Old friends..... like bookends

Here were are with some of our "old" friends after a spring Rogue River trip in 2008 (PK and me on the far right). Some of us are getting grey around the gills, long of tooth, and short on synapse. I'm not naming names, except for me. Our kids are grown and gone, many of us are grandparents, and we're advancing reluctantly into the next stage.

Do you remember this great Simon and Garfunkel song?

Old friends, old friends sat on their parkbench like bookends A newspaper blowin' through the grass, Falls on the round toes of the high shoes of the old friends . . .[ Ls from: http://www.l Can you imagine us years from today, sharing a parkbench quietly?  How terribly strange to be seventy. Old friends, memory brushes the same years, silently sharing the same fears

When I first heard that song (and wept) I was just 20-something living in St. Paul, Minnesota, and my best friend was Marcy. I imagined the two of us as crones in voile dresses with wispy hair staring down the specter of 70. And here we are, lookin' at it.  Marcy lives not far away, although I rarely see her, but I remember and value the intensity of our youthful alliance. I dare say that neither one of us considers ourselves "old." Marcy has developed an incredibly creative life and business, and I can't imagine that she's obsessing about old age. Or is she?

When you enter into a friendship, you never know where it will lead or how long it will last. PK and I have lived for nearly four decades in the same spot (except for 4 years when we  defected to a nearby town to spare our youngest kid the local high school.) Anyway, we've been rooted in rural Southern Oregon since 1973. We didn't mean to stay, and were, in fact, planning an adventure to South America, but baby Quinn! came along, then jobs and entanglements, then baby Chris! and lo, 38 years passed. Thirty-eight years.

When you're young, you have no idea how this can happen, and probably don't believe it will. But it does, in an appalling flash, and the days and months and years form a dark distant cloud to which you have limited access. You look into the mirror, into your photo archives, and the faces of your adult children and say, What?! 

Except, of course, if you have had the same friends for nearly 40 years, and maybe even a few going back to high school, and you can sit around like old-timers and rehash the shared memories of when you were young, your kids were small, or maybe before you had them, or when you did this or that river trip or camping excursion, or when you shared meals and games and adventures that helped to shape the kids into who they are today. And also you into who you are today—we're all still works in progress.

Our now-adult children are amazing, of course. Even kids who have struggled share rich common experiences that helped to lift them into adulthood. I recognize that PK and I and our two sons have been incredibly fortunate to have long-term family friendships and live on the edge of so much accessible wilderness and a piece of land that has fed and sustained us through many seasons.

But there's more to old friendships than reveling in those great times. There's the going forward together, whether we want to or not, and honoring in one another the inevitability of gray hair and wrinkles and, dare I say it? physical decline and maybe even cognitive lapses.
 Old friends, memory brushes the same years, silently sharing the same fears.
There's the continued joy in sharing with one another our adult children's lives and the sweetness of grandchildren, as well as the maturation of our friendships. Same goes for our childless friends. We're all sharing now the transition from middle age to seniorhood, and for me, frankly,  it sucks.
I'm adjusting to this inevitability with my old friends. We're all in various stages of denial and acceptance, and riding our bikes, walking our butts, and doing yoga like crazy. We'll stave this off, right?!

I never thought I'd be here, climbing the hill to 70. Or is that descending the hill? Of course it is descending. I need to stop kidding myself. At age 66, I have lived more than half of my life.

Spending quality time now with my almost-96-year-old mother reveals how it is to be really old. All her "old' friends have died, or have been left behind as she's moved from independent to assisted living over three states during the past decade. Her dearest friend, my father Floyd, died in 2006 at age 93. She has no deep ties to anyone but family, but she has new friends, a handful of wonderful people who do what they can to enhance their own lives and hers. New friends are good!

But there's no replacing old ones. For at least 20 years, PK and I, along with some others, have kicked around the idea of establishing the Purple Sage retirement home, where we could live commune-style, take charge of our aging selves, and kick some butt. Despite lively conversations, we have yet to make a move. It's too complex, and besides, we're not there yet. It seems unlikely the Purple Haze will ever happen. For now, my friends, let's stay connected, hold hands into the future, and ski our withering flanks off this winter.

Revisiting Harold and Maude

I've watched this quirky movie, my all-time favorite, half a dozen times since it was released in 1971. I saw the film again recently, and my, my, my, how times have changed. My times, that is. Actress Ruth Gordon was 75 when she starred as its eccentric life-affirming and hilarious heroine. For the film's purposes, she turned 80 as the story evolved.

When I first saw the film—and my pretty little unlined face ached from laughing—I was 27.  I don't remember the other times I saw it, but I'm certain that I still regarded 80 as a distant impossible-to-reach and hideous age. The difference between earlier viewings and seeing the film now? I identify with Maude! And 80? Considering how times jets past, that "impossible age" is just around the bend.

Maude used to look "old" to me. She was a fabulous person trapped in wrinkles and sags. I loved her spirit and verve, her outrageous antics and her gentle but over-the-top handling of the suicide-staging teen played by Bud Cort.

