Yard Sale Encounter Reveals Reality of Losing a Life Partner

Dear Readers. This post is a departure from my usual photo-heavy accounts of travel and everyday life. Instead, it is a look back to the 1980s when I was a 30-something reporter/columnist at southern Oregon's Grants Pass Daily Courier, an independent newspaper that is still publishing.

I wrote this column decades ago. Now I'm older than the widowed man who inspired it. Now I have friends who've lost their life partners and many others who are facing this inevitability. As are we all.

I found this yellowed clipping in a tucked-away "miscellaneous" folder. I was surprised that the younger me kinda got it about this time of life. The older me sure does. 

                                                                                   

This was an early weekly column of mine published in the newspaper.
 Later it was called Second Thoughts. 

I was driving between Rogue River and Gold Hill late in the afternoon last week, reveling in the richness of spring, when my car swung a quick left into a yard sale.


The drive led through high brush and opened onto a rough clearing. It was the kind of clearing that looks like the forest would gobble it up if your back was turned too long.

An older fella sat on a straight-backed chair at the edge of an unkempt yard. He tipped back in his chair to look me over as I stepped out of my VW van. 

The yard sale was disappointing. There wasn't much in the way of toys for my little boy, who was with me. No plaid wool shirt for my husband, no vintage clothing or kitchen gadgets for me.

The old man, however, was interesting. He followed us around the sale, offering a comment here and there. He seemed disoriented like it wasn't really his stuff at the yard sale. He seemed to feel a need to explain. 

"Ya, I've been alone now six months," he said. ""No need for all these things now. No one to answer to when I get up in the morning. No work and no wife." And he laughed a dry little laugh.

I poked around in the yard sale: a pressure cooker, polyester women's clothing, a few colored bottles, ashtrays, books.

My son spotted a tiny electric organ and wanted to try it.

"Oh, it's all full of dust," the man apologized. His light blue eyes were watery and bloodshot. His face was blustery. He spat tobacco and shuffled around, wanting to talk.

"My wife got this for me," he said, nodding toward the organ.
"Never did learn to play it."

Together we got the thing to work. It wheezed thin organ noise, but the sound was lost in the racket of a near-by mill and the roaring traffic on the I-5 corridor.

I fiddled with a lawn decoration, a donkey that kicked its heels when a propeller it was attached to was spun around.

"Wife got that for me," the man said. "Almost don't feel right selling it. She said I was a jackass and got that for me when I come home from a work trip," he said, a smile trying to happen. "It has real sentimental value."

The plastic donkey kicked up its heels while my little boy spun its propeller, oblivious to sentimental value, growing old or losing a life partner.

"I got a call in Alaska that she was sick," he said like he still could not believe it. "Six months later, she was gone."

"Cancer?" I asked. 

"Yes," he said and spat into the dust. 

"We had plans," he told me. "We were going to do so many things when we retired, but now all that is gone."

We spoke a bit about how nothing on this earth can be counted on to last. He told me of his plans to travel and, like the plastic donkey, kick up his heels.

"Maybe one day I'll settle down again," he mused, but it didn't seem like he was ready for any heel-kicking. 

"We pretty much got wiped out this last year," he said to no one in particular. "Hospital bills came to about $75,000 and not much covered by insurance. About wiped us out. About wiped me out," he amended.

His words leaked out in slow motion and hung around his head a while before disappearing into the woods. His trailer house squatted against a lush Oregon hillside. An old log structure sat incongruously nearby. The yard sale surrounded him.

"I'm selling everything," he said, sweeping a hand around. "Everything."

Together we looked at what represented everything in his life. Old boots, a folding cot, his wife's clothing, cracked dishes. The donkey yard decoration.

Another potential customer drove into the yard. A young man busted out of his pickup as if he was afraid somebody else would get the juicy bargains if he didn't get to them first.

"Well," I said, lamely. "Goodbye. And good luck in your travels."

The man did not respond but looked past me into the Rogue Valley's afternoon haze.

My empty words spiraled and fell flat into the dust. 

Do I want to die at 75?

 A friend urged me to drop into the splits in
 Ecuador when I was a mere 71. She thought
 I should make the photo my profile picture. I 
 was afraid it was too show-offy. Now I don't
 care. I will show off and do the splits. Any 
 time, anywhere. Just ask me.
            

The answer is hell NO. 
Do you?

