The Grandma

Many of us remember her from our childhood - that older woman who lived on our street who knew the names of all of the neighborhood kids. She may have baked cookies and handed them out now and then (back in the days before we had to forbid our children to take anything from anyone). She may have taken time to sit and listen to a child rattle on about a whole lot of not very much. Perhaps she had a little dog and would stop so you could pet it when she was out for a walk. She was nice, but she wouldn't hesitate to scold anyone who misbehaved, either.

Remember her? She was the Neighborhood Grandma.

I remember Mrs. Montgomery who lived across the street from us in a brick house. I am not sure how old she was, or if she was a grandma or a mother at all. She was my mom's friend and had known me my whole life. When I was twelve years and we moved away, she gave me a red wallet with the name of my hometown written on it.

Next door to Mrs. Montgomery, lived Mrs. Small. Mrs. Small also lived in a house made of bricks, but it was smaller than Mrs. Montomery's. Oddly enough, in my mind Mrs. Small herself was of a more diminutive stature than her neighbor as well. Hmmm.

It warms me to think of these grandmother-type women who knew me from the time I was born and who, in my mind, assumed the title of Neighborhood Grandma. I am sure that having these woman in the periphery of my life contributed to the sense of security and safety I felt in my neighborhood at all times.

This afternoon after work, I was out in the yard enjoying the unseasonably warm weather. I had geraniums to take out (we winter them), tulip and daffodil bulbs to plant, and winter pansies to put in the ground. They continue to warn us about a harsh winter ahead, but I am not thinking that far ahead. I'm enjoying the here and now.

After I got all of my gardening tools out, I set up the pen for Yorkies so they could enjoy the sunshine with me. No sooner had I deposited the dogs in the pen with a treat and one of their favorite chews, than a batch of children ran over to pet the dogs. One little one in particular caught my attention and made me smile.

Her name is Piper and she lives with her mommy and daddy and older siblings across the street from us. I have known her since she was born too. She's a sweet little one, just a touch older than my grandchildren, with a soft heart for my dogs.

Her mommy followed her across the street and we chatted while I showed Piper how to gently pet the dogs. Eventually, it was time for her to go home and as they walked back across the street I heard snippets of their conversation.

"The grandma let me pet her puppies!" said Piper.

The grandma! Oh I had to smile when I heard her say that!

And I thought, not for the first time, that I think Gerry and I are the oldest couple on the block. We are the neighborhood grandparents!  With this realization comes responsibility. I am going to have to make sure I learn the names of all the children on the street, and which house they belong to. I may even have to start baking cookies again!

The thought that one of these little ones might remember me as their Neighborhood Grandma one day made me smile. Life is like that, isn't it?

Circles within circles like ripples on a pond.

Feels Soy Good

It's interesting that when I was diagnosed with high cholesterol I made a less-than-half-hearted (and unsuccessful) attempt to control it with diet and exercise but when Gerry was diagnosed with high cholesterol a few months ago I got down to the serious business of paying close attention to what we eat. (Why I didn't pay attention when it was only me affected is likely the subject for another blog post one day.)

One of the changes we made is to switch from cows milk to soy milk. I don't drink milk per se, but I do like my lattes and prefer them with half coffee and half milk (heavy on the milk), and I use milk on my Bran Buds (another concession to aging) in the morning. I've also been turning more toward a vegetarian diet and enjoy a healthy sprinkling of diced tofu on my daily salads.

Physically I have been feeling good since making these small changes but one day a few weeks ago something odd happened. I was walking down the hall at work one afternoon and it was as if the curtains of my mind were thrown open and my thinking was crystal clear. Now, I know this may sound strange for those who have never experienced mid-life brain fog like I have for a few years, but the sudden change in perception was so strong that I had to call Gerry and tell him about it.

I've been enjoying this clarity and attribute it to the switch to soy. It's been such a pronounced change that it's been easy for me to stick to my small lunch salads, miniscule dinner portions, and just one (very large) soy latter per day. I feel like "me" again.