In my twenties, Maude was wonderful but old. End of story. I could not relate. Upon my most recent viewing, I admired Maude's youthfulness, although I did note that someone supposedly on the cusp of 80 with nary a gray hair is using hair dye, a perfectly acceptable tool to chisel a few years off her appearance. (Hair Dye, the Fall Garden, and the Cruel March of Time) Overall, though, it was, and is, unsettling to face the fact that at 68, I am cruising the last third of my life, fast approaching the age that Ruth Gordon was when she was so wondrous in Harold and Maude.

Longevity runs in my family. My father died at 93 and my mom is nearly 98. She's still doing relatively well, by the way, and I would not be surprised if she reaches 100+. Her heart, lungs, blood work, blood pressure, thyroid, etc. etc. are nearly perfect. She has but one mild (and generic) prescription drug. However, she's almost blind, essentially deaf, can't walk, and needs assistance with the "activities of daily living." Her mind is good (mild dementia only). She is sweet and funny and I love her, but I am not sure I want to go there.

Maude was POSITIVE she didn't want to go there. She knew she was going to die before she got too  decrepit—on her 80th birthday to be exact. She knew because she'd been saving the pills and calculating the time it would take for the pills to ease her into forever.  Since she knew when and how she was going to go, she didn't worry about it, and every moment was a joy. She was in control. She didn't give a damn about what people thought or what was legal or illegal or why anyone should try to stop her from liberating a city tree and relocating it to the forest whilst careening down the middle of the highway in a stolen truck. Maude embraced life so thoroughly it was breathtaking. And also inspirational.

I know better than anyone that I need to get over mourning my lost youth and and my disappeared middle age and proceed with the rest of my life. But here's something nobody ever tells you about getting older: age does not necessarily impart wisdom, nor does it bestow acceptance of the inevitable.

I've discovered, at all the milestones, that I have to figure out again how to be OK, or even happy, with the person that aging has delivered to my mirror. Every birthday presents a new challenge about "how should I live" more than "how should I look." Because there comes a time when, without spending thousands on having "work" done, everything is going to sag. I have friends who are "spending the thousands," or contemplating doing so. I'm not going there, either. One thing I have figured out is that physical decline and "beauty down the tubes" is inevitable and a nip here and tuck there isn't going to matter the least in the end.

I'm figuring out now how to think about being almost 70, which is "terribly strange" as Simon and Garfunkel observed in their wonderful song, Old Friends.  That song brought tears in my twenties and it still does. How bittersweet that I've become reconnected with a dear friend from that period of my life, the person I imagined I'd be sitting on the park bench with in my old age. Marcy's turning 70 this year. Unbelievable. (It would be difficult to find a person with more vitality than Marcy Tilton. She's a top-selling Vogue pattern designer, entrepreneur, and "everyday creative." Check her out.) She also tears up on Old Friends, by the way.

Am I stockpiling sedatives? No. Not yet. And even if I did, 80 is too young. I now have friends who are 80, or almost 80. They're not even close to doing "a Maude." I guess I should take a lesson from my mother, LaVone. Even though she can hardy see or hear, can't walk and so on, she still takes pleasure in life. Somehow.

My mom greeting her new great granddaughter, Hadley Rose.
She was seriously delighted by the baby.

When she was my age, a mere 68, my mom was still active in church, walked the neighborhood with friends, played bridge, did all sorts of intricate crafts, cooked up a storm, read books and magazines daily, traveled with my father, and was always making something or doing something for family. Had she known that she would live another 30+ years and be so diminished, I wonder what she would have said or done or thought.

I'm wondering the same about myself.

Mom with some of her family in June, 2013.

Note: If you've never seen Harold and Maude, you must. No matter your age. Here's some info from Wikipedia. 

Sharing Love Through Food, Wine, Music, Dance.....and Ping Pong!

Thanks, Steve, for the wholesome post title, (my first attempt was "Dance, Drink and Dink Around) and Laurie Gerloff's photo, above,  which says it all. Ping pong and dancing were temporarily suspended so the feast and toasting could proceed apace. Nothing fancy in the presentation, but what a gourmet spread! And what a celebration. The best way to start the holiday season is with friends and family, music and dancing, PING PONG, and a lush cornucopia of deliciousness that spills across December like a wave of rich gravy crested by sweet potatoes and pecan pie.
It's taken two weeks to sort this out, and I'm not sure it's quite jelled. But as I've learned,  writing, and even thinking about writing, is a process that can reveal (to yourself and maybe your readers, if you have any) what you're thinking and feeling. I'm writing this because I'm curious. What  am I thinking? It should be easy to describe something that was absolute fun, starting on Wednesday before T-giving and ending on Sunday after.

But.... no. I have to complicate with comparisons of Thanksgivings past and sentimental reflections about the future. But first off, it's clear that the marathon shared with a gang of friends and family bore NO resemblance to the iconic Norman Rockwell painting. For one thing, those sitting at Rockwell's Thanksgiving table don't look like they had anything to do with preparing dinner. And who's going to clean up? Never mind. And have you wondered how that fleshy grandmother held a 25-pound bird at arm's length? There are other problems. Celery sticks? Water? Where's the wine? Where's the stuffing and cranberry sauce? Where are the Brussels sprouts? I see you Norman, peeking out from the right lower corner. I wonder what you'd think of our Thanksgiving.

