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Monday, August 7, 2017

Marfa, Texas - A lesson in road-trip planning


Marfa, Texas, surprised us with a big ole dust storm and widespread fame.
We arrived in Marfa on our 10th day away from Oregon, having driven 240 miles that day from Las Cruces, NM. That doesn't seem like a lot of miles, but we'd had a rough morning hunting for yard art in Mesilla, NM. Fun! And then grocery shopping at Wal Mart for the next five days of van cooking. Definitely not fun, the shopping or the cooking.

Then, halfway to Marfa on Interstate 90, I discovered that we were within striking distance, with a half-day detour, to the McDonald Observatory. TripAdvisor confirmed it as a five-star attraction, and reports we heard later from travelers who'd managed more informed planning, said it was fantastic. I'd somehow missed it.

We had a timeframe that commanded obedience. And on we went. 

Next time.

We let go of the planning crisis as our son, Chris, called and we pulled off the road for a 30-minute conversation. He was about to embark on a 700-mile kayaking expedition into the Amazon basin. His  expedition ended with high drama that resulted later in the FBI showing up at our Oregon home

It's good to be clueless about some things in advance. When he's out of country, we're always grateful to hear from him. It makes trip-planning snafus meaningless. As it should.

I knew nada about Marfa, which turned out to be a Mecca for lovers of minimalist art. I include our illustrious RV park in that category. Minimalist. 
Our RV park. It even had tumbleweeds that rolled around during the wind storm.
With a population of just 2,000 Marfa is a national, if not international, art center. As such, it draws all kinds of quirkiness and plenty of star power. It even has an NPR station serving a "wide range." (We still listen to the Marfa station when programing on our local Jefferson Public Radio fails us, which isn't often.) 

Had we known that Marfa was a celebrity art town, perhaps we would have known to stop on Interstate 90 not far from city limits to gawk at the Prada installation. 
Oblivious, we bombed right past this roadside oddity in the West Texas desert, which is a minimalist art installation. Photo from the Internet.

Lesson, and note to self

If you book a camp or hotel in advance, at least take a look online to see what's there, even if there's practically no hope of anything fun or interesting, as was my mistaken opinion regarding Marfa.  A couple minutes on TripAdvisor would have had us hurrying to catch more daylight hours there, and perhaps built in a day to visit the McDonald Observatory.

Marfa revealed itself in stages during the late afternoon hours as we explored its wide tidy streets, slunk around a luxury art-and-fancy-guest-filled hotel, and strolled past closed art galleries and shops.

We were there fewer than 24 hours, but wish we'd had time to explore the art and other intriguing stuff. As it was, we were bombing along the highway by 7 a..m. the next morning to reach Big Bend National Park early enough to score a campsite, either in the  backcountry or  a campground.

Handmade stone church compares well with Marfa's water tower. 


What's the hurry? 

Why didn't we just chill and spend another day? Sadly, we'd violated a road-tripping rule by tying ourselves to a schedule anchored in reservations at a non refundbale Austin Airbnb and a date-specific commitment to friends in East Texas. (Later we were thankful for hurrying to East Texas for a most unusual and fun house concert/party and other great stuff with our hosts.)

Next road trip? If immutable plans must be made, such as for a music festival or wedding, at least build in unplanned days on either end just in case another McDonald Observatory or Marfa-type thing springs up.  

We're road -tripping. We're retired. We can hang a little bit looser. 

Earlier posts about Spring Road trip 2017

Arizona, a zone of its own

Joshua Tree National Park  



Sunday, October 6, 2019

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 Demon
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.






































































Tuesday, January 15, 2019

Getting by with Less is Good for the Spirit


A clotted sky above the Sea of Cortez, January 2019. Free to all for as long as it lasts.

PK and I are currently road-tripping on the Baja Peninsula, about halfway through a couple-months excursion in our cushy camper van. 


Shortly before we left our Southern Oregon home in mid-December 2018, I ran across a column I wrote in April 1985 when I was a 40-year-old reporter/photographer/columnist at the Grants Pass(OR), Daily Courier. 

In 1985 PK and I lived in a house built for us four years earlier. It was still very new to us, although we'd occupied a beat-up mobile home on the same property for eight years prior.

In April 1985 we had one child, Quinn, who was 7, with another about-to-be conceived, a son, Chris, who arrived in June 1986.

