I Remember When

Age has been on my mind a lot lately.  I have an aunt who just turned 97, my mother will be 92 on Monday and I am facing the big seven-oooh in a couple of months. 

Every day in almost every way I am reminded I’m getting old.  There are the aches and pains that suddenly appear without warning, each haircut shows more thinning, the new wrinkle that was not there last time I washed my face. How Hubby and I spend more time each year visiting the doctors building.  Where did all these good, not so good and downright bad days come from?

 We are starting to feel guilty about the number of times lately we have canceled some event at the last minute because one of us was not feeling well enough to attend. Lately, we hesitate accepting an invitation to anything for fear it will fall on one of our bad days.

The biggest reminders of how much time has passed is all the stuff in the media, on facebook and the young people in our lives going on about something that never existed in our youth and has now been around for thirty, forty or even fifty years.  So let's talk about some of the things that make me feel old.

….my parent brought home our first television ---- it was in a mahogany cabinet with a “ 14-inch screen.” was black and white and a person had to actually get up and cross the room to change the sound or channel.  

.... the day our first telephone was installed.  It sat on a small table in the hallway so everyone could use it and yes, it had a dial hence the term “Dial Tone.”  It was also on a party line so half the neighborhood could listen in and you knew if the call was for you by the number of long and short rings it made.  

....I was twelve in 1958 when the first McDonalds opened in st. Louis.  It had a  walk up window and you ate in your car.  I was in high school before I ever got to actually sample any of their products.  

....we would go through not just days but weeks or even months without taking a single photo of anything.  Cameras were for special occasions only.  

       .... all of us kids (in my Elementary school) were sent home for lunch and Mom often had a bowl of hot soup waiting.  Everybody walked, even when the weather was bad and feared the Nun's wrath if we were late getting back.

       .... most of the adult women I knew did not know how to drive.

       .... music came from the radio or a record player.  The 8-track player, walkman, and i-pod were all still a seed in the inventors dreams.  

       ....  produce was kept in a fruit cellar dug underground and the meat was in the smoke house out by the barn. And, the city folks kept their food stored in an ice box-- with real blocks of ice delivered to the house in ice trucks.

       ... we hung out at the Woolworth’s soda fountain.

       .... we played with tinker toys, hula hoops, and hopscotch.

       ....we watched Art Linkletter,  Howdy Doody,  American Bandstand, Make room for Daddy, and Gunsmoke.

       .... the DOS based computer on my desk at work.
       .... the countless vacations to far away places using only a paper map picked up at the gas station for directions. 

Heck, I'm so old I remember when Spam was something you fried for a sandwich.  I also remember we had to leave the room when adults wanted to visit. We had to wait to speak until we were given permission. 

I remember we had clothes for every occasion (church, school and play) and you didn't dare go out to play in the wrong ones. Also, girls were not allowed to wear pants to church or school and shorts were only worn by boys. 

   

But, mostly I remember running out the door after breakfast and not having to be home until suppertime.  Every kid you knew left the house with all the items they might need that day. When we lived in town you would see baseball mitts hanging from the handlebars of bicycles and baskets with baseballs, roller skates, and Barbie dolls cases.  We never missed picking up the castoff pop bottles we found because if we were lucky we might have enough to redeem for a Slowpoke, Tootsie Roll or ice cream cone.    When we moved to the country, roller skates disappeared and the boys carried fishing poles and BB guns.  I remember picking cherries and apples from the trees or tomatoes from the vines for lunch and curling up on a blanket in a den created under the lilac bushes to read Nancy Drew books, or carving rings from peach seeds, or weaving pot holders.  

One thing I have learned is that while the gadgets, toys or events may change people not so much.  I remember hearing my parents and grandparents making these same kinds of lists.  Back then it might have been airplanes, automobiles, or vacuum cleaners on their list but they marked getting old by how the world changed and the actors, statesmen and events that came and went in their lifetime. 

How about you?  

Longevity, Hope and Inspiration

One summer when I was ten my Mother had me making and selling pot holders door to door around our small town. There was a lady who lived several houses down from us whose door I had avoided for most of that summer.  Finally, one day I got up the nerve to knock on that door.  The old lady who lived there had the reputation among the neighborhood kids of being a descendent of the “wicked witch” that chased after Hansel and Gretel. 

I will admit that I found everything about Mrs. Kelly and her home to have an other worldly sense about it.  She lived in a small three room house with a weathered picket fence and several outbuildings. Neither the buildings or the fence had seen a coat of paint in decades. The yard was overgrown with all types of unusual plants some of which appeared to have dried up years before but always came back to life each spring. Mrs. Kelly and I formed a bond that first meeting, and from then on I would drop by as often as I could manage. She must have been in her late eighties at the time but I don’t recall ever asking her age. Mrs. Kelly’s house was dark, and had a strange smell that I could never completely identify. A combination of wood smoke, coal oil, the dried herbs hanging in bundles from the kitchen ceiling, furniture polish, rheumatism medicine  were just a few. The front room was very formal and had large chairs that felt like they were made from some type of coarse animal hair. The drapes were dark and heavy. Years later I learned they were made of a brocaded velvet. Everything in the house was old and worn but it all had a well scrubbed and polished look about it. 