It was a beautiful day in the Cancer Club's Limbo Lounge

                   My friend and neighbor Cecelia Schefstrom led me on a challenging hike to find an old mine
                   yesterday, the day PK and I would have been en route to Ecuador had we not been derailed by
                   my evil melanoma diagnosis. I have a hard time writing or saying that word.
                   We did great, I think, for women in our early 70s. Cel is amazing. She can read the forest, the
                    ridges, and the old skid rows from early logging. She spots cougar scat, game trails and, like
                   her mother leans, into the slopes with love of the land and a deep sense of place.
                   She's never afraid of getting lost. I may be able to hike faster, but I follow blindly with gratitude.  

This old mine shaft was the object of our search. It was a lovely day, but everything takes on "meaning" when one is installed in the Cancer Club's Limbo Lounge. Am I headed toward the evil black hole symbolized by this old mine shaft? Not that I'm aware of.

If anyone in the medical world knows the pathological results of my January 19 melanoma surgery, they have not shared the information, consigning me to the Lounge, where "not knowing" casts a pall at unexpected moments throughout the day (and the night!!) and anxiety gnaws on the brain. I'm almost getting used to the lounge since l've been in it since the initial diagnosis Dec. 29, 2015, which took 19 days to get to me!

Added to that, I'm approaching two weeks out from surgery where lymph nodes were biopsied, for God's sake. Isn't that  too long to wait to to learn whether you'll hop right back into your merry little ordinary life, or if you'll spend the next year or two in and out of treatment and, undoubtedly, a lot more long days and nights in the Limbo Lounge having your brain devoured by fear monsters? Is this normal? Does all cancer (and other) patients stop the clock awaiting test results?

Do all poor suckers who get punched by cancer also have to suffer from inattention from medical people? I spent many years of my professional life writing about compassionate care on behalf of medical clients. Now that I'm a patient, and not seeing any hint of compassion regarding timely results, or even communication about when to expect them, I'm thinking I should have talked with patients who weren't hand picked. But then I'd be working for news organizations, not public relations departments.

An earlier post explains about the melanoma and my induction into the Cancer Club.

Over the past tortuous month, I've decided not to wait for life to happen, but to make it happen. Inertia and depression are real and oppressive, but who would choose sitting around feeling sad all the time. Not me. Thus the past few days have been filled with friends, hikes, and so on. I'm past, I hope, the most traumatic part of this new reality, and ready to move on. No matter what happens. Both my middle fingers are raised in the direction of disease, and "bring it on" is on my lips. I can't choose what already exists. But I can choose to make the most of every day.

I met my longtime friend Cecilia Schefstrom at her place a mile away near the top of our shared country road, for our hike.  Cel, as she's called, was born there and, except for a few brief vacations, has never left. She is rooted to her tiny homemade octagonal home surrounded by typical and pristine southern Oregon woodlands. She's been wanting for years to lead me to an old mine in the hills above us, and today was the day.

Trails don't exist and the slope is challenging.

We set out with our walking sticks and her two dogs  at 10:30 a.m. to bushwhack our way straight up steep slopes to locate the gold mine that had  been forged in the late 1800s, early 1900s. Our gulch has a rich mining history, and far easier hikes deliver the curious to old shafts and even a gravity mill. Our road is named after a miner who messed around here before relocating to Arizona.  Now residents along our road mine the soil for nutrients to grow marijuana, although many also have vegetable gardens and raise chickens and goats and horses. Why horses? Beats me.

Cel tells me that this once-grand wood cook stove alerts us that we are 

not too far from the elusive mine, which she's seen only twice before and has not

been able to reocate on subsequent hikes.

This old wrought iron piece will last far longer than any of us.

Me at the entrance to the hidden mine. I'm smiling, but I'm scared of that sucker. Cel entered the shaft, but for lack of light, she stopped a few feet in. I  was put off by the symbolism. Plus it's a 100+-year-old mine shaft. I'm not going in there. I'm not nearly as brave as Cel is. Plus I need to save my courage for what may be coming.

Friends for Life? It Takes Time. And Effort.

L to R, the Wimer Women: Linda, Nona, Annie, Jeanne, ,JoAnne, Margaret, Michele, Betty 

I enjoyed a spirit-renewing weekend recently with eight "old" girlfriends. By "old" I mean women with whom I've been friends since when PK and I, in our twenties, landed in Southern Oregon. I met the first of them early on when we were both substitute teachers and carelessly disguised hippies in a conservative logging community. We recognized a kindred spirit when we saw her!

During the next five-or-so years, the others drifted into our shared geography—coming from California, mostly.  We all lived near Wimer, just a dot on the map eight miles east of I-5. It was in the 1970s, and is now, a loosely organized community of old-time farming and ranching families and newcomers on their five-acres of Southern Oregon paradise. Most of us lived on small acreages in the boonies, five to 15 miles from the nearest town. We had gardens, and chickens, ducks, pigs, horses, cattle, and goats were not uncommon. Neither were outhouses, propane stoves, wood heat, and long, rutted dirt driveways. PK and I lived closer to Rogue River in a burnt out trailer. The trailer is gone, but we haven't budged from the land.

Most of us built homes and live now exactly where we landed, or not far away. Many of us still heat with wood and get our water from wells. We share, or have shared, country life in a beautiful part of the world never more than a half hour from wilderness. That says something about how and why we connected. We love digging in the dirt, walking in the woods, hunting herbs, wildflowers and mushrooms, rafting rivers, and gazing at the night sky from a wilderness camp—or our own backyards. We ain't city people.