Our adult children long ago fledged and we have grown old, still living in the same home. 

And now, after all those years of working and raising kids and caring for an elderly parent, we are free to travel the world. Which we do. 

My 1985 column is about how we traveled before we had jobs, kids, or a care in the world. 

Unlike the photo-loaded blog posts I usually publish, this one has just one image. During the trip described below, I did not bring a camera; I couldn't afford film or developing. I had no money. Paul and I had known one another for just a couple months. 


From the 1985 column 

I live in a nice house. It's new and pretty and has lots of oak and tile and thick carpets. It has a washer and dryer and dishwasher and a color TV. Sometimes I sit in the reclining chair in the living room and admire my house.

But other times I sit in the same chair, eyes closed, and drift back 12 years to when we lived in a three-sided thatched hut on a beach on Mexico's Yucatan Peninsula.

We weren't there long, but the time was memorable both for what we had and what we didn't.

We rented our little stretch of perfect white sand beach for pennies a day. One morning I relaxed in my hammock tied between two palm trees and watched a long thick green serpent slither through our camp. I didn't care. It could live there too.

Iguanas sunned on rocks in front of our three-sided hut while the turquoise waters of the Caribbean lapped at their thorny claws. A coral reef was not far out and we snorkeled to it, observing the brilliant corals and tropical fishes.

Sometimes we'd get lucky and spear the tropical equivalent of lobsters and have ourselves a feast. Other times we'd eat the dried beans and lentils and canned meats we'd stocked up on.

Paul fashioned an oven out of an old peanut butter tin, and we burned dried coconut shells for heat. We made simple biscuits, cakes, and cookies.

We had no refrigeration, and except for the bottled water we bought at a not-too-distant village, we had no fresh water. We washed our clothes, our dishes, and ourselves in the turquoise sea.

Once a week or so we'd travel a couple miles to a cenote, where an underground stream surfaced from the limestone catacombs beneath the Yucatan peninsula. I remember the sweet fresh fragrance of the crystalline emerald water as we swam. Tiny silver fish flickering in the sunlight 20 feet below seemed unperturbed by our splashing.

Swimming in that small but unfathomable hidden jungle pool was a deep pleasure I will surely never forget.

Once our old 4WD Toyota Landcruiser got buried to the hubs in the sand. I'm sorry to say we pulled down a palm tree when we attached a winch to it trying to get out. There was no AAA, or anyone else, to come to our rescue.

We made do. We learned the truth of Thoreau's observation: A man is rich in proportion to the number of things he can do without.

And a woman, too, I might add.

No TV, no radio, no phone, (oh joy!) no newspapers, limited fresh water, limited diet, no washer, dryer, trash masher, vacuum cleaner, refrigerator, carpets, or air conditioner.

We got as much pleasure from solving our survival problems as we did from the natural beauty of our surroundings.

These days we recapture some of that simplicity when we go backpacking or rafting. We gladly leave our conveniences behind and make do for as many days as we can get away with what we can carry.

We need to reaffirm, somehow, that we can rely on ourselves and each other without all the luxuries and trappings of society.

Things are different for people born into poverty. They have no choice, no luxury of slipping back and forth between a world rich with material goods and an impoverished one where their children die of preventable diseases and malnutrition. Or endless wars.

But with our great wealth comes the choice. It isn't an easy choice.

Choosing to live with less, learning to simplify, certainly isn't the American dream.

A simpler less materialistic way of life would wreak havoc on the gross national product because our capitalistic society depends on us to be busy little consumers. 

Choosing to live with less would throw a wrench into the speeding reckless wheels of commerce.

What it might do for the human spirit, however, is another matter.


Postscript January 2019

OK. My younger self is talking to me, reminding me that I don't need anything.

Although this very day, in Mexico, I bought a pair of earrings and a colorful woven top. 

Clearly, I'm not ready to forgo everything superfluous to survival. 

But I intend to reexamine my relationship with Amazon Prime, which makes it way too easy to surrender to consumerism—and with all the energy-using shipping and waste-producing packaging. 

I'm so sick of styrofoam padding and air-filled plastic bags. Isn't everyone?

About 15 years ago I lived an entire year without buying anything new except for food and underwear. 

It's still January. I will make a NY resolution. 

I will buy nothing new until a year from today. 

I'll let you know how it goes January 15, 2020.

However, new landscapes and experiences will not be prohibited on the long road ahead.