No Roadmap.

Old age is not an overcoat I slip into easily,

I feel threadbare, uneasy in my own skin

Memories flood my mind of those beloveds lost

And never found except as dimly lit ghosts.

Daily challenges are suddenly mountainous

And steal more time from my meagre pantry.

I was feeling very tired recently. I never think to myself, there's something wrong. I always say to myself, well, it's old age, everything starts to break down.

And then I'm with one of my specialists yesterday and he tells me my hemoglobin has tanked and I need to get iron infusions from here on in.

And I ask myself, why do symptoms become so difficult to sort out from aging itself and I bet this also happens to others in the elder boat. Writing every peculiarity off to the aging process.

There is no roadmap that I'm aware of. It's a kind of hit or miss senior life. Is this serious? Do I sound like a whiny baby with an organ recital for every day of the week? Should I just up and get on (poorly) with putting one foot in front of the other while craving my bed at eleven in the morning?

I'll tell you a story about a dear friend of my daughter's who's a little older than I. She went off to the hospital to have her heart checked and felt very weak and sick after her treadmill test. So much so when she got home she had to use a walker (Zimmer frame to many of you). There is a shallow step between her kitchen and living area and the very next day (yesterday) the frame caught on this and tumbled her to the ground, unconscious. She has multiple fractures and had to be carted away by ambulance. 

And I ask myself why do elders go through awful testing sometimes - you might remember I went nearly blind in my right eye after one such procedure as it was so painful and I wasn't permitted anesthesia due to the medications I am on.

Needless to mention after her friend's accident, Daughter called me and asked me about surfaces and do I rest after getting upright from my bed, etc. And do I take my time going down steps or stairs. Next step, a videocam on Mother (joking).

Which got me writing the above poem and thinking at this precious time in our lives when time is in short supply we gobble up so much of it just in walking upright carefully and being vigilant in not tumbling or falling or stabbing ourselves with sharp objects.

 

I Was Never Old Before

Wise words even for those of us who spill, drop and scatter things inadvertently.

So I learn. Mainly from elder bloggers, many who have passed on now. What a euphemism. "Passed on." Some to their saviour and assorted relatives, others to star dust from whence they (and I) came. And of course I learn from those in my independent elder living building. 

Some garden diligently never letting a weed so much as breathe. We have massive gardens here including vegetable patches. Some fill the covered patio at the front with flowers and pots and wall hangings. Others fill the library with catalogueing and sorting books while others make pillows for our gallery (my floor's bonus) which overlooks the large community room where I hold my workshops. I will photograph it all soon as my legs are improving greatly with my weight loss.

I had no models in my life for successful aging. I refer to the women as my dad (who outlived my mother by 25 years) was a different story entirely. My mother died young. My grandmother, her mother, who was fairly young then and survived her was a livewire but sunk into a massive depression after mum's death (grief therapy unheard of then) and was never the same. An older aunt, a business woman and golfer of some renown sunk into hers when her youngest child died. Losing a child changes one for ever.

Point being, I was on my own as to how to do it successfully. By success I mean contentedly, enthusiastically even. So I paid attention to the blogs of elders. Many had hobbies. Many travelled. Ronni, in her blog "As Time Goes By" wrote of the real challenges of aging, loss of hair, teeth, overall health, lack of accessibility with mobility issues, being not afraid to move across the continent when things didn't work out in Maine. Irene wrote of mental health challenges, agoraphobia, Ernestine wrote about the turning point of 78 when she could no longer garden but adapted her kitchen for experimental healthful cooking while sitting until arhritis defeated her. 98 year old Tom wrote of his tomato garden, so many astonishing varieties. Hobbies (blog writing being one) are essential to successful aging.

Blogging has been a life saver for many elders including me. Blog friendships can be deep and fulfilling. And blogs leave a wonderful legacy of how to navigate this final phase of our lives. 

For those lucky enough to experience it while so many others pass on.

One of the fall gardens of our building.

Blogger Issues and a Poem on Aging....

Has Blogger sorted us out? I must apologise to many, many commenters. Your comments were caught in that dismal dark hell of a spam folder that I rarely check but will do so more frequently. The platform has been iffy lately and I know Nick and Ramana have problems and now I'm seeing my own. Anyway, I see their heads are up today so maybe Blogger has fixed it. Vast apologies to Secret Agent Woman whose every comment for the past year has wound its way into that hell.