So much happened over the next nearly 40 years. Nothing unusual, really. We had children—some gave joy; others pain equal with pleasure. Some husbands philandered. One treasured child died. (Still makes my heart skip and stomach plummet.) Divorce and disease took their tolls. A dear friend died.

We partied, celebrated and grieved as families. As "just women," we did wilderness hiking trips and impromptu walks on Super Bowl Sundays. Later, it was wild and scenic whitewater rafting on the Rogue River. We shared so much, including some of our best years as young adults.

Then we drifted apart. The demands of jobs, kids, husbands, and other obligations created distance, even though all but a few of us still live in the same telephone prefix. We made other friends connected to work, church, whatever. We grew in different directions. We got too busy. Two of us moved away. (One could not make it to the gathering.) The other was the catalyst for this remarkable weekend of gut-level reconnection.

Her name is JoAnne, and she knows how to make friends and keep them. Keep us.

JoAnne on the Rogue River trail.

She moved out of this area in 1982—30 years ago! First it was Alaska, then Seattle, now Port Townsend, WA. Most people who relocate make new friends, get a new life, and leave the past behind. Not JoAnne.

Periodically throughout the years, she's made the effort to DRIVE here from wherever to reconnect. Each time she has skipped from friend to friend to spend an afternoon or a night or just meet for a chat over coffee or wine. We've had group dinners and a hike or two.  She repeatedly made the effort. It was not small.

Hiking the Rogue River trail with the Wimer Women.

It's taken me awhile to recognize what she's done, and this past weekend, I appreciated her more than I can express. She contacted me months ago saying she wanted to visit in April and this time, she would love to spend a weekend with everybody all at once rather than piecemeal. Could I help put something together? She listed the people she wanted to include. I hadn't seen some of these women since the last time JoAnne visited, and although I had mixed feelings about a whole weekend,  I booked a vacation rental on the river not far from Grants Pass.

We hiked (on the only nice day in two weeks!) to Whiskey Creek
on the Rogue River trail.

JoAnne's vision for our time together didn't end with us arriving at the same place at the same time and just letting the chips fall. She asked that we all do a "check in" to report our individual  emotional, spiritual, and practical status. Without going into detail that might violate extravagant and wonderfully shocking secrets, the weekend was a peak experience and a lesson in the joy of long-standing yet still-developing friendships.

Nona and Margaret enjoy the Limpy Creek Botanical Area not far
from our weekend retreat.

Without a high-paid facilitator or an agenda, we explored our shared and individual territories with humor, insight, compassion, and love. This took HOURS. Hours that flew like the years that have disappeared since we all met so many years ago. Our  vacation rental lacked media. We weren't distracted by computers, phones, TV, radio or music. We were unplugged from the outside world but connected on deep levels of shared memories, common values. We drew strength from the well of the past—and the power of the future.

See the blue phone? That represents Cat, the woman who couldn't make it.
She did a "check-in" from Northeastern Oregon.

The point is that without someone initiating this remarkable weekend, it wouldn't have happened. Those of us who still live just miles from one another would have continued on our mostly separate paths in ever-widening circles away from the centering value of our friendships.

Keeping friendship alive takes effort. Thank you, JoAnne. And for so many beloved friends from long-ago and the more recent past, expect to hear from me soon. I've been reminded of how much you mean to me.

Thanksgiving—Can We Make the Moment Last?

We're a ridiculously festive group at Thanksgiving.  But could we have this much fun every week or two? 
Steve Lambros photo.

Just before turkey day, I met a Columbian woman at an upscale women's consignment shop.  Somebody wished me a happy Thanksgiving, and I responded enthusiastically. The Columbian overheard my gushing and wanted more info. I told her that my family and friends were planning three days, three nights at a remote rented ranch in Southern Oregon, where we would endlessly feast, play games, and party. This got her attention.

Fine-feathered Ferron presents his fabulous fowl.
Steve Lambros photo.

This is what we do in Columbia! she exclaimed. Except we do this every week, not just for special occasions! Upon questioning, it came pouring out that Colombians, at least in her family, live differently than we do. They start work between 8 and 9 a.m., retreat for several hours in the afternoon, return to work around 5 or 6 p.m. and stay til 9 p.m., then they go out for dinner! Families congregate to feast and party most every weekend. The culture, she told me, is geared to the notion that life revolves around family and friends, not around work. Kids are included, and so are old people.

Spirited game of pole bangin' ensues while another group plays baci ball during Thanksgiving weekend.
Steve Lambros photo.

We work to LIVE! Not live to WORK like you Americans!
She said that numerous family members migrated to the USA to attend top-flight universities, but returned with advanced degrees to gratefully live and work in Columbia to be near their families and resume their "work to live" family-centered lifestyles.
You people are crazy! she said. Way too much work without enough enjoyment. She also related, after my questioning, that old people are cared for within the family. Old people don't live alone, and we don't have those retirement homes! she sputtered.
So. I have just returned from that three-day Thanksgiving celebration, which was as wonderful as anticipated. As one of the "family" wrote:

I am always in awe of the unscripted synergy and harmony of this group of diverse, single-minded, creative, intelligent, philosophically quizzical, spiritually hungry and purposeful livers of life. . . .From the bounty of the barnyard, gardens, river and culinary inspiration of the chefs, the endless varietals (homegrown especially) and brews to be enjoyed, the innumerable dance moves (and lack thereof...) to the seamless prep and unscripted cleanup teams, this annual gathering is AMAZING!!!!!!