So why is it that when stress comes, as it always does at this busiest time of year at work, I revert back to craving pasta and parmesan cheese for dinner? Two nights this week of a bowl of pasta comfort and I can feel the difference.

So now I find myself in a quandry. Do I choose healthy eating and feel like I can conquer anything, or put my jammies on and dive into a bowl of pasta at the end of a tough day?

Shoot.

Yoga

A short time ago I started a simple yoga stretching routine in the morning. Yoga, I thought, something slow and simple like that I can handle. I was looking for something that would stretch my aching body, help with pain management and perhaps provide some relaxation and stress relief at the same time. Low impact, slow, nothing that I could injure myself at, right? Wrong!

I've pulled a muscle or something and now I am hobbling around like an old woman. Every time I stand up, with each step I take, I am in more pain than I was before I started. I am not even sure what exactly I did to cause this, but I've pulled something somewhere somehow.

But I do enjoy putting my yoga outfit on each morning, rolling out my yoga mat, and setting out my yoga block and strap, and putting on my yoga DVD. I can even talk myself into believing that I am doing somthing that will benefit me in the long run.

Gotta love this aging thing.

Mother's Hands

I have worn contact lenses since I was a teenager and few years ago I got reading glasses to wear over my contacts for seeing things close up. 

First thing in the morning when my eyes are naked, so to speak, without the benefit of a corrective lens of any kind I see some things clearest of all and sometimes what I see startles me. Like the other morning when I saw my hands and realized that they are no longer the hands of a young woman.

At first I was somewhat dismayed to find that my hands have aged along with the rest of my body. Fine lines crisscross the back at all angles; flesh that was once taut and firm is now softer and lies in soft folds at the base of my fingers; a bluish vein snakes a prominent path from one side to the other.

I recognized the hands as those of my mother. Mom was almost exactly four years older than I am today when she passed away. It has been twenty-five years since I saw her, I barely recall what her voice sounded like, yet I recognized her hands when I saw them that morning.

They were the hands that fed me, bathed me, caressed me, played with me, and even occasionally spanked me. They were the hands that cooked for our family, cleaned our home, painted our walls, mowed our lawn, and planted gladiola bulbs in the spring. They were the hands that made crumb cake, banana bread, peanut butter cookies, and heavy brandy-soaked Christmas cake. They were the hands that sewed dresses and knit mittens and scarves. They were the hands that poured peroxide on my skinned knees and held me when I cried. They were the hands that smelled like Jergens hand lotion.

They were the hands that held my mother’s head in them as she wept when she was told that my father had died. They were the hands that held mine and my sister’s when we walked to the front of the sanctuary to stand before his casket on that surreal day when he was laid to rest.

My hands, the hands of a woman who is no longer young, have their own story.  Tucked within the wrinkles and folds is the story of my life.  What point would there be in longing for the youthful hands I once hand or despairing over the changes that have taken place? 

After all, my hands are also the hands of a mother.

Someday

I was talking with someone the other day about retirement.  She made a comment about not knowing what she would do with herself after she retired and, for a moment, I felt like one of those cartoon characters doing a double-take.  Wha-a-a-t?

There are so many things on my "someday" list, things I try to fit in when I have time now, that I will enjoy having time for in the years to come.

There are quilts to be made.

There are books to read.

There are books to write!

There are grandchildren to enjoy.

There are flowers to plant.

There are flowers to smell.

There are plots of vegetables and herbs to tend.

There are photos I need to put in albums.

There are grandchildren to enjoy.

There is knitting to do.

There are recipes to try.

There are trips to take.

There are long walks and long talks with my husband to enjoy.

There are grandchildren to enjoy.

There are lazy summer afternoons spent doing nothing more than dozing in a lawn swing.

There are cozy winter evenings spent snuggled under a quilt with a dog on my lap and a book in my hand.

Did I mention that there are grandchildren to enjoy?

What is on your "someday" list that you are looking forward to?

A Bruise to the Ego

It was funny when he did it.  Remember the opening to the Dick Van Dyke TV show when Dick came in and tripped over the ottoman?  Classic comedy performed by one of the masters.  It was hilarious!

