. They come in black, buff, and white. Until recently I had one worn out, knockabout pair, one kept-clean pair for dress, and one buff pair for variety.
I can’t go barefoot anymore – as soon as I get up in the morning I put on my shoes. I miss my bedroom slippers in the winter, and sandals in the summer. My feet are imprisoned except when I’m sleeping. But foot freedom is a small loss. Now I can dance again, and even hike up hills.
Still, every time I go to Zappo’s, where I buy my shoes, I linger over the “women’s heels” pages. One pair promises to “capture your prey with a memorable message of seduction” They even have a brand called Promiscuous (WHAT is the world coming to!) I yearn a while, and then I order another pair of Brooks Addiction Walkers.
Then one day as I was whining to Luli about my shoes, she suggested I paint them. Immediately I googled shoe paint, found a site with instructions, and ordered about $30 worth of supplies – 8 colors, leather cleaner, and an acrylic finish. Iris and Amanda and I had a happy morning painting, and since then Amanda and I have painted my two remaining pairs.
AMANDA'S CREATIONS
PAINTING SHOES
THE FG COLLECTION
I’m amused by how my shoes cheer me up. Every time I look down and see them peeking from my pants I smile. It’s not all good. I don’t have any shoes left for somber or formal occasions, and I know if I buy another black pair, the temptation will be too great. (I’m dying for zebra stripes.) But dress codes for funerals have seemingly disappeared, and I’ll never be invited to the White House. I'm glad to have shoes that say, "I am still here.”
NEXT WEEK: An Infidel in Church: The Church Search, Part II
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Nov 3, 2011
In October I went to Jane’s Stories annual Writers’ Retreat. It was my second time at a writers’ conference. At the first, three years ago, I met Sandra, who told me that her goal is to find one new writer friend at each workshop she attends. It was Sandra who encouraged me to go to the Jane’s Stories retreat. click
I needed no urging. Like most loving mothers, I welcome any chance to re-enter the adult world. And this time, unlike the last, I felt I had something to offer. If a writer is anyone who writes regularly, and an author is a writer who has been published, a blogger is somewhere in between. I’m proud of my blog, and had just acquired beautiful cards to identify myself.
Just before my first conference, Amanda came to live with us for the second time, and I wondered whether I should go. Leaving Joe on his own for three days with an unhappy and confused little girl was troubling. But the conference was here in Gainesville, so I would be home every night, and Joe urged me to go. This time it happened that once again Amanda was going through a rough patch, and once again I considered cancelling. But Joe is an old hand, and it was just 24 hours. So I headed off to St. Augustine early Saturday morning, enjoying the solitary two-hour drive into dawn.
MATANZAS BAY – images.google.com from city-data.com
The retreat was at a restaurant, in a room overlooking Matanzas Bay. It included a two hour workshop on memoir by Karen Sayler McElmurray, author of two novels and her own memoir, Surrendered Child. Sandra Lambert and Anne Martin Fletcher described their successful quests for an agent, and gave pointers. Georgia Banks Martin spoke on fairy tales and poetry. We had the opportunity to have a manuscript or query letter critiqued. I brought a query letter for my third novel and Anne wrote useful scribbles all over it. click click click click
Attendance was small, which surely disappointed the hard-working, all-volunteer Jane’s Stories board. But it produced a most wonderful workshop, in which everyone felt free to participate, and had valuable things to say.
This was all interesting and helpful. But for me the most important part was being with people who are writers, who know what writing involves, and think it is worthwhile work. For each of us it is different – we are more or less fluent or blocked, frightened or brave. Most of us have been all of these.
These women have experienced writing as I have. Mucking around in my mind to dig up thoughts and catch them as they fly out. Beginning with a plan or throwing scraps at the screen to see what happens. Returning the next morning to find words dead on the page, or a sentence that sings. Tidying up the mess – one of my favorite parts, as I am a decisive editor. Exulting when, after many revisions, a draft feels final. (It never is.)
They have also experienced the grim and tedious business of trying to get published. I have submitted for years with no success, though once I had an agent, and two editors have been effusive about my writing as they rejected it.
“No man but a blockhead ever wrote, except for money,” said Samuel Johnson. In truth, only a fool writes for money. The odds of making money by writing are probably smaller than the odds of a high school athlete making it in the pros. If it’s money you’re after, play the stock market; if it’s fame, try serial killing.
NO BLOCKHEAD HE? – Dr Samuel Johnson, after Joshua Reynolds Photo: THE GALLERY COLLECTION/CORBIS
I had dinner with Sandra, who is herself beginning to experience success, with publication in two prestigious literary journals. Her generosity is an inspiration. On her blog, full of beautiful photos and paeans to Florida nature, she tirelessly promotes the work of others, new authors and old. She doesn’t waste energy on carping and belittling. Unless she is critiquing, she saves her breath for praise.
Sandra’s attitude was an example and a gentle rebuke to me. In the intensity of my long wish to be published, to be heard, I had become selfish and envious. I clung to a distinction between real writers and dabblers. As though it were a race, I looked around to see who was ahead of me. But writing isn’t a competition, though the world would make it one. There is room for all the flowers in the garden.
POPPY GARDEN – by Slatesculpt at flickr.com/photos/57031315@N02/page3/
After dinner we went to Anastasia Books, where five women read from their work: memoir, poetry, essay, fiction. I bought a book of poems by one, and a memoir by another. Some of the writers have had more success than others; all were well worth listening to. To hear them was to remember that we each have unique vision, and can speak with a unique voice. I intend to go to workshops when I can, and be inspired, not threatened, by other writers’ gifts.