Ok. There's no question that Thanksgiving is fabulous in general and especially for this group. But could we celebrate in like fashion every week or so?
Yes. We could.
But does the fact that we can't due to geographic distance and obligations mean that our priorities are screwed up and we are living to work not working to live?
No.
I believe that we, and another 20 or so friends and family who were not present, are tuned in to the way of life described by the Columbian. Not that a lot isn't screwed up in the USA. 

We who are retired, or close to it, live a different reality than our kids. We're at least financially stable. We have health insurance. We have pensions and promise that we won't be destitute in our dotage. We have worked hard for decades, but don't feel it's been in vain. 

Our youthful family and friends have no such assurances in a hyper-competitive work culture where job benefits disappear as jobs migrate out of the country. However! They're better off than many of us were at their age. Our two sons certainly are way farther ahead of the game than PK and I were around age 30. The young people we know are fortunate, for sure.

 Mother and son dance action in an accidental triple exposure. Party down!

I'm sure the Columbian idealizes her culture. But I'm also sure she doesn't realize that many of us in the crass and work-crazed USA  have forged friendships and families to ensure that Thanksgiving isn't an oasis as much as a model for multiple gatherings throughout the year. Not every week, perhaps, but we're already planning for the next great time. Our young people can't join us as often as we'd like, because they do have to work and raise their kids and so on—and they live too far away—but I'm confident that we're setting a great example for how to proceed once roots are established and a foundation is set.

Acting goofy on a hike in the hills around Whisper Canyon Ranch, Thanksgiving 2011..

 All I can say is that when I gave thanks at Thanksgiving, I really meant it. And on and on it goes.

Travel Tips for Geezers

First off. Who and what are geezers?

The mental image is not good. Toothless. Slack jawed. Sagging gut. Plummeting boobs. Ambulatory devices. Bad hats. Turkey necks. Crow's feet. Flaccid male units. Batwing upper arms. Bingo and Old Maid. Ensure, oatmeal and smashed bananas. On it goes.

Here he is. The stereotypical geezer. This guy is actually old, maybe 90-something?

But some people think they're old at 50, 60 or 65. I'm 70, which is, of course, very old! I am approaching geezerdom for sure. But like almost everyone I know close to my age, I don't think of myself as "old'" until I get ambushed by a mirror.  By the time we actually become geezers, I don't think we realize it, and that's merciful. "Geezer," in our culture, is not a pleasing self description When we call ourselves geezers, we mean it as a joke, right?

I found this photo, and others on this post, when I Googled "geezer images." I like these guys because they don't really fit the stereotypical geezer image because we can't see their faces, or other parts,  and I think most still have their teeth. But I'm sure glad I don't have to do their laundry. Plus, they're on the move, going someplace out of their comfort zone. Maybe they'll go swimming in their top hats, then have tea? They're not geezers yet. And where are the women?

Here we are, obsessing about boobs again. Mostly, we
obsess about body image and wrinkles and grey hair. And
necks are just a huge problem.

God, it's depressing! And it is WRONG! All wrong to consign humans past a
certain age to ridiculousness.  I know many of us who are approaching geezer age, whatever number that may be, joke about being geezers but don't really believe for even a minute that we are. Right? We know geezers, we've seen them and maybe have one or two in the family, or the tribe, or whatever group we're aligned with. But us? Geezers? No way! Not yet. Not yet.

Great juxtaposition here, doncha think?
Had to be a set up. Random photo grabbed
from Google images.

My friend JoAnne Heron took the photo below of her mate, Fayette, when they toured Europe in 2014. I think this was in Ireland. Can you imagine this sign in the US?! I love JoAnne's caption.

Just one more.....

Let's get to travel tips for people past a certain age—the  age at which they think they are finally irretrievably old.

I'm getting serious now. I spent seven recent years with my mom, who never seemed like a geezer, even at age 98.9, at which time she was liberated from her rebellious body, sightless eyes and soundless ears, to join my dear loving father at the Ft. Snelling Cemetery in Minnesota. May they rest in peace.

Back to the topic. During those seven years, in my mom's various living arrangements, I saw some geezers. The most geezer-like behavior I witnessed was a man who yanked out his false teeth after eating in the facility's dining room, and licked them sensuously before sliding them  back into his mouth. Smack, slurp. Not a lick of mashed potatoes remained!

Then I was repulsed. Now I am sympathetic, because I'm certain that during most of his life, that guy would never have done that.

Speaking of "never have done that," many of us geezerdom-avoiding  people have lots of weighty stuff on our bucket lists, things we want to do but never have done, and we damn well better get moving before we're too old and we can't.

I'm talking about PK and me now. We had a pesky foreign travel itch that went unscratched for decades due to our jobs, raising two fabulous boys—which we wouldn't have missed for anything—inadequate finances, and then elder care.