Not so funny when a fifty-one year old woman does it when she's going downstairs for a late night snack.  Who put that ottoman right there?  Oh yeah, it was me.  How embarassing.  All for the sake of crackers and cheese.

I scream and Gerry comes running to find me flat on my back on the living room floor.

Was the bruise on the side of my leg worth it?  You bet it was - c'mon we're talking about crackers and cheese here!  Was the bruise to my ego worth it?  That one's a little tougher to justify.

Home

 
 What does this photograph say to you? To me it says "home". These proud beacons of the prairie, the few that remain standing, call to me in my dreams and bid me to return.


I wonder if as we grow older, and perhaps wiser, something within us awakens and amidst the clamor of our day-to-day lives enables us to hear a whisper that calls us back to a simpler time. A slower time. The place where we began.

As our lifestyle changes to fit our circumstances does something within us protest, causing physical aches and pains that are a manifestation of the discomfort we feel at not being in the place where we belong?

Can an attachment to a place be as important as it feels? Is it nostalgia or is it something more? Is it really true that "you can't go home again"?

What do you think?

Seeing Clearly

They're everywhere and I spend a small fortune buying new ones.  Corrective lenses.  I've written about this subject before but last night I saw something with a whole new perspective (pun intended). 

During the day I wear contact lenses.  The problem with that is that, while my distance vision is good, I can't see well enough to read anything close to me or to clearly work on my computer.  So, I have computer glasses that I keep at my desk, and another pair of fancy schmancy glasses that I take to meetings that allow me to read paperwork in front of me but still clearly see other faces in the meeting.

I have a (very expensive) pair of progressive lenses that I wear when I'm not wearing my contacts.  With those babies I can see far and I can see near.  I usually only wear those at home though. 

I carry a pair in my purse so I can read menus and labels when I am shopping.

I have a pair in my home office, a pair in my knitting box, a pair in the bathroom, and a pair in the kitchen. 

Last night as I was getting ready for bed I took out my contact lenses stood for a moment looking at the orchid that Gerry had given me a few days ago. Without the benefit of corrective lenses of any kind, I saw those beautiful blooms with a clarity that I had not seen before. They were stunning!

With my aging eyes naked, so to speak, I found that my vision for things right in front of my face is crystal clear.  Being the introspective sort that I am I wondered if there was a lesson there for me.

I wonder, as we get older, if we're meant not to focus more on what's "out there" but to turn our eyes and our attention to that which is right in front of us. Important things like family, friends, and that which we were meant to spend our time on.

Could it be that there comes a time when we are meant to stop driving so hard to attain some of those goals we had when we were younger? 

Could it be that it's okay to take the time to play with a baby, read a book, take a nap, and marvel at the beauty of an orchid?

Retirement?

A few days ago I mentioned two words that I was looking forward to - retirement eligible. Lately, I have been thinking about retirement in general. At one point in my life, when I was much younger and more naive, I looked at that stage in life very differently than I do now. I thought that one got to the magic retirement day, was awarded the proverbial gold watch, and slipped off into a life of relaxation and perhaps travel, and that may be the case for some.


My grandma (the only grandparent who lived long enough for me to get to know) never retired. She was widowed and left alone with three young children, destined to live a life of hardship as she struggled to raise her children in the Great Depression years. She lived in the same tiny house for the remainder of her years and there was never a formal retirement time.

My father never really retired because he was forced to stop working due to illness and the few years he had left after that point were filled with hardship. He had planned all of his life for retirement, carefully saving and planning, but in the end what should have been his "golden years" were not to be.

My mom, a housewife for most of her life, never retired. During the years that she should have been enjoying life with Dad, she was taking care of him and visiting him in hospital.

My own dreams of retirement are most definitely not of a life filled with leisure. In the same way that young people attend post-secondary school for a number of years to prepare them for the life ahead, that's how I'm partly considering my experiences right now. I see writing as something I'll spend a lot of time on in my retirement years, so now I'm taking the time to practice and learn and prepare myself for the day when I can call myself a full-time writer. (Sounds good, doesn't it?!)