Unless something hideous develops between now and my 75th birthday, which is in about 10 minutes, geezer time, I have no desire to check out.

Why am I chewing on this? It started with an article published in The Atlantic in October 2014 - the year I turned 70 - and written by the guy pictured below. His name is Ezekiel J. Emanuel.  (Click for an exhaustive Wikipedia profile. Despite his delusions, he is an impressive dude.) 

His thesis? Once you reach 75, you've surpassed your physical and cognitive peaks and it's all downhill from there, baby. Might as well kick back and wait to kick the bucket.

My gaping jaw fell as I read Emanuel's article. He's a brilliant guy, of course, but sometimes the smartest and most successful people have blind spots. He is an oncologist and bioethicist who suggests that medical intervention, except for palliative measures, are pretty much wasted on people 75 and older. I wonder if he shares this view with his elder patients, most of whom, he can't help but notice, want desperately to live.

When he reaches 75, the age at which his inevitable decline can be expected to begin in earnest, he claims he will not seek or accept medical care. Good luck with that. The photo of him was likely taken the year he turned 57  when his Atlantic article was published. I know so many people in their 70s and 80s who exude as much radiance as he does.

HIS ARTICLE 

After Emanuel's piece was published, The Atlantic was flooded with responses. It's no surprise that multitudes were outraged or incredulous, although some were in agreement with the author that clinging to life with the certainty of inevitable decline and death is a waste of healthcare resources and a bad way to end a good life.

The doctor explained that after age 75 he intends to stop all medical visits,  including preventive primary care and cancer screenings. If he develops cancer, heart disease or whatever, he will refuse to be treated and live out his remaining months or years accepting only palliative care.

I'm close enough to 75 to know that I am not going to do that. I will reach the Emanuel-age-of-impending-doom in mid-December this year and I will continue with annual physical exams, flu shots, and dermatology checks, the later every six months.

I had an ugly melanoma diagnosis a few years ago which required surgery and lymph node biopsies and introduced me to the Cancer Club. Getting clean pathology results post-surgery was a huge relief, but I'm still on the six-month check-up plan. I've had several lesions removed, one of which was pre-malignant. I can't imagine stopping those preventive screenings. 

I'm guessing that Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsberg wouldn't think much of Emanuel's idea either. Ginsberg, at 86, is currently being treated for yet another cancer. But she has a high purpose to save us from a lopsided Supreme Court and damned if she'll quit fighting for her life. And her country. 

Her cognitive abilities don't appear to have diminished and her life force is apparently vigorous. You've seen her workout routine, right? Challenging exercise makes a huge difference, as I have also learned.

Odd that I think of Justice Ginzburg as "old" when she's only 11 years my senior. Eleven years! I now know, as do others who've lived this long, that 11 years is insignificant as the time ball ricochets through the years, wrecking all semblance of personal control over its passage.

The lesson: the only time we have is this moment. Right now. And even while thinking about it, the moment has passed, and on it goes until...it doesn't. Or until, as our bioethicist suggests, we turn 75 and accept the inevitable. Time's up.

But then there are people like me and maybe you. The thing is, even though I am officially a geezer, I don't feel like one. I sometimes forget my age. I'm no longer denying but accepting, even embracing, my status as a healthy active elder.

At a recent music festival, for example, I was drawn to the exuberant crowd in front of the band and participated in joyful dancing with total strangers. I was the elder dancer, which is often the case. 

Afterward, a young woman threw her arms around my neck and said, "Will you please be my grandma?" 

That got my attention, then my gratitude. It was a great moment. 

I feel strong, energetic, and fortunate, not at all how I envisioned this time of life 50 or even 25 years ago. I never saw myself as a dancing grandma, but hey. Things could be worse. 

Conventional wisdom says that healthy aging depends on a healthy diet, social connections, physical activity, and having a purpose.

Gardening provides lots of weightlifting opportunities. 

If I have a purpose, it is to be kind, grow and share flowers and tomatoes, and whatever lessons I've learned. It is to keep my mate happy, be inspired by - and work to preserve - the natural world, dance often, create essays and images, cultivate existing friendships and make new ones. And watch, with a full heart, as our grandchildren disappear into young adults. 

Hula hooping at a music festival
in March 2019. 

My parents lived into their 90s. Mom was almost 99 and Dad, 93. Both died of "old age." Their final months were difficult. 