I wrote this poem that many have really liked so I include it here for your comments.

Reflection on Aging

We do not grow large as we age

We shrink in all things.

Our demands are the smallest of birds

Timid and shy, flying away

To invisible trees.

Our desires are few and private

Lying unfulfilled on bare ground.

Our opinions lurk, hesitantly fearful of

The prey of younger, sharper minds.

Our circles wink smaller in the fading light.

Shrinking until we are the only holder

Of youthful, joyful memories of beloveds

Long gone.

Hunching down to count pills, count money, count meals, count hours, count bills paid and unpaid.

Fearful of that nameless elder unhome of unassistance, unmeals and unindependence lurking out there somewhere

Ready to grab us by the throat if we slip and fall

Into helplessness.

Wisewebwoman -April 2022.

Update

 I had an unpleasant reaction to some new medication the doc prescribed. And I truly hate to say this but everything seems to be an uphill battle lately with, internally, myself screaming: not another effing hill to  climb.

Daughter was in and I just couldn't summon enough strength to go out to lunch with her so she brought some Indian curry in. A new Indian restaurant has opened on this side of the city and the food was delightful. Absolutely the best samosas I have eaten and the lamb curry was to die. A huge menu. Opening in a pandemic is quite gutsy.

A friend/neighbour had given me some pills she was using for her pain management and they also worked for me but doc refuses to prescribe and was enraged I had taken medication not prescribed. I hear him but I was desperate just to get some relief in walking across a room, just for a day. So he refused to prescribe them as I might get "addicted" or long range, they might lose their efficacy. I said the quality of my life was so badly effected that I would take anything at this point. And I was an old woman - what? did he think I was going to wind up under a bridge with a needle in my arm? No budge.

I was down though for lots of days and I am going to tackle him again. But I had to conserve my strength for CBC and the interview which went well, I thought.

If you wish to hear it, please email me at wisewebwoman at gmail dot com and I will send you the link. I wish to remain anonymous here as I write of everything from my personal journey to more political matters and I need to keep my oars in the water so to speak.

I keep counting the small things today to keep my spirits up. I'm reading a marvelous book called "The Guest Book". It's gripping. Thanks to whoever recommended it. And there's some great stuff on Britbox that holds my attention. One recently watched was "A Confession" with Martin Freeman, based on a true story.

Acceptance

I must have written about this before. Acceptance.

One thing I know for sure. It is not a constant. It waffles and wavers and falls down and gets up in a different form. It can leave the room slowly or gallop off like a horse.

I'm still not 100% of where I was even a few weeks ago. I have Grandgirl staying with me and it really puts my health into a floodlit situation being around her. The energy my dears, the energy is just not there. And I have had many a private cry and an appalling one in front of her this morning after a miserable night of it.

Don't get me wrong. She is amazing and kind and lovely. Just this pity pot seems very handy for me to stick my head in now and again when I am alone.

I feel the Black Dog lurking patiently, panting in eagerness. And I know I am struggling one more time with the acceptance of my failing body.

I had to get another chest X-ray this week and I hauled myself off but I couldn't get parking and so I circled the hospital for about an hour, just about whimpering. Acceptance I kept saying to myself. Ask for help. Stop feeling like such a burden. One friend could use any money I offer her to assist me as she is impoverished at the moment. Rise up. Count the blessings. Accept where you are and carry on.

As I type Grandgirl is making supper. Kale and tortellini and goat cheese, etc. There is an odd shifting of balance between us. Inevitable. I am so grateful I live long enough to see her grow into this lovely, brilliant young woman who has a wonderful future ahead of her. She's a happy person. Content with her life and her partner and her large circle of friends.

I am reminded of my own beloved granny who didn't do so well in her latter years. One of her daughters insisted on her leaving her home and moving in with her and her rambunctious household that also included her mother-in-law and that was not a good move. Granny missed her village and her friends and her chickens and dog. Independence is truly all important in our senior years as long we it is even remotely manageable. Closing our own doors on the world when we need to. I imagine as I fall into some decrepitude Granny is haunting me a little. But she also had the huge burden of a dead daughter (my mother) which was devastating for her.

I need to accept life as it is today and move away from the "not any mores" and the "neverness" of things I won't be able for again.

Just writing all this turbulence down has really helped me today.

Acceptance.

