Living in Time of Pandemic Better With Gardening

Home and garden in July 2012. We've painted the house since then and stricken down the aggressive hop plant in the middle, but we expect our pandemic garden to look something like this.  

PK and I have inhabited the same 3.5 acres in Southern Oregon's Rogue Valley since the mid-1970s. That would be around 45 years, most of them as tillers of the soil. Never did the idea of experiencing a historic pandemic occur to me—to us—nor did we consider that gardening might someday become a smart survival strategy.

We may be headed in that direction now. We're not among the "survivalists" who migrated to Southern Oregon in the 1970s about the same time we did. The survivalists believed Southern Oregon was the safest place to escape radiation fallout should a nuclear war break out. 

Us? We landed in this spot serendipitously. No plan. No destination. Blown by the wind. But damn. When we hit the land it hooked us. Well, the land and having a baby. 

Remember those days? Hippies, including us, and many others, migrated to the rural West, sparking cultural clashes but ultimately melding with the locals to cultivate new lives in the new-to-us territory.

Now that a pandemic is poisoning the planet and rural lifestyles including small towns, farms and ranches, open spaces and wilderness all around must be looking pretty dang fine to people stuck in cities. If unemployed and anxious urban dwellers could swing it, my guess is that many would choose to relocate to where social distancing comes with the territory and a well-established gardening culture is in place.

Our neighborhood a mile outside the town of Rogue River shot from a mountain trail on the other side of the actual Rogue River. Our 3.5 acres is there someplace on the right.

We can't know for sure what'll happen next. But gardening benefits include that you can pretty much predict your food future and also your health, provided you eat fresh whatever you can, and preserve the rest. (We give away a lot of produce.)

A late summer harvest but where are the tomatoes?

Not that we've slipped into survival mode, but considering that Stephen King-like nightmares have disturbed my sleep through the years, I don't discount the possibility that our current globally shared shitty situation could devolve into pandemic pandemonium.

Yes. Rainbows over our garden. 

Back to the land.  Although I paint a rosy picture, usually, it is sad but true that PK and I have had an on/off-love/hate relationship with gardening for decades. Seeding, weeding, shoveling, spading, tilling, planting, fertilizing, watering, harvesting, and food preservation required by the big beautiful time-sucking rectangle in our backyard has been as much of a chore as it has been a cause for celebration.

And that's not even taking into consideration that when we bought the property, it was an orchard with 300+ apple trees! Now that was work! Most of which PK took on.

Most of the original apple trees were cleared to make pasture. We still have about a dozen producing trees, including this one which was bursting with blooms in April and is now loaded with fruit. For the first time in several years,  PK is tending the trees so we have organic apples to make sauce and butter and share with friends and neighbors. 

In fact, after excessive toiling with yet another too-much-of-everything garden in 2019, we determined to throw in the spade and skip the whole cultivation thing in 2020. No garden for us this year!

Instead, we decided to elongate the run of travel we've relished during the past decade. We'd been plotting a cross-country road trip in our sweet and spiffy Sprinter van. We'd roughed out a 3-4-month ramble that included music festivals, visits with family in Minnesota and New Jersey, a jaunt up to Newfoundland, and, as a grand finale, a flight across the pond for a European fall bicycle trip.

Of course, this trip is not going to happen. For sure not the flying-to-Europe part. I risk embarrassing myself even mentioning how the pandemic has upset our privileged lives of travel when so many are losing so much. We are fortunate and grateful to have choices.

We've chosen to switch gears. There's no ambivalence. Staying home is good, even if it's forced. Gardening is great, something that feels right and full of purpose. We never lack things to do. Days fly by. It's a privilege to have fertile land that we've worked through the decades, that rewards us with beauty and bounty, birds, and bees. Benevolence.

Cosmos volunteers return every year. Bees love them. Me too.

It's raining today but my gardening gusto hasn't dampened. Work-wise, springtime is almost as intense as the harvest season, but I'm glad to be out there digging in the dirt, inhaling the sweet scent of the soil that has been worked by PK and me innumerable times since 1974.


Can it be that I am finally rooted? I guess so.

Me with everything needed for spring planting in Oregon: a new pair of gardening gloves, a piece of dense foam for the knees, a raincoat, and a belief that ...
every little thing's gonna be all right. Bob Marley

Addendum

Oddly enough, I was primed for pandemic gardening during an intense volunteer trip to Guatemala in February. There I was inspired, even moved, by the extensive organic gardening, and other tasks, accomplished by indigenous Guatemalans, many of them teenagers at a remote mountaintop school named Maya Jaguar.* A post about my time there is in the works.

A master gardener, Pascual, oversees the school's
 organic gardening programs.

*The school is one of several efforts by the nonprofit Adopt-A-Village in Guatemala to lift Mayan youth from poverty and malnutrition through life-changing education. Graduates earn three certificates, one for completing academic studies, another for computer science proficiency, and a third for demonstrating competence at all phases of organic gardening. I love what I saw there. 