My sister and I  consider our parents' numbers and realize we may be facing serious longevity. We have talked about creating our own ' final solutions.'

I am not at all resigned to give it up at a healthy happy 75. But 90? 95? 10o? I don't know. 

What do I know? Not much. Like most humans, I submit to the sun and the moon cycles, the time of bountiful gardens and the winter's dormant days. The time of raising children then stepping back to see the grown-up progeny cultivating their own offspring. It is all good. 

I was in my late sixties when this photo was taken. We were on a Blues Cruise, supposedly swimming with sea turtles in warm water as waiters carrying trays of rum punch made the rounds in their swimsuits. This sort of thing still makes me happy.

Ten years from now? At 85? I might still be writing an occasional blog post, practicing yoga, hiking, gardening, dancing, and feeling grateful every day.

If, however, I'm afflicted with a terminal condition, I may lean toward Dr. Emanuel's nothing-but-palliative approach. I totally agree with his stance that taking every possible measure with elderly patients is a waste of resources and is even cruel. Since I live in Oregon, a Death with Dignity state, that option would be on the table. 


For now? I'm going for it. Life is short!

I saw my primary care doc recently for a quick check-up and advice about how to prepare for an adventure we're taking in December/January. I will turn 75 in Cusco, Peru. 

That will be after five days in the Amazon slogging around the jungle on the lookout for everything from macaws to jaguars. Then on to the Sacred Valley and Machu Picchu, where we expect, weather permitting, to climb the Machu Picchu Mountain and tour, with a guide, the most-visited UNESCO World Heritage site.


After that, we'll be in Colombia where our activities include whitewater rafting, trekking to an indigenous village, and taking on a "strenuous"  hike in the Andes for a grand view of mountains and the Pacific Ocean. 

Caving into multiple negatives about aging, I got skittish about whether I'm too old for the adventures this trip presents.  

I told my doc that I've had tweaks in my knees and also a hip that is sometimes bothersome. Will I be able to do all this stuff?  Should I back off on jumping in Zumba? Should I baby my knees? Should I take it easy? Should I sit out the difficult hiking at high altitude?

She did a quick hip X-ray that verified I have some bursitis and arthritis. But she also advised me to continue jumping, dancing, walking, biking, squats, yoga, and Pilates. All the hard stuff. 

"Continue doing all you do and don't stop!" she advised. 
"Go climb the mountains."

Ok then, doc. That's all I need to know.


EARLIER POSTS ABOUT AGING

Ditch the Hair Dye - plus an article about Working to Disarm Women's Anti-aging Demons 
I was into the Clairol bottle most of my adult life until PK persuaded me to stop. I'm glad I did. I like my white hair.

Camping with Gray-haired girlfriends - fun times outdoors  and moments of truth

Pauline - Is 90 the New 70?   In her early 90s when I met her, the first thing she wanted to tell me was how much men like sex. This is one of my favorite posts ever. Pauline is now 96 or 97 and still going strong.

Yoga - a Defense Against Aging - Yes, it is. Check it out. A post about a yoga class I've frequented for about 20 years. Lots of older people doing the splits and more!

Attitude and Aging - Lighten Up!  It matters how you think about getting older.

Sister's Aging Advice All Too True  I've changed my mind about what I wrote in this post a couple years ago. Rather than accepting my sister's aging angst and predictions, I'm attempting to persuade her to be more positive and proactive. 

Travel Tips for Geezers  Just go and don't worry about it.

G-Pa and G-ma Summer Camp 2019

Childhood passes all too quickly. 

We have only two grandkids and we don't see them often enough. They are ages 9 and 6. We miss them. We love them. Knowing how years flash by and children disappear into adults, we decided we needed to do something while they're still kids.

We reside six hours from Reno, where they live. When we see them there, we're usually squeezed into a short weekend. 
Once we recover from how much they've grown since our previous visit, we've hardly had time to get reacquainted.

Short of relocating to Reno, we decided in 2018 to try hosting an annual five-day G-pa and G-ma Camp. 

Here they are at ages 2 and 5. We did not consider hosting a camp then. It wore us out just to watch them!

But in 2018, Noah, then 8, ventured north solo to assess conditions and entertainment at our first camp. We passed his test. Hadley, then 5, hung behind in Reno, not quite ready to leave her parents. 