This is not Mrs. Kelly.
Taken from The Spirit of Ireland by Lynn Doyle
Published by B.T Batsford Ltd in 1935

A large coal oil lamp hung from the ceiling of the kitchen and there was an old iron stove against one wall used for both heating and cooking. Beside the stove a much dented cooper pot held big chunks of coal and an old trunk, missing the top, was full of logs. The table was always covered with a stiff pressed linen cloth and there was a small loom in the corner that I learned was used for tatting lace. Mrs. Kelly was a short, thin lady who spoke with a thick brogue and wore thread-bare cotton dresses with a knitted shawl around her shoulders. The corners of the shawl crisscrossed her chest and were tucked into an ankle length apron at her waist. The dingy apron, securely tied at her waist, was used for everything from securing her shawl, carrying vegetables and flowers from her garden, to taking hot pots off the stove. Her snow white hair was in a long braid down her back or occasionally coiled in a crown around her head. 

She had lived in her little ramshackle house since long before the area was incorporated into the town and before all the modern post war housing developments had built up around her. She continued to live on her little piece of ground the way she had since she was a new bride more than sixty years earlier. Since we were living in the middle of town in the 1950’s, she was considered to be an eccentric for choosing not to have electric service in her home.  Her only concession to the modern times was a cast iron hand pump beside her kitchen sink.  All I ever saw of her bedroom was the stack of handmade quilts that peeked through the crack of her door.

Mrs. Kelly was constantly shooing off the kids that wanted to take a short cut through her garden, pick the flowers along her fence, toss rocks at the cutout moon on her privy or chase her chickens; so she developed the reputation of being a wicked old witch. 

She and her house were certainly different. But, the woman that I got to know just wanted to be left alone to live life on her own terms. She seldom left her place but never seemed to need anything from anyone either.  To me she was a warm, friendly, lonely old lady who liked to serve tea from a cracked ironstone pot covered with a quilted rooster she called a cozy. We had honey in our tea and little sandwiches she made from thin slices of home baked bread with the crust cut off. She told me stories about growing up poor in Ireland and what it was like to come here as a immigrant . She talked about her dead husband and the babies she lost and the children she outlived. She showed me how she made the tatted lace she sold to a bridal shop in New York City. But, mostly she just reminisced and I listened. 

Mrs. Kelly was the first of several women like her to come into my life over the years. These were women who managed to live to a very old age and remain in good health. Active, quick witted, sharp tongued women who faced life without flinching. Most grew up dirt poor, worked hard and learned early how to be creative at making do. 

What an inspiration these ladies have been in my life. I just hope I inherit their longevity and hope I can hold on to a fraction of their energy and creativity.   

Rules for a Knight

I stumbled across this book during a recent visit to the bookstore.  Frankly, the only reason I bought it was because of the Title.  Since my maiden name is Knight I felt it would be a great coffee table conversation piece.  

A few days after purchasing this book we went on the long drive from Missouri to Alabama to celebrate my Aunt's 97th birthday.   We like to fill the hours on the road by reading to each other.  It makes a dent in the books stacking up on our night stands and inspires conversation alone the way.  

I'll confess hubby wasn't very excited about the book once he realized it was written by the actor and writer Ethan Hawkes for preteens.   I admit that I had no idea who Ethan Hawkes was so I had to do some research on him and his book.  After that I couldn't wait to read it.  Once we got into reading the book we realized it was a book that should be shared with every family with children.  
It teaches through tales of being a Knight all the things that children of our generation  learned from family, teachers and the daily trials of growing up.  

There are 20 Rules For a Knight: 1. Solitude; 2. Humility; 3. Gratitude; 4. Pride; 5. Cooperation; 6. Friendship; 7. Forgiveness; 8. Honesty; 9. Courage; 10. Grace; 11. Patience; 12. Justice; 13. Generosity; 14. Discipline; 15. Dedication; 16. Speech; 17. Faith; 18. Equality; 19. Love; 20. Death. 

 It seems that so many of these twenty rules   have become lost in the busy life of today's parents and children and I believe we need more books like this one.  Heck, if I could afford it I would send one to each of the thirty-five households in my immediate family. 

Should you decide to give this book a try do shop for the best price.  I got my copy at Barnes and Nobel for $18.00 but later found it for $12.73 on Amazon and even less on Ebay.  