PREVIOUS GARDENING POSTS

Bye-bye garden, hello fun! 
A new take on marinara plus gardening ambivalence
Mid-June garden is messy but good!

How to do Machu Picchu and more

Dear Readers, Thanks for stopping by. I am a sporadic blogger and I appreciate your sticking with me. We've recently returned from five weeks in Peru and Colombia. Too many stories! But I will start with one of the best — Machu Picchu. Got a few minutes? 

A view from inside the citadel showing a small part of Machu Picchu...

... and a view from atop Machu Picchu Mountain, which we managed to climb. 

The truth is I didn't want to go to Machu Pichu. And neither did PK. Almost everybody has seen the iconic Machu Pichu photos, right? How much better can the place be in real-time?

A whole lot better, it turns out — it is among my most inspiring travel experiences ever.

Thanks to Steve Lambros, one of our two travel partners, for insisting that If we're going to Peru, I'm going to Machu Picchu! And so did we all. 

Our travel buddies Steve Lambros, Laurie Gerloff

on the train to Aguas Calientes/Machu Picchu.

During our trip planning, we learned about Machu Picchu's infamous crowds.  A World Heritage site, Machu Picchu is the most visited tourist destination in South America, and also at the top of the list for most beautiful places on the entire continent.  Guide books warn to order tickets far in advance and plan strategically to avoid hordes during high season.

Fortunately, we traveled to Peru during the low season, which often means rain. We got lucky. No rain and only a small crowd at Machu Picchu around 8:30 a.m., Dec. 13, 2019. 

When to go? According to a tour company's brochure:

The best months are late March, APRIL, May, and September, OCTOBER, November. During these months, Machu Picchu and the hiking trails that lead to it tend to be less crowded and with relatively good weather.

Note that June, July, and August - peak season with tons of tourists - are not recommended, and neither are December, January, and February - rainy season. 

Had it been raining on our Machu Picchu day, we would have been stuck with it as our arrangements had been made well in advance.

The thing is, you don't just say, on a lark, "Oh! It's a beautiful day! Let's go to Machu Picchu!" And there you are, dropped off at the gate. You can't take a direct flight, or direct anything, to Machu Picchu except for the short bus ride from Aguas Calientes that does stop at the gate. At the very least, once in Peru, a train and a bus are involved, and for hardy souls, two or four days of hiking the Inca Trail.

Machu Picchu tourists most often must find their way from Cusco, and that journey is worth noting. Machu Picchu is part of the storied Sacred Valley, as is the ancient city of Ollantaytambo, where tourists hop on a train to get to the most famous of all Inca ruins.

The Ollantaytambo train station is a marvel of efficiency with two final destinations: Aguas Calientes, a gateway to Machu Picchu, or, going the other direction, Cusco.

We hired a van to tote us 45 miles from Cusco to Ollantaytambo, in itself a tourist destination. Even without Machu Picchu being an hour and a half up the train tracks, this town's own grand archeological site and the ancient city's Inca-era grid of cobblestone streets and Inca-style walls and buildings would still draw and awe crowds.

This is the door to someone's home. See the modern 422 address? The larger smooth stones were likely placed by the Incas. The smaller stones held together with mortar were likely not. 

Our Machu Picchu guide said that visiting during the rainy season is
advantageous because one can observe the clever drainage system.
Stone gutters go for blocks uncovered, then disappear and reappear all 
the way to the mighty Urubamba River. 

We scored a great hotel with a balcony overlooking the scene pictured below. Altogether, we spent nearly a week in Ollantaytambo, and it took that long to figure out how to pronounce the name. 

The Ollantaytambo Archeological Park as viewed from across the valley. This site, the town itself, and Machu Picchu are all part of Peru's incredible Sacred Valley.

Typical indigenous dress and a typical tourist look.

Next, we caught the train to Aguas Calientes, a 1.5-hour ride away, and the next morning, a shuttle bus from Aguas Calientes to Machu Picchu.

This is the rip-roaring Urubamba River, which the train to Aguas Calientes follows the entire distance. It is a breathtaking river studded with Class 5 and 6 rapids and waterfalls. If you go, try to get a seat on the "river" side of the train. The river can be seen from numerous vantage points from Machu Picchu  Mountain. 

We stayed overnight in Aguas Calientes, just a short bus ride from Machu Picchu, so we could enter around 8 a.m. and begin climbing Machu Picchu Mountain by 9 a.m.

When you buy your MP ticket, you must select an entry time and a time to climb either MP Mountain or Huayna Picchu, if you choose to climb either. Huayna Picchu is the peak that appears behind the Inca City in the classic postcard photo of Machu Picchu.

But wait. What about Aguas Calientes? Everyone who visits Machu Picchu must pass through this town, which you can't drive to. The town has capitalized on its captive audience with remarkable public art and numerous hotels and restaurants.  If you visit Machu Picchu, staying the night before in Aguas Calientes makes good sense.