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NEXT WEEK: The Muumuu Mamas Go to the Beach
Oct 28, 2011
On a recent weekend I tackled the clutter in my office. My office consists of a small bedroom, with a big desk, lots of books, and a bed, and a large former closet. The closet is my computer and file room.
We have four file drawers to hide the business of life, but my personal files were on two small shelves behind me in the computer room – files about Amanda, and writing, and recipes. To Do’s were piled in no order on a three tier plastic tray next to the computer, and the rest of the computer desk had lists and works in progress and books to return to the library and dirty socks. The big desk was covered with stuff from our Africa trip: souvenirs, gifts, postcards, camera equipment. A jumble drawer in each room held…jumble.
CLUTTER
I spent the better part of three days organizing, cleaning, and culling. I enlisted Joe to help with the Africa stuff, since a lot of it was his. Then I went through all the papers littering the computer desk and the To Do tray, all the folders on the shelves. I took down a storage box, threw out a bunch of files from ancient matters, and replaced them with files from middle-aged matters. With glee I discarded many papers from our two years as foster parents, and consolidated the adoption papers into one accordian file.
I went through the drawers and equipped each with plenty of pens, pencils, markers. I hid the scissors way at the back where I hoped only I would find them. (Amanda and Joe have their own, but you know how scissors go wandering.)
Now the computer desk has only the computer, the printer, and a paper tray. The shelves behind me have writing books, stationery and computer supplies. Active files are tidy on the big desk.
TIDY ME
I am blissful in my new space. The trouble is that I believe the order will last, and I’m really too experienced for such delusions. It’s like giving up smoking. You do it over and over, always hoping, and always relapsing. Or like love when you’re young. First you say, “This is The One.” Then, after several, you say “Is this The One?” After many more, you’re likely to say, “Fuck it, there ISN'T One.”
Still, I did give up smoking on the fifth try, when I was 36. I did find The One – I won’t say how many tries – when I was 48 (even if he does leave his stuff on my desk). Is it possible that at 64 I have finally conquered clutter?
NEXT WEEK: Finding My Better Self at a Writers' Retreat
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Oct 14, 2011
MIAMI AT NIGHT BABOON FAMILY, SOUTH AFRICA photobucket.com wisin_23 copyright 2011 Joseph S. Jackson, by permission
We are going to South Florida one weekend, South Africa the next. I sit with my coffee and make yet another list. It takes about ten minutes to assign the remaining To Do’s to the remaining days.
In the middle of writing a task for Wednesday I glance up at Tuesday. “Check boxes.” What boxes? I need cartons to tote canned goods for the HOME Van, but that’s not what I meant. What I meant has fallen into the void that follows behind me, swallowing thoughts a minute after I think them. It is gone, like a twig sucked down in the current, and like the twig it will bob up again somewhere down stream. I know there’s no use trying to find it now. I return to Wednesday. There, right next to “load flash drive,” is half a word: “Dil.” Shit. That’s gone too.
My mother-in-law, Naomi, lives in Deerfield Beach, in a second-floor condo overlooking a canal. We stop for lunch and a swim on our way home from Miami Beach. She makes us coffee for the road, and I go down to the car to get my travel mug, grabbing a couple of satchels to carry down. Unlock the trunk, put them in, go back upstairs. “Where’s your mug?” Joe asks. Oh.
I go downstairs again. I take the plastic bag with our wet bathing suits, and the gift bag Naomi gave Amanda to celebrate the adoption. I unlock the car, put them inside, and go back upstairs. Open the door, and stop still, my mouth gaping. Joe laughs. I turn around without a word, and head back down one more time, thinking, “coffee mug, coffee mug.” This time I succeed, and head back up the stairs for the third time. My mind may be slipping, but my legs are growing stronger.
Finally, after bouncing from bed to bed in Johannesburg, Kruger, and Swaziland, we are in our own house in Capetown, and I am cooking our first meal. Very simple: burgers with no buns, salad, potato chips from the plane. The burger meat is too lean, and the stove puzzling – I’m accustomed to gas. But as the burgers cook, I prepare the salad.
OUR CAPETOWN KITCHEN
The kitchen is well-equipped, and I pull out a blue plastic colander to wash the greens. I tear up the iceberg, arugula, spinach and watercress. Get the oil and vinegar, salt and pepper. The kosher salt is damp in the grinder, and comes out in clumps. Oh well. Plenty of pepper, and then oil. Toss well, add the vinegar.
Joe sets the table, Amanda gets the burgers, I bring the salad. I return for the salt and pepper and am puzzled by the puddle of oil on the counter. I examine the bottle – no cracks, no oil down the side to show I spilled it. I wipe it up and we begin dinner. Joe serves himself salad and says, “Liz, this is a colander not a bowl.” He shows Amanda the holes – in my defense, they are inconspicuous in the dark blue plastic. But it all comes back to me – I forgot to wash the greens, and dressed the salad in the colander.
I used to ask my law students not to come into class late, or talk during my lectures. “I lose my train of thought, and there’s no telling when another one will come down the track.” I don’t believe this is Alzheimers or dementia, just late middle age. Although it is a nuisance, I find it amusing, I suppose because my friends are in the same boat. But writing entails catching thoughts on the run, then tidying them up. How can I do it when my thoughts disappear?
I could carry a little notebook, but I fear it would be one more thing to lose, like keys and glasses. I’m sure there are plenty of memory tricks on the Internet – aging boomers are a booming business. I will probably let it be. None of my thoughts are so valuable that I can’t afford to lose them. And another train always comes along eventually.
. 
WHEN'S THE NEXT TRAIN?
Photobucket.com: Tracks. by ILYB2014
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