This year she made a personal growth decision and joined the party. Yay Hadley! 

G-pa PK drove to their Reno home and returned with both kids on a Monday afternoon. Camp started during the drive.

En route, they listened to NPR's Wow in the World podcasts.  They snacked. They also stopped for an hour at Burney Falls not far from Mt. Shasta. Great stop for anyone. They snacked.

The moment they arrived at our home camp, it was  GO time! It was also snack time, which continued throughout their waking hours for the entire time they were with us. 

Here we are now. And we're hungry. Almond flour bread and homegrown blueberries on the table. Noah consumed about a pint of blueberries daily. The Almond bread is grain-free, protein-rich and delicious. Kids can't tell it's healthy. With a little maple syrup and strawberries, they loved it. Recipe here, thanks to Erin at Well Plated blog.

A to-do list for short list of grandparent camp activities ends this post.

Here's what we did this year.

MONDAY
Exploring our 3.5 acres of orchard,  garden, and pasture created some happy moments. They discovered a ping pong table, new since they were here last November. They visited the miniature horses across the road, and the rescued horses around the corner. They ate.

Noah climbed apple trees as his father did.

They played in the hot tub every night.

Noah reads to Hadley at bedtime. One child sleeps in the bed, the other on the floor. Taking turns. So sweet. They are great companions. Such a gift. We were so impressed by Noah's care for his little sister.

TUESDAY

PK and I kept to our Tuesday schedule of classes (me) and machine workouts (him) at Club Northwest in Grants Pass and the kids spent two hours at the club's KidZone. 

The kids' KZ verdict: Fun!

We had lunch at Circle J in downtown Grants Pass, just a few steps from the Grants Pass Museum of Art where I'd signed them up for a kids' drawing workshop, the first of a summer series.

Two hours of drawing seems long, but both said they'd do it again. I wish they could! There's still time to sign kids up for additional classes.

Artist and museum employee, Kristen O'Neill, shows aspiring young artists paintings by master graphic artist M.C. Escher. Noah is all eyes and ears.

The class ended at 3 p.m. but one little student persisted.

WEDNESDAY

We started the day at the Wildlife Images Rehabilitation and Education Center, a popular community and tourism fixture that has made numerous improvements since we last visited a couple decades ago. 

They scampered forth eager to see black and

grizzly bears, a cougar, wolves, birds of prey

and many other rescued animals, incapable of

living in the wild. 

Afterward, I took them up a mile of our rural road to visit a friend who'd invited us to frolic a bit with her baby goats.

Entertaining kids doesn't have to be complicated.

Every creature was happy.

Next, we visited the thrift shop at the Rogue River Community Center.  This was not on the entertainment roster, but Noah hadn't packed long pants and the next day we would be touring the Oregon Caves.

The caves are a constant 44 degrees Fahrenheit. The kid needed long pants. The community thrift shop is in an old one-story house staffed by volunteers. Prices are very good.  

The thrift shop quickly became "entertainment."

Noah and Hadley searched the entire space, ferreting out a cardboard box filled with small items. mostly toys, priced at 50 cents each, and another box priced at 25 cents.

After an hour or so, I spent $13.50 on items such as a vintage Barbie doll, a fishing tackle box, a pair of shoes for Hadley (the blue ones above), and various and sundry items. 

No pants. But we were able to borrow some from a neighbor. 

A thrift shop visit will be part of the itinerary next year as grandparents camp continues. 

We'll carry on as long as they want, and we have the energy

Another adorable bedtime story scenario. Hadley loses a tooth during this time. See the envelope in her hand? It's a note to the tooth fairy requesting $20. I could have cried "inflation!" But the tooth fairy came through with the cash.

THURSDAY - Best Day Ever!

In the morning, PK took the kids to tour the Oregon Vortex, AKA the World Famous House of Mystery, the "famous circular area with its unique phenomena." It is notable that the kid on the left is taller than Noah, on the right, by several inches. Many other optical illusions can be experienced.

Then it was on to It's a Burl!, a not-to-be-missed-outrageous-local-color Southern Oregon art attraction. We were en route to mid-afternoon reservations to tour the Oregon Caves

Here they are at It's a Burl in Kerby, OR, an enchanting conglomeration of whimsical, fantastical wooden furniture and art pieces. Including four climbable treehouses. 

