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.

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.

Southern Oregon deep freeze— perfect for solar home

It's unusually COLD in southern Oregon and has been for several days. This morning was just 8 degrees F and now, close to 11 a.m. under blues skies and brilliant sun, it's still only 18. But the solar water panels on our roof have kicked in to heat the water circulating in the hot water tank to 100. Before long, it will will rise to around 150, as it did yesterday, and I'll throw a load of clothes into the washer and fire up the dishwasher. It'll also be time for a long hot shower because for the next 12 hours or so, we'll have free hot water. Thanks to our modest passive solar home, built in the early 1980's, we'll also have free heat as waves rise out of the simple solarium and sun streams through south-facing windows in a living room addition built in 1994. PK took pains all those years ago to include every energy-saving trick we could afford including:

• a clean-burning woodstove
• 10-inch thick insulation
• whole-house fan, which is primarily responsible for summer cooling
• ceiling fans
• double-door entrances
• a solarium that heats the house on cold sunny days, doubles as greenhouse in the spring, and serves as a winter clothes dryer
• orienting the house to face south
• double-paned woodframe windows

Everything still works, and summer or winter, nary a sunny day goes by without thanking our sun-smart 2.300 sq. ft. home—warm in the winter and cool in the summer for an average energy bill of around $100 a month, year-round. (In addition to a tiny woodstove in the living room, we use a natural gas stove in the center of the house for heating, and also cook with natural gas.) Next up, perhaps, solar-electric panels.

Nomad kayaking son ..... will I survive?

As I begin this post Nov. 18, son Chris, 23, is en route to India and perhaps Nepal, China and Tibet, on a two-month kayaking expedition. This is not "ordinary life" but it is his life. Here he is, my baby, 20 years ago dipping a paddle into the river for the first time. (That's his dad's vintage blue Dancer) And here he is a few years ago in a circling-the-drain Chilean waterfall. Actually, I"m not sure that's Chris. He and a Spanish kayaker explored this creek and took turns with the camera. Those days Chris was on his own with a hunger for adventure and a quiet determination to join an elite cadre of kayakers who travel the globe pursuing primo adventure and first descents. That's what he's doing now—primo adventure and first descents. And that's what he did in 2008 in Pakistan and Brazil, and in 2007 in Newfoundland and Chile. It's a ridiculous life. He toils for a few months to earn enough for life support and airline tickets, and then hops around the world with his kayak. It's not something that you envision, or can even imagine, for your child. But Chris is driven by an endless well of ambition and passion, so I go along, oscillating between pride and terror. Despite my fearful motherliness, I say, Go Chris!

Getting the low-carb religion—again

It's already in place. The 5-7 pounds I accumulate every winter has settled in. This bodes ill as mashed potatoes and gravy loom large on the holiday horizon—not to mention fudge, pecan pie, and the mincemeat treats my 92-year-old mother is, ummm, encouraging me to make. (When an elderly mother encourages, it is more like commanding. And so I will soon be making a mincemeat pie.)

My excess poundage has settled in the strange pocket front & center below my waist, an formation that my sister, who also grows one,  calls her dessert pouch. At least I still have a waist, a fact I don't take for granted. I remember my 20-year-old svelte self looking (down) at older women, who, I'm sure, were younger than I am now, and wondering why so many had protruding insect-like abdomens. Now there's an image I'd rather not apply to my own anatomy.