 PK and I are now embroiled in travel frenzy. It began in 2010 when we finally spent a couple weeks in Costa Rica with friends who own a place, there, then in 2013 with a fabulous trip to Africa and on to Nepal in 2014 with Nepal. We've learned some things, which we try to remember as we leave for extended periods our much-loved home of 40 years.

Travel Tips for Geezers (even though you aren't one)

• Leave your comfort zone. Just leave it and go somewhere truly foreign. What's the worst that can happen? 
• Ok. So leaving your comfort zone totally isn't for you, but tours abroad are really good practice.
• If you do strike off on your own, make a plan, a framework to work within for when the doodoo hits the fan.
• Give up the idea that you're in control. You can make a plan, but random stuff  occurs. ( If I was younger, I'd say "random shit") And sometimes  random shit is good. In fact, "random" is a great reason to travel.  Embrace the unexpected.
• Open your heart and mind to anything that comes your way.
• Relax, please. Nothing is fun if your jaw is tight and your rectum is clamped. Loosen up!
• Be generous in spirit and respectful toward people from other cultures. 
• Pack light, light, light. Seriously. Pack as if you'll have to carry your luggage up six flights of stairs because you might.
• Whatever your age, don't worry about it. (Repeat.)
• Whatever your age, don't worry. Did I already say that?
• Remember that "geezer" is not a universal word or concept, and in many cultures, unfortunately not ours, elders are revered. If your teeth are long enough, go abroad for the reverence!

PK and I are on the front end of  a month-long road trip, nothing exotic, except maybe for swimming with whale sharks and sea lions in the Sea of Cortez, or cozying up in a small (guided) boat to get close to grey whales and blue whales.

Mostly though, we'll be visiting friends, sightseeing, hiking, riding our bikes, seeing Death Valley, the Grand Canyon, and various wonders of Utah.

On the way, I hope there are lots of surprises and that I'll have time and energy to post some travel blogs. That is if PK and I do not succumb to elderly heat.

65 Alive

Today I am 6-freaking-5 years old. Thank you, my friends, for your birthday wishes. And thank you,  Laurie, for taking this photo a couple weeks ago, proof that yoga works no matter your age. If I can still do this in 10 years, I'll send the picture to a tabloid. "Seventy-five-year -old woman does splits!!" If we even have printed papers then.  It's difficult to project what the world at large will be like tomorrow, let alone what might come in the next decade. For sure our own  personal molecular swirls will have undergone vast change and may even be circling the drain by then. Ha!  Don't you love how things change so fast you can't keep up? I do, except for the getting-old part.

I cannot believe I've reached the Medicare birthday. But isn't that the way it is no matter how old you've suddenly become? I heard my sons recently complaining about turning 31 and 23 and I say, poor babies! I felt practically the same astonishment turning 40 and 50 and 60 that I do now that the next milestone on the horizon is the big 7-0! Time passes in a blur. Remember this song? Time Is by It's a Beautiful Day. If you click, scroll to song number seven. Crank it up, please, and twirl around and sing along. It will be good for your soul. And mine, too. I love to have dance partners, even those I can't see.

Attitude and aging - Lighten up!

Note: I excavated this post from my draft archive— one of 163 drafts waiting to be finished —as I searched for references to attitude. Why? I participate in a quarterly discussion group, and attitude is the topic for our fast-approaching get-together. The draft is about three years old, and the primary difference between then and now is I know even more women with attitude advantage. 

 Next, I'll tackle the drafts I've started about recent Baja travels. Thanks for staying tuned!

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I'm lucky to have positive, physically and mentally active, smart, deep-thinking women as friends. Most are age 60+ 

Laurie Gerloff and I resting after a 5-mile uphill hike through cacti and cairns near Tucson, AZ, a few springs ago. I was almost 70. Laurie in her early 60s.

An earlier post about ditching hair dye and accepting aging generated numerous responses, mostly on Facebook, where I share links to my blog posts.

Readers who subscribe to this blog by email may be avoiding FB, and I don't blame them, but they miss the revealing conversations that sometimes develop in comment threads. I enjoyed reading hair-dye and aging stories amidst numerous comments about the ditch-the-hair-dye post. 

I was the only person, however, to see the excerpted comment below, delivered to me via email by Laurie, my friend for 40-some years, and a frequent travel buddy. She and her husband, Steve, and PK and me, have explored together extensively, including several trips to New Orleans, Mexico, and in early 2016, the Galapagos Islands and the Ecuadorian Amazon.

This airplane would soon be flying the four of us out of the Amazon Basin on
the same runway. For more about this "old people's" adventure, See Wild in the Amazon

Laurie changed the subject from fiddling with hair and face, boobs and butts, and other attempts to preserve a youthful appearance to instead concentrate on what's in your brain and heart. What comes out of your mouth.

Guard against calcification and becoming old and set in your ways.  She writes:

I’ve spent much of today thinking about aging and my own march to wormhood. I think that the most youthful attribute for geezers like us is not a head of blond hair, but a young attitude. And I think that we, and many of our pals, have it in spades.

As a youngster, I used to think of old folks as cranky, curmudgeonly and stuck in their ways. It seems that many oldsters calcify — they resist change, don’t take risks, and allow their minds to close and their comfort zones to shrink. I struggle to fend against calcification.