I need to work on it some more.

Age Distortion

I remember reading a book a long time ago by a psychiatrist. I was really into personal development and improvement then. I gave that up a long time ago when I realized my own journey is unique and can't be based on any guru blowing off about his or her life experience and encouraging others to follow in the same footsteps. Well no, that would be merely a distraction. I follow my own path, read Tao in the mornings and reject or embrace any suggestions.

But I digress. That book I read was summarized as follows:

Why do we all behave as if we have 200 years to live?

For of course we don't. And we delude ourselves constantly.

For instance: Middle aged?

Most put middle age as between 50 and 60 and even higher.

But the average lifespan in Canada is 82.30 years. (US is only 78)

So truly middle age is 41 in Canada and only 39 in the US.

Imagine those turning 40 announcing they are now middle-aged!

So what is old age?

Most of my friends died between the ages of 52 and 70. From various causes. So let's say the average age of death in my circle (and I believe it was wider than 'normal') is 61, depending on the number of friends one has it could be higher. (So their middle age was 30+ )

So old age, to me, generously, would be anything over the 3 score and 10 meaning 70+.

Extreme old age would be 80+.

I have 4-1/2 years to get there, if I do. And I bear in mind disability and other challenges happen out of the blue. Three people I know now have dementia in different stages.

So what am I going to do with these last bits 53 months of my one wild and precious old age life?

What are you doing?

I assume here that my readers are all past middle age - meaning over 40. And many, like myself, have health challenges.

Impatiently Exhausted.

I've had a busy few days. Go go kind of thing that my younger self would have snorted at.

I'm taking the day off apart from filling the semainier (the last piece of furniture I ever refinished back in the day) that Daughter had for many a year and which had no business living in my rural home. In the way of travelling furniture and bookcases and chairs in our family, Daughter had no use for it and before she donated it I said I had a wee wall for it as an open arrangement I had in my closet was NOT working out. So there we are. Or here I am. You will note the 7 drawers: (from where the word semainier got its name) a week's worth of clothes. I have been partially Kondo-ized a little so now I fold a la Marie. Apart from the appearance of the drawers which pleases me no end, I can find things instantly.

I was reading another May Sarton, as an older writer she can't be beaten.

I can accept my exhaustion after a couple of intense activity days when I read this:

In me "there were two distinct entities at war. There was a hortatory and impatient person who was irritated by her lethargic twin, that one who had to be prodded awake and commanded like a doddering ancient servant."

Exactly. Bloody marvelous. I'm off for a nap now.

Fear

"You learn that as you grow older, we live in a perpetual state of fear. All the horrible things we do to each other, all our misunderstandings, are because of fear."

The Old Jest. Jennifer Johnston, Page 98. Read in 2016.

Some new fears as I age. They would be unrecognizable to a younger me, then I would have classified them as "silly".

(1)Fear of becoming a crashing bore because of my health issues. So I avoid talking about them. Then, when questioned on my health status, I'm aware of looking shifty from such avoidance and quickly switch conversation to something else.

(2)Fear of the specialist I saw on Wednesday, my nephrologist, who has no time for my avoidance of 3 times daily blood pressure readings, no time for my water shortage ingestion in spite of his instructions. No time for my whiny "I can't live in the bathroom all the time" ("Oh, "sez he, in a bored monotone, "Then dialysis would be preferable?" He is excellent at what he does, but boy, bedside manner is not part of his genetic makeup. He handed me a list of what I need to do before seeing him in a month. Yes, I will comply. Feel the fear and do it anyway.

(3)Fear of getting lost. Due to my mobility issues, this is much more serious than for a healthier younger me, the running me, the adventurous me. Now when I am pounding down a sidewalk with my cane searching for something, store, medical office, etc., if it's not where I thought it was supposed to be I panic as my energy has evaporated, I need to sit down and there's nothing to sit on. So I lean, and breathe and want to cry in frustration. I was rescued by a kind stranger on Wednesday who gently guided me outside the building and led me to the correct clinic, taking time to allow for breaks. People are so very kind and caring.

(4)Fear of brain-fail. It takes me longer to learn new skills, like a knitting pattern. I have to repeat and repeat to lodge it in whatever remaining brain cell is still up for rental. Short term memory, unless I really, really concentrate, vanishes like a puff of smoke. I am mindful of working the brain via knitting, daily Scrabble, reading books outside my comfort zone. Challenging it.