It's a Burl's outside tree houses are crack for kids, although they're as steep and rugged as they are irresistible, and adult supervision is recommended, especially for younger children.

PK keeps vigil below while I'm occupied above in
a tree house with Noah and Hadley.

I don't how many times over the decades we snubbed It's a Burl going to the Oregon coast and back. We dismissed it as a trashy tourist trap. We were so wrong!  If you're traveling Hwy. 99 between Grants Pass and the Oregon Coast, treat yourself to a visit. Kids love it as well as adults.

This is our Caves guide, Neil, a retired geologist who led a group of 11 on an educational and entertaining 90-minute tour of the Oregon Caves. Part scholar, part comedian he initiated selfies with everyone when the tour ended.

Noah loved the caves. Hadley was not as enthusiastic. She declined to be in the selfie.  I was unable to get any decent cave photos, but this site has em.

After the up-and-down caves tour, we took the somewhat longer route back to the parking lot that included an overlook of the Siskiyou Mountains and the Kalmiopsis Wilderness. 

Several trails start at the visitors'
center. Next time we'll plan more hiking.

The friendly Caves visitors' center offered coffee and hot chocolate, which we accepted with gratitude. Hot chocolate put the kids in the mood for a nap on the way home.

It was almost 7 p.m. when we got back to "camp." We took the easy way out for dinner and drove a mile to a super little Mexican restaurant, Taqueria La Guacamaya, in Rogue River. They list dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets and French fries on their Kid's Menu. Clean plates!

FRIDAY
Their parents will arrive mid-afternoon, and we didn't plan any morning excursions. So we made stuff.

Brother and sister love art projects. G-ma made a still life arrangement and both were happy with what they created. Then they helped  G-pa with preparations for an early afternoon fishing float in the wooden driftboat G-Pa built years ago.

This fuzzy photo is G-pa with kids in his driftboat preparing to put-in at the boat ramp in Rogue River after the fishing trip. Noah even caught a fish! The photo is a screenshot from a video taken by the kids' mom, Heather. She and our son, Quinn, surprised them at the boat ramp.

With parents' arrival and camp officially over, we reveled in having both of our sons and their loved ones with us for the next couple days.

Heather shows Hadley how to make a friendship bracelet.

Noah doesn't need a lot of help putting together a motorcycle, but Dad (Quinn) is there for him. 

Playing with sand, water, rocks, and sticks at a safe beach along the Rogue River entertains them for hours.

A challenging log accumulation task for a young man with only one supervisor.

Hadley has her own project.

• 

  Noah and Hadley at the center of our family. Chris on the left with Chelsea, Quinn with Heather, G-ma and G-pa. 

PARTIAL LIST OF WHAT TO DO WITH KIDS- ROGUE VALLEY SPECIFIC
*places we've been with g-kids

• Hike Waters Creek Interpretive Trail - near Grants Pass
• Hike to Rainie Falls - Along the Rogue River Trail from Grave Creek
• Hike, hike, hike. Trails are endless.
• Family Fun Center  - Central Point
• Riverside Park Spray Park - Grants Pass
• Mill Creek Falls hike with a stop for pie at Beckie's Cafe
• Kerbyville Museum 
• It's a Burl* - Selma/Kerby
• Crater Rock Museum* Central Point
• Grants Pass Museum of Art kids classes*
• Hellgate Jetboat ride - Grants Pass
• Touvelle Jetboat Ride
• Oregon Caves* Cave Junction, closest town
• Cole H.Rivers Fish Hatchery* - Prospect area
• Oregon Vortex* - near Gold Hill
• Science Works Museum - Ashland
• Railroad Park - Medford
• Cat Park - Cave Junction
• Glass Forge - Grants Pass
• Sanctuary One - animal rescue - Applegate Valley
• Rooster Crow in Rogue River *- last weekend in June
• Numerous community celebrations and festivals throughout the summer and fall.

WHAT TO DO WITH GRANDKIDS ANYWHERE

Playing with sand, water, rocks, and sticks entertains children for hours. Clean water and sand just about anywhere will do. As would swimming pools, public spray parks, and other water-play features.

• Arts and crafts such as tie-dying, rock painting, beading 
• Scavenger hunts 
• Cooking/baking with G-ma or G-pa 
• Construction projects
• Public library activities or just browsing
• Fishing, hiking, swimming, bike riding
• Visiting the Oregon Coast and/or Redwoods