The hot springs for which the town is named are walking distance from
 the train station and downtown.

Back to Machu Picchu Mountain - The Climb Begins

We registered at the trailhead soon after 8 a.m. and started up after we decided to climb first, tour the citadel later. Four hours is the average time required to get up and down the mountain.

We began at 8,000 feet elevation and ended at 10,042 ft. after 1.5 miles. Whew! Fortunately, we were acclimated from having been at high elevation for several days. But still. We were huffing and puffing all the way.

The trail is advertised as being suitable for older people and children. We didn't see any children, and we were by far the oldest people. In all, we may have seen 20 others during our four hours on the trail. Most appeared to be in their 20s or 30s.  It is so weird to always be among the oldest people. We're grateful to be ambulatory and even, dare I say, fit.

Yes, the trail is super steep and rocky.

Every now and then, a person must stop and rest.

Huayna Picchu, the other mountain trail, is shorter and steeper but requires less time. However, people with vertigo or fear of heights were cautioned, and children under 12 are not allowed.

Although the Machu Picchu Mountain trail was in great condition, it was a series of steep rock steps of varying heights. 

Climbing the mountain required eager lungs, a stout willing heart, stalwart legs, bulletproof knees, and a clear brain focused on the task at hand, not straying toward sanity issues. 

So beautiful. So steep. Don't fall.

PK and I were grateful for the steep hills we'd forced ourselves to hike near our Oregon home in preparation. Little did we know at Machu Picchu that the MP Mountain was easy compared with another hike coming at us in a few weeks. Worst hike ever. Later. 

Not exactly the view Steve was hoping for when he reached the top of Machu Picchu Mountain, but the mists disappeared quickly.

A few moments later....clouds are on their way out. So amazing.

I love this photo of Laurie taking her last few steps to the summit

It almost hurts to take in all this beauty. A view from the mountain trail

                    
                                     What goes up must come down.

Laurie always uses a hiking pole. Me too. 

Descending was almost as challenging as climbing. I would have been helpless without a hiking pole. Yet hiking poles were not allowed except for "older people." (See below all the objects and behaviors that are forbidden.) I passed a young woman on the descent who was clinging to her partner, covetous of my stick. The reason for the rule? Hiking sticks with metal tips may damage features of the ruins. Rubber-tipped sticks are permitted for older people. We'll take it.

Every view change is gasp-worthy.  It isn't just the citadel, but the river and the mountains. If you can go, do.

Machu Picchu Rules

I love most of the Machu Pichu regulations. My absolute fave is that selfie sticks are not allowed. I loathe selfie sticks and their tendency to create self-absorbed people. I can't count the times during the past few years of travel that selfie-stick-users have ruined otherwise fabulous scenery. They're so oblivious. Who could possibly be interested in their photos when their faces are front and center in every single one?

More Machu Picchu rules, and the entire list:

• No general tumult. (The actual word used.) 
• No running or jumping
• No climbing or leaning on features.
• No weapons
• No tripods. This is a tough one, but tripods take a lot of space and time when both are limited.
• No high heels. Duh.
• No obscene acts inappropriate in a public place and that threaten morals and good manners such as undressing, disguising, lying down, or running. They're really against running.

Our guide, Fran, was excited telling us the Machu Picchu story.

Seeing Machu Picchu with a Guide - It's a Rule

If you want to explore this stunning and surprising place, you must hire a guide. We did not need a guide to climb the mountain, however.

Numerous accredited guides hang out near the entry. We happily paid $20 a person for a couple hours of guide services, then provided a generous tip because having a guide increases comprehension and enjoyment immeasurably. Plus it undoubtedly saves the site from people who'd love to chip off chunks of Inca genius.  Evidence of genius is everywhere at Machu Picchu.

The Incas were dialed into the stars, earth, rivers and all of nature. Their astronomical knowledge, agricultural skills, and engineering expertise continue to wow visitors and scientists. 

This wall seems ordinary, right? It is ordinary in Machu Pichu and other Inca ruins, but not elsewhere. Each rock is polished and shaped to fit perfectly with surrounding rocks. A credit card isn't thin enough to slip between the junctures. Even more amazing, the citadel withstood a 6.5 earthquake in the mid-1400s as described in this National Geographic article. Also, a great deal of engineering is in the foundation which extends deep below ground.

By contrast, our guide said, this wall was erected as part of restoration sometime after Machu Pichu was "discovered"  in 1911 by a Yale archeologist, Hiram Bigham. You could put all your credit cards in the cracks and never see them again.

What the heck is this? Note that the small rock "column" remains after the stone it was carved from has mostly disappeared. But why? Our guide couldn't wait to tell us.

The detail carved into rocks on either side of a door anchored the gate. This is just one little tiny thing in a vast outdoor museum of wonders.

I could go on about the Incas, but instead, I will leave you with images of beautiful things that renew each season.

FLOWERS ALONG THE
MACHU PICCHU MOUNTAIN TRAIL

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.