(5)Political scene: femicides. A woman is murdered in Canada every 3 days by a man who purportedly loves her. The stats in many countries are similar. I've been present when men "jokingly" threaten wives that they would kill them if they caught them being unfaithful. Since I first became aware of how second class women are, way, way back in the fifties, I see regression in women's rights everywhere. Men who haven't a clue - as an example see that Gillette ad up there? - the outrage amongst some of my male friends was breathtaking. They take the line of "not all men" - neglecting, of course, to take a stand against the proliferation of porn, sex trafficking, prostitution, etc. which is so embedded in our culture as to be taken for granted. Women's (and many girl children's) bodies are commodities, products to be sold, trafficked at a whim. Trillion dollar rape industries. Imagine, I say to men I know, being anally raped twenty to a hundred times a day or giving blow jobs to hundreds of strangers. And they shudder.

A Teacher's Association Convention in Alberta booked a convicted murderer/rapist as their keynote speaker. You read that right. Only when the public outcry became a deluge did they cancel him. Read about it here.. The fact that they would even arrange all of this shows how deeply embedded rape culture is in our society: how female victims can be so thoroughly erased. And to make the story even more sordid - the reason he killed her was because he couldn't get an erection.

I fear for my own anger in these political situations. My rage is frightening to me at times and it doesn't abate as I age. It worsens. How on earth do I keep a lid on myself? How do I numb out and shrug and pretend all of this doesn't matter?

(6)Oddly enough, in such an anti-aging climate, I haven't a fear of wrinkles or age-spots, or "Looking my age" or greying. I tell people openly I am an old woman, or an elder or a crone and most react with:"You don't look it" with a little frisson. What's that about? What does "looking it" mean? Why the fear of growing old? Isn't the alternative so much worse? I have lost far too many dear ones not to celebrate my bonus years.

Anyway getting my thoughts of the day out there on paper.

As I struggle with a short memoir I am writing.

Things I Don't Miss

Many talk of aging as something to be feared, the many losses: the loss of vitality. health, the so-called good old days, etc., but seriously, us oldies need to count all the things we don't miss, shall we?

(1)Menstruation, I menstruated for 40 years.

(2)Fear of pregnancy. My last scare? I was 52, thinking I was way beyond it. See 1.

(3)Hangovers.

(4)Getting up early, going to work and pretending I didn't have a hangover. See 3.

(5)Television

(6)Landlines

(7)Stilettos - seriously, what were we thinking?

(8)Make up - nothing like painting your face before throwing yourself out the door. Not.

(9)Hairdo maintenance - the cost alone, knowing presentability for the male gaze meant my employment or not.

(10)Performing femininity see 7,8,9

(11)A household to run plus two jobs to keep it all together. Single mom. 2 kids.

(12)Dating - see 10.

(13)Being always afraid of men when I was out alone running or coming home on a quiet street or late at night. And even of the male cops patrolling - with cause. Now I feel safe for the first time in a secure building with a well-lit parking lot, a resident administrator and emergency buttons.

(14)Being always broke, money never quite stretching to needs, never mind wants.

(15)Stress about all of the above.

I'm sure there are loads more.

I'd love to hear yours.

In the Beginning....Part 2

And I use the word "beginning" for it truly feels like another one. I've had many, I've been blessed. And in my last two homes they reflected me, solo me, my décor, my artifacts, my friends, my colours.

And so will this new one that my spirit will enter on April 1st, but through circumstances of my hospitality business and my municipal position, my body won't enter fully until September.

It's a one bedroom apartment in an independent senior living complex. A friend already lives there. A friend after my own heart as we value privacy and abhor unexpected dropping around. The complex is small and charming and includes a gym on each floor, a free laundry on each floor, an outside patio with barbecues, an enormous communal two storey recreation room with library and kitchen and piano, it's overlooking a lake and is a short hop to the city of St. John's.

A few things, of many, that impressed me were it was so quiet, I loved how some of the artists living there had hung their artwork in the hallways, I was also impressed with some of the residents being in their nineties and having home care help coming in for a few hours a day if needed thus deferring the day when an assisted living home might be rquired. And twice a week there's a free bus that takes everyone out to shop if they are beyond driving.

My friend tells me we are the two "babies" in the complex being the youngest. I find that very amusing but also highly educational in that I hope to learn more about ageing in place and an ease and familiarity with the process.