Flexible, open-minded, adventuresome are adjectives Laurie uses to describe concepts for ideal aging. These are powerful adjectives for any stage of life, along with thoughtfulness, kindness, compassion, and incessant curiosity. 

Accepting aging is more than just going along with the physical deterioration without nipping, tucking, hair-dyeing or suiciding. It's about resisting cultural pressures to hang onto youth when we could be embracing the fact that elders have insights, wisdom, and historical understanding impossible for people decades younger. Oh the things we've seen!

We also have a continuing capacity to relish life and face challenges with strength and resolve because we've learned how. 

It's OK to get older. Way better than not getting older. At least that's what I think now at age 74.

I love this poem by Janyne Relaford Brown.

 I Am Becoming the Woman I've Wanted

“I am becoming the woman I’ve wanted, grey at the temples, soft body, delighted, cracked up by life, with a laugh that’s known bitter but, past it, got better, knows she’s a survivor – that whatever comes, she can outlast it. I am becoming a deep weathered basket.

” I am becoming the woman I’ve longed for,  the motherly lover with arms strong and tender, the growing up daughter who blushes surprises. I am becoming full moons and sunrises.

“I find her becoming, this woman I’ve wanted, who knows she’ll encompass, who knows she’s sufficient, knows where she is going and travels with passion. Who remembers she’s precious but knows she’s not scarce – who knows she is plenty, plenty to share.”

You don't have to be Christian to be a good person

My dear friend Laurie Gerloff shot this "God photo" during a foggy morning walk near Eugene, OR. Like countless other non-Christians, Laurie is a kind, thoughtful, principled person whose "church" is without walls or ceilings. 

The parking lot at my popular health club was packed and I was late for Zumba. I picked the only spot I could see.....it looked too tight, but having an unwarranted faith in my parking chops, I went for it.

The sickening sound of metal against metal was followed by a string of expletives. Mine.

A quick look confirmed that I'd dinged another vehicle, and my Subaru Outback had scratches. Such a stupid thing that could mean excessive repair costs, insurance hassles and inconveniencing an innocent stranger. I was kicking myself.

The car's owner was nowhere in sight. I wrote a note with my contact information and slid it under a windshield wiper. 

After my class, seeing that my note was still unread, I made a quick visit to an auto body shop for a damage estimate. The estimator guy took a peek at the scraped paint and the invisible, to me anyway, minor damage to the bumper.

"What's it going to cost me?" I asked, steeling for the worst.

"You could go to a Subaru dealership and buy some paint," he said. "Bring it back, and we'll apply the paint for nothing."

I restrained myself from hugging him as I expressed relief and gratitude.

I asked if I could send the victim of my errant parking to him as the damage to her vehicle was also minor.

Affirmative.

That afternoon I  got a call. The woman was cordial but miffed.

"Well, I guess I should get your insurance information so I can start dealing with this," she said.

I enjoyed telling the woman that she, too, could avoid insurance hassles. And, of course, I would pay for the paint.

She got right on it. Later the same day she called to report that the repair was done, and the local car dealer even had a sale on touch-up paint.

I mailed her a $10 bill and a friendly note

She called the next day when the note and money hit her mailbox.

The first thing she said: "You must be a Christian."

Silence on my part.

I was thinking of my friends and relatives, a few of them Christians, but most, not. 
All would have done the same thing I did. 

Well, no, I told her, when I gained control of my tongue. "I was raised a Lutheran, but it didn't take."

Silence on her end.

But, I continued, after the uncomfortable pause, "You don't have to be Christian to do the right thing. Or to be a good person."

The rest of our brief conversation was awkward. It was as if the idea that a non-Christian could be a good person had rendered her mute.

Like too many people in our sadly fractured culture, she's stuck in an us-versus-them, if-you're-not-a-believer-you-can't-be-a-decent-human-being-let-alone-be-my friend mindset.

Son Chris Korbulic captured this "God" image in the California redwoods. Another beautiful photo by a thoughtful man whose spiritual well is filled by the natural world.

On the other hand, I know people, good people, most of them friends and family, who have little if any tolerance for Christians, especially evangelical ones. They want nothing to do with them and have all kinds of preconceived notions that evangelicals are ignorant, bigoted, uneducated narrow-minded saps.

How do I know?

I learned the hard way during my thirties when I was immersed for three years in an evangelical church, an episode that shocked and/or dismayed most of my friends and family members.  

The majority of my people stuck with me, but one couple distanced themselves from my Christian self and no longer included me (us) in their monthly group discussions/potlucks.

How did I stumble into Pentecostalism?

This glowing lenticular cloud near Mt. Whitney looks inhabited by a UFO with a giant LED beacon on top. God is there, too, I think. Shot in the Alabama Hills just outside Lone Pine, CA in 2015. The Alabama Hills are magical and can't help but inspire thoughts about the greater picture - the Universe and our place in it. And God's place.

First a quick personal faith history. I was raised in the Midwest in a strict Lutheran church. Getting all dressed up and attending Sunday services was just what my family did. I did not question. But I did not enjoy. Every service included reciting the Nicene Creed, singing mostly joyless hymns, and enduring droning sermons that were too long.