Gerry and I also are spending a lot of time talking about what we what those years to look like. We envision a simpler, more self-sustaining lifestyle in a rural location where our children and grandchildren can spend time with us. I've just started reading Barbara Kingsolver's Animal, Vegetable, Miracle and I'm vowing that my grandchildren will understand that their vegetables come from farms and gardens not from perfectly manicured displays in a supermarket. I want them to have the opportunity to eat organically grown meat that isn't pumped full of hormones.

The point is that when I say I am looking forward to being retirement-eligible in four years, it's not so I can ride away into the sunset and live a life of leisure. Lord willing, it's so I can begin the next chapter.

Tell me, what does retirement mean to you?

Relocating for Health Reasons

My feet hurt.  Perhaps it's a product of growing older and wearing too many ill-fitting shoes throughout my life, but I am spending more time these days thinking about my feet. 

It started as an occasional bout with something-or-another in the ball of my foot that would cause it to sieze up like an engine without oil.  That pain actually had me remove my shoes in the mall one day and walk stocking footed to my destination.  It's happening more frequently.

I've tried insoles: full insoles, heel insoles, toe insoles, gel insoles, you name it. I'm trying to migrate away from wearing heels but the problem with that is that most of my pants are of the length that require a heel.  Now I'm faced with hemming my pants, NEVER a task that I have enjoyed. And I still need to dress well for work, so I have to find something to wear on my feet that's comfortable yet looks nice.

In the summer months my feet don't hurt.  I usually wear flat sandals or flipflops or, best of all, go barefoot. 

So, now I'm faced with a dilemna: hem my pants or move to Mexico where I can go barefoot all the time.  Tough choice.

Eccentricity

I'm going to turn into one of those eccentric older ladies; all the signs are there. We were out and about shopping yesterday and I saw two must-have items for my retirement.

The first was a cloche felt hat at Macy's.  I feel absolutely in love with this hat, and I'm not a hat person!  I can see myself wearing this hat and a cotton dress on a hot summer afternoon out for a drive in a jalopy. Sounds crazy, but it has a certain appeal to me.  They have it in red, which would be perfect for someone attending a Red Hat Society function.  I won't be joining though.  I plan to enjoy my unscheduled days and embrace spontaneity wearing my black cloche felt hat.

The second item was a Vespa.  Gerry and I both liked these, and I can picture the both of us taking a quick trip to the grocery store on our matching Vespas.  Of course, I'd have to be wearing my cloche hat, and Gerry would be wearing his fedora.  Perhaps we would have a side car of some sort for Maya and Chelsea.

Shoot...if I'm having these thoughts now one can only imagine what I'll be developing a yen for when I'm eighty!

It's Only a Number

I went shopping this week. Recently it's been a struggle every morning as I stand in a closet full of clothes and feel like I have nothing to wear. Last year at this time I loved choosing clothes in the morning; I had lots of cute outfits and it was fun! This year, it's not so much about styles changing or clothes wearing out. It's the size. There I've said it.

So I made a decision this week that I was going to stop being so fixated on the number and just go out and buy a few things that feel good and fit better. I'm tired of feeling like I can't relax or breathe properly because my clothes are tight. Actually wearing things that are just a titch too tight makes me feel fat. (Ugh. I can't believe I just used the f-word on my blog)

Anyway, I am letting go of the size I've relied on for so many years. I'm surrendering to the idea of moving up one number for now. My reliable size nn clothes will be put away for now and I will begin to move into the land of size nn.

Sigh.

Zero to ninety.....

Earlier this week I had an opportunity to read something written by a woman who will turn ninety years of age next month. I was taken aback with the mention of her spending time thinking about "who she is supposed to be". Somehow, I thought that one day we would be able to figure out the answer to this question for our own lives. And yet, I found it refreshing to read that this incredible woman was still thinking about her purpose.
Sometimes I walk through my too busy and frazzled to think about purpose. It's all I can do just to accomplish the tasks that I need to accomplish. But there are other times, when I allow myself to be quiet, that I think about deeper truths.
Sometimes purpose changes. The purpose I had when I was a young mom of pre-schoolers is no longer relevant to a fifty year old woman. There have been times when I knew I was walking smack dab in the center of my purpose, and others when I felt like I had nothing to contribute. There are some consistencies throughout my life, and when I look back I can see that there are some areas of purpose that stay with me.
I love the thought that seasons change and, with that, so do the roles we play. With each new season we may have an opportunity to walk freshly into a new purpose.
What new purpose to you sense in your life today?