The complex is close to the East Coast Trail and some gorgeous trails in the city itself.

Simmering down to a one bedroom is going to be challenging. I am hoping to market my current dwelling as a turnkey hospitality heritage home, all furnishings and appliances included. My plan is to take very little from here.

So yes, I am excited. But daunted too by the task of downsizing my existing lifestyle into one more manageable and easy.
But I am also blessed with an attitude that once I make up my mind, I don't look back. I don't want a life of regrets.

Looking ahead and with anticipation is where I'm at.

In the Beginning....Part 1.

When I bought this place over 13 years ago, I knew my relationship with my darling house and land would all end some day. I'm very conscious of the ticking of my own clock. I stay in moments and cherish them and reflect on my privilege and gratitude to have this house overlooking the ocean, surrounded by trees and hills, with views right out of some exotic magazine. With its own off the grid artist's cabin tucked up on the hill overlooking the bay.

We are so finite in this world and sometimes a tap on the shoulder comes, intuition if you will, and we must pay attention.

My friend Helen's death was a huge tap for me. Then a whole series of friends fell to the wayside shortly thereafter way before their time. I say way before their time when, really, what is human time? Three score plus ten? I've been losing friends since I was six when Geraldine died of meningitis and at eight Eithne was burned in a house fire and at fifteen Rosario had brain cancer. So death walks along beside me even though many of us behave as if we have two hundred years to live. And to live with full mental and physical functions intact. Not so. Take a look around at your Zimmer frames, oxygen tanks and wheelchairs and bewilderments in the supermarkets. I do. Not morbidly but noddingly, know what I mean? Constantly aware too that most health impacted seniors don't shop for themselves so we don't see the Alzheimer's, the dementia, the legless and blind and stroke victims.

I thought to take charge then, back in 2015. I live alone. Have a fierce streak of independence, turned down potential partnerships here, 3 or 4 at last count to offer an example, and wish to be proactive rather than reactive to any future challenges I might face.

I remember a dear blog friend, I was her role model of aging well for some reason, saying at one point: "Well it's a good job I have ten more years to catch up to you and loads of time to live creatively" but sadly she didn't. She died Christmas 2013 rather quickly, from cancer.

So the power of now became a mantra for me long before it was fashionable.

To be continued.....

First Step

I met with a dear friend for lunch yesterday to discuss all these crossroad changes I've been mulling. We're roughly the same age and have each other's backs from time to time as needed.

If I needed validation, I had to look no further. Her face lit up, she got completely excited and she burst out: "Oh my gawd, I can just see you here, oh my gawd, your wings can spread so wide here!"

It was flattering, sure. But she was also very down-to-earth in sharing her knowledge and expertise in the building she's in. I've been to her place for dinner but never "did the 5 star tour" and that's on the agenda soon. Meanwhile she's got the inside scoop on applications and references. It's an absolutely ideal spot for aging in place with support, minimum as it is, for tasks like twice weekly grocery shopping in a mini-van around the city for those who don't drive or have surrendered their licences. Free laundry facilities, a communal garden for planting, a covered patio area with BBQs and other etceteras to make life interesting. Many of the residents still work (she does) and community involvement is left with the individual tenant.

I am quite excited about this which tells me a lot. It may take months and months to activate the second step as there may be a waiting list, she's very well connected with the board of directors so private information will be delivered to me also.

I'll track the whole process here as I know a lot of my readers are on cusps of transition too, whether internal only or ready to make a bigger leap.

30 Days - Day 12

The Sunset Years.

Ansa, my dog is old. She's at the stage where one minute she astounds me with her agility and the next she's enfeebled.

I try and deal with situations as they come up. She's the most intelligent of all the dogs I've had. I've now taught her the meaning of "slow" and she comes down the stairs slowly, she's worked out a way of two paws together on each step. But up the stairs? The other night was scary as she only made it halfway up and I had to slide by her to push her the rest of the way. She's a heavy dog so she can't be carried.

She won't ever go ahead of me as I've trained her not to - even through a doorway. It's the only way to get a dog to trust its owner, they have to respect the lead position of "the pack leader" to obey commands consistently.

One time she'll bounce around the meadow like a puppy, next she can't make it on a jump to the back seat of the car. It would break your heart to see her try. She never gives up. I took a portable step stool out of the house as an assist but she completely ignores it and manoeuvres her way around it, thus making her leap more challenging. Funny but... *sigh*.