In the “Editor’s Note," Hawke explains that the book is his own reconstruction and interpretation of a professor’s literal translation (from Cornish) of a badly damaged letter, purportedly written by a 15th-century knight and Hawke ancestor to his children on the eve of his death in a historical battle, found in the Hawkes’ family farm basement in the early 1970s. Hawke clearly states that the authenticity of the letter has not been conclusively established and that, where he struggled to convey the knight’s thoughts, he borrowed from the writings and expressions of other “knights”, most of whom are 19th- and 20th-century authors, thinkers, leaders, and artists: Emily Dickinson, Dwight D. Eisenhower, Bob Dylan, Victor Hugo, Vince Lombardi, Nelson Mandela, Thich Nhat Hanh, Anais Nin, River Phoenix, and Mother Teresa, to name just a few. So the book makes no claim to originality or exclusivity.

Since I have been discussing Rules.  This showed up on my Facebook and hit home for me.  Rules number 3, 8,9 and 10 are certainly something I need to work on and part of the reason I decided to get back to blogging.  

Back in January of 2014 I did a post where I announce I was trying to write a book about the weirdness that is my life.  For those who expressed interest  it is still a work in progress.  Emotionally I can only handle writing it in small doses.  Plus, I have changed the format several times which meant starting over.  Not being very computer savvy I even lost the file for a while before realizing I needed an external hard drive to save it too.  Will keep you posted.  

Old Age is not for Sissies

Back in 1989 Art Linkletter published his book "OLDAGE IS NOT FOR SISSIES."  Back in 2007 (year hubby and I were married) my new husband introduced my then 82 year old mother to the phrase.  Since then it has become one of her favorites and she must use it several time a day.   Now everyone in my family quotes it. Everyone but me that is--------- until now.  I am finally starting to understand the real meaning behind this expression, and yes I have to agree old age is not for sissies.

It has been sixteen months since my last post.  I'll spare you the details of our merry-go-round of medical adventures, but it can all be summed up with the following;  In the month of October we had twenty-eight doctors appointments and one major surgery between my Mother, hubby and me.  While, October was excessive, not a week has gone by in the last sixteen months without at least one of us having to visit the medical building for something.

In addition to the usual holiday chores December required us to make a week long trip south so my mother could spend some time with her family to celebrate her sisters 97th birthday.  While this was a stressful time for us it was also marked with some unforgettable moments.   One being, watching these 90 and 97 year old sisters snuggling up in bed together swapping stories and giggling like school girls at a sleepover.

All the events of the last year have convinced me that I have to make a change in my life.  I have had all I can stand of being either the bored stiff patient, or the run ragged caregiver collapsing from loss of energy.  It is time I reclaimed some of my past life and make time for things that excite and energize me.  So I am starting by trying to blog again.

I will not gaurantee that I will be able to get out and about enough to find fresh fodder for my post, so you may get bored with me and want to move on.  But, I will do my best.  Hope you will get back in the habit of stopping by.  If you like what you see then please spread the word so that I can rebuild my following.

Mea Culpa's

I’m starting to wonder if all my chemo has warped my mind.  I admit I am a glass half full kind of gal. I also like things done a certain way. Actually, it’s more than like; I need to have things done a certain way. Some folks I know wouldn’t hesitate to say “a place for everything and everything in its place” is my mantra. I also like all the proper social rules followed when it comes to doing things for others.

But, lately, I seem to be continually crossing the line when it comes to my expectations of others actions.  Last night there was a huge row at our house and it was entirely my fault. I’m afraid I gave my poor hubby “nine kinds of hell” because I disagreed with how he chose to sign a birthday card, of all things.

Sweetie, I know I’m terrible at admitting fault and saying “I’m Sorry” so please accept this very public apology.  You had every reason to be upset. 

(Well, it wasn’t entirely your fault, Love. If I am so full of wisdom at my advanced age, why didn’t I just sign the darn thing and be done with it. Then, there is that law of nature that women must have the last word.  Usually, I am fine with it but last night I went where no rational man ever goes and tried to have that last word myself.  I should have known I was flying directly in the face of nature and a tradition going back, at least, to the Stone Age. As long as we don’t go to bed mad and you still don’t complain about my cold feet, we are fine.)

   

New Adventure

I started my first blog in 2005 when I was single.  That led to a new blog once I married.  After my husband presented me with a very nice digital camera I started a photo blog so I could share my work.  I was sailing along, marveling that there were people out there who actually wanted to follow me,  Then cancer happened.  For a long time I  couldn't find the energy to continue posting and once the desire returned I found the things I had been posting had become too saccharin for the new me.  Plus, my continuing health problems stopped me from seeking photo opts and story ideas like I once did.

The fact is,  facing a possible death sentence changes how you see and think about yourself and the world around you.   While I have always been outspoken. I was careful to not put anything into print that would embarrass or offend the people I come into daily contact with. My new view of this world formed from 60 plus years of struggling, coping, picking up the pieces and starting over is not as sunny as I tried to make it before I got sick.

I have no idea where this will go,  I just know I need something that will stir my creative juices while allowing me to occasionally vent my frustrations with the changes that old age is forcing into my life.   

I hope that whatever the results of this new effort turn out to be, it will be something you can relate to and hopefully enjoy enough to want to pop around occasionally for a visit.