All Grown Up

We do most of our grocery shopping at Top Foods, and I have noticed that they have the best shopping music playing. Many times I just can't help myself from bopping along as I'm pondering the brand of olive oil to choose, or trying to remember if I need green beans. Being fifty has given me the freedom to dance in the grocery store if I feel like it.

Sometimes I don't feel like I'm fifty, in fact sometimes the inner me still feels like a child. Yet I can remember a handful of times in my life when I distinctly had the feeling that I was an adult. Here is a list of a few of those times.

• Sitting in the backyard of the first home I bought all by myself realizing that I owned it

• When Gerry and I bought our first "real" bedroom set. It's solid wood and a classic design that I absolutely love. It's made for adults only!

• Holding my baby granddaughter for the first time

• Receiving word that my Mom had died

How about you? What moments in your life made you feel like a grown up?

Rruurruuurr!!!!

I feel like Tim Allen this afternoon. Do you remember his TV show called Home Improvement? I used to love the passion he had when he described one of his high powered gadgets. Remember that little rruurruurr growl he would give?
Well check out this bad girl that I just picked up this afternoon. She's an 18" Lasko Remote Control Performance Pedestal Fan....Model 1854. She's got two speeds, she oscillates, and she has a 1, 2 or 4 hour timer. Rruurruurrr!!!!
I assembled this little lady all by myself and there she proudly stands waiting for the test drive tonight. I'm expecting that she'll be sending all those nasty night sweats running for cover.
I've decided to call her Hope.

Fickle Friend

Have I done something wrong? I don't understand why you seem to have deserted me. I know you're still around because I hear stories of you meeting with others I know.

Over the years our relationship has been fairly consistent. Oh sure, there were the occasional times when I was a young college girl when I stood you up, but you seemed to understand and we were able to pick up just where we left off.

I introduced my children to you when they were babies, in fact I couldn't wait for them to develop a relationship with you!

Now you tease me into believing that you are going to show up. Sometimes you even stay for a few hours, but never for as long as I wish for. This on-again off-again state of our relationship is becoming more difficult for me to deal with. You hold all the power, you know I can't live without you.

Sometime I seek solace in others who hold promise of the same relationship that I have with you. They may help fill the void for a while, but I never stop longing for the real thing that I once enjoyed with you. Lunesta and Ambien are just short term comfort as I wait for you to come back.

Sleep, my fickle friend, please come home.

The Face In The Mirror

It’s morning. Classical music from my alarm clock lures me to consciousness and I reach over to turn it off. It is time for the day to begin. Struggling to surface from the comfort of sleep, I rise from the warmth of my bed and stumble to the bathroom. Sleep is an elusive visitor these days and I am always reluctant to leave her behind when she blesses me with her appearance. Nevertheless, I have things to do and so I must.

I stand before the mirror and lean forward for a better look at the woman who I am this morning. I am nearsighted and without the help of my contact lenses or glasses all the world is a blurry place. As I gaze into the sleepy eyes of the woman in the mirror I think to myself “where did you come from?” I barely recognize the tired face looking at me. Her skin is blotchy and there is a blemish near her eyebrow. A blemish, for heaven sake, at age fifty! The whites of her eyes are slightly bloodshot and the skin underneath her eyes is dark. The eyelids that seem to droop more with each passing day have the look of crêpe paper. The lips are thin with slight lines fanning out from them like the spikes of dracaena I just planted.

I fill the sink with water and dip my washcloth a few times in the warm water. Some women say that at a certain point in life they see their mother’s face looking at them when they look into the mirror. I never knew my own mother and so if she is there I don’t recognize her. In fact, as I look back at the mirror and find that she reminds me of another woman I once knew.