She finds it difficult to get up sometimes. So there are mats all over the house to help her. She often reminds me of Daughter's dog, Shamrock, who did the same thing: she'll lie down in the most awkward places now. The top of the stairs, outside a closed door, along the outside of the bathtub, on the mat in front of the kitchen sink. As she is getting quite deaf as well I wind up roaring at her to move before I pitch myself into a mess of twisted broken limbs.

She always walks without a leash, though I carry one with me. She's allowed a few feet ahead of me so I can watch her and has the command "stop" and "sit" down pat. Out on our walk this evening she was ahead as always and a truck was coming and I realized, to my horror, that, yeah, she's deaf, and can't hear me commanding her not to move until the truck passes. My heart was in my throat.

Leashless walks are now a thing of the past.

Sunset accommodations.

I need them too.

Aging Lazily and Crazily.

Three Dog Night - Shambala

At times, it seems to me I've been returned to being a child again.

I'm catching up on all those years of sleep deprivation with a career and single motherhood, etc. Within limits, of course. As I do have municipal and other duties to fulfil. But one of the bonuses of my age is that I can sleep when I want and nearly where I want. For who pays attention to an old woman's nods?

I can also read. Any time. I would squash in reading for pleasure on weekends and before sleep. Now I read over breakfast. I try to get in 100 pages a day. And I toss books that bore me. I don't feel any obligation to them whatsoever no matter how "good" others think them.

And knit: I knit not out of necessity but out of interest and the old fire in the soul. I can make crazy things, like door and window worms.

And write: when, where, how I want.

And speak my mind. I really don't give a rat's anymore what you think of me and my feminist, atheist stances. My beliefs are solid now. Honed on the whetstone of my life experiences and pain.

I get time to grieve. Even over things like the keyboardist, Jimmy Greenspoon, from Three Dog Night that I tried to imitate on my own piano back in the day. He made me fly, dance and sing and base one of my own unpublished, unperformed musical dramas on one of his pieces. And it seems like I pull in all the other grief of this 2015 on top of Jimmy and do it all over again in a series of tidy sob packages. Who sees and who cares?


I've come to the conclusion that I really like my own company and at my age that is a good thing. I am comfortable with my own vibrations.

I can amuse myself for hours just putzing around this old place which will never be featured in Good Housekeeping. Ever.

I like the no rules aspect of it all, the freedom.

The priceless freedom of my days.

I've never been more ME.

Manifesto of Aging

I watch myself like I'm an experiment in a petri-dish sometimes.

The subtlety of behaviour changes.

My personal manifesto to aging.

No more sleeping in. Ever. Regular as clockwork. No late nights. No alarm. Up at 8.00 a.m. Without fail. Bed made. Dressed. Breakfast the same every morning without fail.

Showers and hair washing are not daily anymore. Skin and hair too dry. They need time to recuperate and gather themselves for the next aquatic assault.

When items around me go even slightly wonky, like needing a repair, I panic. Much like my dad did. My mother died too young for me to observe her in her elder years. Why can't it be fixed today! (Implied – I could be dead by the time it works again.)

I basically lived by the seat of my pants it seems like forever. Now I'm that kind of model citizen I would laugh at (don't they ever have any fun for gawd's sake?). Regular hours. And bowel movements. No hangovers. No desserts. No seconds. Eating out rarely because home-cooked is best – you know what goes into it. Watching the pennies – ha-ha, I'm living longer than my savings and my pension just doesn't cut it. Keenly watching the weather for negotiability.

Hearing myself speak my father's words, my granny's (she outlived my mother, her daughter), setting firmer boundaries, having clearer dislikes and likes. But every pain/ache gets magnified a little. And I try not to talk about them. That is hard.

But also, more confident. My dramatic (my gawd, she has balls!) move to Newfoundland celebrated over and over again. My not caring really, anymore, about what you think of me. My opinions more cherished – by me. And my gifts. I never could see them before, I would demean them, tell you anybody could do what I would do, play piano, write, knit, sing, speak at public forums, host large get-togethers. Speaking openly about ageism, sexism and racism. I am more offended than ever at jokes about any of it. No, it's not funny. And don't tell me I have no sense of humour. But I refuse to laugh at the expense of a demonized group, like elders in diapers or prostitution or gays. And no, it's not extreme PC-ness either. You're the one who needs to grow up and become more aware of how offensive it is.