I abandoned what passed for faith soon after leaving home to attend college and didn't revisit it until I was 33 years old, a newspaper reporter, wife, and mother of a two-year-old. A cooperative childcare situation brought me into contact with evangelical Christianity, and I attended a service out of curiosity. What the hell were these people doing attending church three times a week?!

I was blown away at a Pentecostal hands-waving-in-the-air, speaking-in-tongues, being-slain-in the-spirit, foot-washing kind of church.  This was in the tiny town of Rogue River, Oregon, where I still live. This was not the dull and dusty church I'd experienced as a kid, but a worship experience that flowed with emotion and fervor. There was not a dull moment, and the openness of the congregants with one another dazzled me.

I attended this church for three years, participated in a pastor-led Bible study, which I found enormously interesting, and joined the choir. I studied the Bible in classes and on my own. After about a year, I finally went forward during a Sunday service to accept Jesus as my Lord and Savior.

Yes, I did that.

My come-to-Jesus moment elicited much excitement. People hugged and congratulated me. I was embarrassed by the undeserved attention. The pastor, however, was not impressed.

"You came forward" he acknowledged, as I was leaving the church. "But... do you believe?"

He guessed I didn't. He was right.

But I wanted to. So I continued to lift my hands and sing praises to God and to witness actions and interactions among the congregants that touched and astounded me.

I was stirred by Jesus. I ignored all the fierce, mean, judgemental jealous God stuff in the Old Testament and focused on Jesus's teachings.

He was harping always about love and forgiveness. Snippets of Bible verses: (Don't skip!)

• Love your neighbor as yourself.
• God hath not given us the spirit of fear - but of love.
• Love by serving one another.
• It is good not to do anything whereby thy brother stumbleth or is offended, or made weak.
• Love suffereth long, and is kind.
• Be ye kind, tenderhearted, forgiving one another.
• Let us not love in word only but in deed and faith.
• Forgive, be merciful. Let not mercy and truth forsake thee; Write them upon the table of thine heart.

Imagine what the world might be like if those professing to be Christian, as well as those who don't, took these teachings to heart.  I know many who are and do. I love my Christian friends.

On the other hand, my beloved friends who are NOT Christian? They are also kind, forgiving, generous, loving people.

Some, however, do have a blind spot when it comes to Christians, again, the evangelicals especially. I wish they would get over it. We're all trying to the right thing. Aren't we?

The Sierra Nevada mountains near Mt. Whitney as seen through the Mobius Arch
 in the Alabama Hills. God is there, all over the place.

So back there in the 1980s I was reading the Bible and thinking about Jesus and how I might be a better person.

Forgive. Love. Be kind. Write these words on the table of your heart, Jesus instructed.

I tried inscribing the ticker without worrying so much about whether Jesus was God. He did not need to be God for me to believe that being kinder, more forgiving and loving was an all-around good idea.

Then along came Jerry Falwell, Jim and Tammy Faye Baker, Pat Robertson, and other revolting and corrupt televangelists. Sleaze, fleas, and blasphemies.

They were as far removed from most of the Christians in my lively little church as teddy bears are from grizzlies.

But some locals had contracted the Moral Majority fever being spread in the 1980s by Falwell, an activist preacher.

Falwell founded the Moral Majority, which helped establish the Republican fundamentalist Christian right as a political force. The organization opposed civil rights, women's rights and gay rights among other things. Sound familiar?

During the Moral Majority's heyday, a traveling preacher came to deliver messages to young people in my community at the church I attended. Somehow, the church was packed, and many of the youth were whipped up by the traveling preacher's rhetoric. Dozens of young people came forward to accept Jesus as their savior, even after the preacher bellowed about the immoral nature of popular music.

The next night, at his exhortation, teens brought their sinful CDs to be tossed into a bonfire built for that purpose on the edge of the church parking lot.

Yes. It was an air-and-spirit-polluting music-burning night in Rogue River, OR.  No different from burning books.

I was disgusted. I couldn't jibe the words and deeds of the Moral Majority crowd with the love and caring I witnessed and received in church.

Now, nearly 40 years later, I still love deeply the friend whose example made me curious enough to attend church in the first place. I appreciate the structure for doing good that churches provide and the love wattage that can blaze through a congregation, for God and for one another. And maybe even us heathens.

I have no regrets that I spent nearly three years immersed in the evangelical world. Instead, I am grateful to have some insight.

But I wish that Christian leaders would stick to preaching and steer away from politicizing.  It can be done.

And I have to admit that I am perplexed that so many Christians appear to be Trump groupies. Seriously folks, what would Jesus do?

I can't picture Jesus in a red ball cap railing at the desperate and dispossessed at the US/Mexican border.

"God" is in the vibrant leaves, the clear rushing water, the pristine
  air on the Upper Rogue River. 

Most Thursdays during cold wet months, a handful from the local congregation, people I met all those years ago, can be found dispensing homemade soups, sandwiches and Christian love to the homeless in our community.

Like me, they're getting old now, and some have serious health issues. Still, they're making vats of soup, loaves of bread, hauling it all to a parking lot, setting up a shelter, unloading everything onto tables, and going all out to do what Jesus commanded:

Love your neighbor as yourself.

                    Love by serving one another. 

Let us not love in word only but in deed and faith.

That's what real Christians do.

And, by the way, what many good-hearted non-believers do as well.