I see shades of myself at twenty years of age in an unwrinkled face of a young mother. That face has no makeup, save for black mascara and the lips are full and turned up in a hopeful smile.
She is tired from caring for a baby and yet her eyes have a sparkle to them. She feels somewhat trapped by the circumstances that have become her life and yet is always hopeful that circumstances will change. She is proud of the fact that she has been told that she is good for her husband yet she wonders if he is good for her. Be strong, I want to tell her. Make the hard choices now and you will be rewarded in the future. I know she won’t heed my voice though. She thinks she has it all figured out.

I lift the wet cloth to my face and hold it for a few moments. Breathing slowly I take comfort in the warmth of the cloth and the sanctuary that it has made for me. When I finally remove it from my face, my eyes open to another woman in the mirror.

She is me at thirty. Her eyes are clear and I can see strength in them. I know that she has just finished college and landed the job of her dreams. Her life is busy. She is working full time, raising two children, and coping with a heavy drinking husband. She wishes and prays for him to change but deep down inside she is beginning to lose hope. Her sense of fulfillment comes from her children and her work. She is building a career and making plans for the future. It’s not too late, I want to tell her. Don’t let go of your dreams. I can tell that she has heard snippets of my advice and is considering her options.

I take refuge in the warm wet cloth once more inhaling the moist heat deeply and slowly. When I look up a woman who looks similar to the others looks back at me. This time there is something different in her eyes.

She is forty and has come through hard times. She finally mustered the strength to leave her marriage and subsequently endured years of depression, guilt, stress and hopelessness. Her eyes tell the story of pain that she has learned from and that she is now thankful for. She has recently remarried and feels like a young woman again. I’m proud of her because for the first time in her life she did what she wanted to do. Her face is beginning to show a few signs of her age, but she barely notices. She is busy living her life and having fun.

Then she vanishes, lost with the others, and the woman I am today remains. I am fifty and I look haggard in the morning light. It will take some makeup magic to make me presentable to the world. Yet in the eyes that are beginning to disappear under sagging eyelids, I see a glimpse of the future. I see the bright eyes of my baby granddaughter. They say that she has my eyes.

Though I have no mother to compare my aging self with, I have a son and daughter and granddaughter who will likely one day compare their own aging faces with mine. This thought inspires me to go forward and to follow my dreams. I owe it to the younger women who visited me in the mirror, and I owe it to my son, daughter and granddaughter.

Bat wings and other things

Just stopping in for a minute to clarify what bat wings are and to share a new picture of sweet baby Makiya.

Bat wings are those dreaded pieces of skin that hang below your arm and wiggle and jiggle like jello. No one wants 'em....but alas...it sounds like many of us get 'em. Sigh.

I'm visiting with Laurinda and Gord and Makiya for a few days. Just look at that face. Isn't she beautiful!!

As I sat in the airport today I had an opportunity to people watch and began to contemplate the different ways that women choose to age. Some try to hang on to their youth for longer than they should, and others are content to just let the aging process happen. More to come on those airport musings.

Right now I am going to crawl into bed with a good book and think about this beautiful baby that I have the pleasure of spending time with over the next few days.

Bat Wings

I was blow drying my hair this morning and saw something that sent chills up my spine. Two words. Bat wings. Do you understand why I was terrified?

Then I caught a glimpse of my great-grandmother's picture in the mirror. Katarina Letkeman (nee Janzen) was born in 1847 in Chortitza Colony, Russia. She immigrated with her husband and three children to Canada. Over the years she gave birth to twelve children, only six of whom lived to adulthood. She lived a hard life and died at age 63. In another post I will write more and pay tribute to this strong woman.

What struck me this morning was her dress. If she had bat wings who would have known? Really, in the grand scheme of things, I guess it's silly to be worrying about something as trivial as bat wings. But for just a moment, I was a teeny bit envious of great-grandma Letkeman.

The bedside table of a fifty year old woman

'nuff said.