But being more at peace with myself is the best change of all.

And not too, too crotchety. Yet.

I'm waiting in anticipation.

Mr. Stan and the Brass Stick

The old man leaves his cabin twice a day and walks up to the shop, about 1/2 km away. He wields a fancy walking stick. Brass. I wonder if it belonged to his father. You don't see much brass around anymore. Sometimes the dog and I trail the punch-holes that the stick leaves on the sandy shoulders of the road and I get a sense of his rhythm.

He had a long life and four children with his dead wife. He nursed her through her lingering fatal illness. He then moved on, after a decent interval, with her best friend who had been widowed many years before. And that didn't last long, only five years, before she succumbed to her cancer and he nursed her too. And then, he couldn't believe it, he was eighty-five and felt he should leave the family home to his son who was back from Alberta and move into independent living in one of the small cabins up the road from me. He has his independence, he drives a well maintained saloon type car. But he's been very depressed and I'll tell you why.

Within a few months of his arrival I'd see Annie dropping in on him, bringing him cooked meals and baked offerings. It was extraordinarily odd as Annie, a first place winner in the World Class Hoarders' Championship, never bothered with cooking or cleaning before. But all of a sudden she's "doing" for Mr. Stan. Annie was the one I told you about a while back. When she went off to Toronto to visit one of her children, she came back here to a house cleaned out by her siblings and set finally to rights. Zen. Polished. Decluttered and sanitized. She ordered her brother's truck up to the dump and retrieved all they had cast aside so carelessly. Materials from circa 1942. Her dead husband's (1988)clothes, tools and gadgets, her vast stone and shell collections, 5 unworkable teevees and several trashed microwaves along with more dishes than the army needed in 1941 and every box she had ever been given. She restored her house to order with the overflow spilling down the deck and on to the sideyard. Where it proudly hangs out with her dead husband's 1964 rusted out truck.

Next thing, Annie is riding around in Mr. Stan's car like a missus. And having sleepovers at his place (nobody's been inside her place except for the siblings intervention since her last child left home in 1990). They are an item. Her daughter, who is forty and posts incessantly about her dead father on FB, was now calling Mr. Stan "Dad". I should add daughter is partnered with her own love for over 20 years. But had this papa-hole that is now filled. All is well. But oh noes!

There are huge ructions and yelling one night outside Mr. Stan's cabin. Mr. Stan is thundering-lord-jesusing. For such an old mild-voiced gentleman he has a powerful voice when he gets riled up. It certainly got my attention and I live quite a ways downhill. It seems like Annie had been two-timing him with Mr. Lenny, who is younger and has many bottles of rum stashed all over his cabin which is six removed from Mr. Stan's. Annie loves her rum. Rum doesn't love Annie. It sends her mouth into orbit and winds her up so she starts spewing venom. Which she did.

Annie, who is 70 if she's a day, told Mr. Stan that he couldn't satisfy a woman such as herself, but Mr. Lenny could. And if he could satisfy a lusty woman such as herself then she wouldn't have to run to Mr. Lenny's now, would she. So basically it was all his (Mr. Stan's) fault if he couldn't man up.

Needless to mention gossip of Mr. Stan's shortfall overrode the two-timing crimes of Annie. Actually Annie's two-timing incurred quite a bit of envy, including my own. I mean, at her age? I think I'd be bragging up and down Main Street if we had one. If I was that fortunate to snag two old men living six cabins apart and have the energy to bounce around from one t'other.

But my heart does go out to Mr. Stan, taken in by the bakin' and cleanin' Annie and treating her like a missus and hoping for a Hollywood ending. Like the rest of us.

And now he's alone, kind of bitter, and who's to blame him, taking his brass stick out for walks as if his life depended on it.

Aging - A Story From Where It's At and What I'm Missing.

Multi-tasking ability from 10 down to 2 and maybe an extra half on a good day.
Speedy onsets of Da Tireds.
No more caffeine after 6.00pm.
Panic when the car acts up in dark places. At night. Without cellphone coverage.
A fresh version of obsessive compulsiveness kicks in when something small goes wrong or something doesn't get done.
Word hunting.
Noun hunting.
Masses of hair on head eliminated need of hat. Knitted another hat to add variety to this new collection of daily wear.
Slow, gentle, soft days now whipping by at warp speed.
Running.
Taking sense of balance for granted.
Tight jeans.
High heels.
and oh, what happened to:
Derring Do
and
Devil Make Hare (Heir, Hair)?

Gone: One Red Brick Wall

Sometimes you have to take a good long run at the thing and kick it to the ground. I did. I gathered some thoughts I'd had on aging and what a total crock our perceptions of aging are, it being a 7 billion dollar a year industry to convince us to buy everything from anti-aging creams to sexual dysfunction products as we are falling apart at the seams doncha know and ewww so disgusting with our incontinence and bad teeth and saggy boobs and varicosey everything elses.

Re-pul-sive us olders are I tell ya.

NOT.

So I exploded a few myths, read some of 98 year old "Dad's Tomato Garden", and put the thing to bed. On time.

And FACT. Did you know that MOST(80%)seniors go directly from independent living to the grave?

See what bullshit crocks of brainwashing we've had?

Rumination

I was thinking. I do a lot of that. I'm over-analytical by nature. Not necessarily a good thing. Well a good thing when it comes to work and earning capacity I suppose. But a poor thing indeed when it comes to relationships.

I get argumentative, I get self righteous. I clamber on to the podium and while not going to the extent of pounding a finger into your chest I mouth off. A bit too much. I could excuse it and tell you I came from an autocratic household of origin where opinions outside of those of the patriarch were not tolerated and often were punished.

But that is a very fragile little hook on which to hang my request for your tolerance. Surely, you'd mutter, with the years of therapy you've had you'd be a little more tolerant of the opinions of others?

I find that as I age I hit a form of crabbiness I used to condemn in others who were older. A thin layer of disrespect for the beliefs and opinions of those who would dare to have the unmitigated gall to disagree with me.

I found this undesirable trait in myself last night while in a conversation with others about the Catholic Church and its disposal of properties for the settlement of lawsuits brought by the victims of paedophilia.

Yeah, we're all sick and tired of that particular issue. But I couldn't leave it alone, I climbed up on the box and proceeded to vent my opinion on the pope preaching poverty and servility while he swans about in custom made red leather shoes and glittery dresses and lives in a palace.

To a bunch of practising Catholics.

Who politely listened while exchanging tiny glances with each other.

Who were tolerant enough of me not to rebut.

And I had the horrifying thought, later, that now I've reached the age where I'm becoming that batty old eccentric with a purple streak of crazy running down her middle.

Just ignore her.

She's loopy but lovable.

Ouch.

Letting Go

Do our personal traits and attributes and defects and assets become more intense as we age? Like in cooking when we make one of those reductions of raspberries or lemons or wine?

I was writing on another topic for publication and this thought struck me out of the blue.

I'd heard from an ex-friend on FaceBook. She is not a FaceBook friend, I should add. A friendly e-mail. As if nothing had happened between us. We were close for over twenty years. She came to Ireland and visited me when I would go back there in the summers. She was one of the first visitors here in Newfoundland when I bought this house. But now and again she would erupt at me. Out of the blue. She had a very damaged childhood, horrific. Therapy was unable to help. As it is in such cases I've been told.

And this was at the root cause of her abusive behaviour when she got too close to someone. She would say horrible things. Often in public. We had weathered these storms before. I saw through to the broken child at her core and made allowances. But three years ago, her behaviour worsened towards me. To the extent that if I was having a gathering of any kind she wanted to preview my guest list before she would commit to coming. Control issues. I know.

The breaking point came when I was giving her training, at her request, in the preparation of personal income tax returns (she wanted to set up a sideline business – in competition with me – I'm an idiot - I know!) and out of the blue she accused me of n*****ing my employees. To say I was gobsmacked would be to put it mildly. I asked her why she would say such a thing and she said that I acted always as if I owned the company. Well, duh, I said back, I actually did!

When friendship ends there may be grief and mourning and regret. In her case, for me, there wasn't, When she would return in the past and apologise, I would let it go, tell her how much I valued her. This time, the line she had crossed was taboo. I moved on. I didn't return a few phone calls she made. I was done.

And I thought about this recent contact of hers and as I politely responded to the email, and got a wordier response from her I thought, no. That's it for me. I am not renewing this friendship.

Experience has taught me that her abuse of me can only get worse.