TERRIBLE ADVICE

Most of us revere the wisdom and perspicacity of our parents. Parents fill the first twenty or so years of our lives with what they think is good for us: broccoli, reading lists, curfews, chores, and aphorisms. Parents look for those “teachable moments” and try to cram as much as they can into them. My parents were no different from any others. But now that I am old enough to really evaluate my life, I recognize that much of what Mom and Dad preached IS ENTIRELY BOGUS.

The first thing that springs to mind is my long suffering Mother, who felt it was her duty to keep both her daughters virtuous and chaste. “Nice girls don’t wear pins” was drummed into both of us from an early age. I wonder that the safety pin industry didn’t feel the need for a huge media blitz to counteract this slam on their reputation. I think Mom had a picture in her mind of a slatternly teen, with body odor, dirt behind her ears, and clothes, soiled and barely held together. My sister and I, however, didn’t get that picture, and just couldn’t understand why using a safety pin to fix a broken bra during school hours made us slutty.

Another rule in our house concerned bed linens. According to my mother, only peasants slept in the same set of sheets for longer than a week. To this day, I feel a little guilty that I don’t change the beds that frequently. As a matter of fact, I don’t change the beds ANYWHERE NEAR that frequently. But, in my mind, there aren’t any peasants any more. At least I haven’t seen any in my neighborhood, and so I am not as worried about being compared to them as my Mother was. There must have been a lot of peasants in the town where I grew up.

My Mom was a firm believer in spring housecleaning. She admonished us that “A dirty home breeds harmful bacteria.” She thought this was a very effective scare tactic that would make dutiful housekeepers out of both of us. My mother had THE WALLS IN THE HOUSE WASHED every spring! My sister and I are both relatively clean and healthy people, and yet neither of us has vacuumed behind the refrigerator for years, and so far, none of the people in either of our families has developed typhus or any kind of weeping sores.

Watching the Olympics has brought to mind advice which my Father gave me, and which I unfortunately followed for years. He always maintained that “if you can’t do something well, then don’t do it.” As a result of that, I never learned how to swim, because I felt a little silly in the water. I have never even TRIED arts and crafts, because I am all thumbs. I don’t enjoy dancing, because I feel a little geeky out there on the dance floor. My husband, on the other hand, has led a very joyful life doing things that he loves, badly. He plays the accordion with much gusto but little talent. He loves to cook, even though he doesn’t know a bain marie from a baguette. He sings along with the radio, OUT OF TUNE. Boy, oh, boy, have I realized all that I have missed by being COMPETENT! Yes, those Olympic athletes are the best in the world at what they do.

But really, I feel that there should be an Olympic category called “Dabbling.” This would be for people who are experts at nothing but are willing to try anything.

THE GOLD MEDAL GOES TO THE PERSON WHO HAS THE MOST FUN WHILE FALLING DOWN, DROPPING STITCHES, ROLLING GUTTER BALLS, PAINTING BY NUMBERS, AND SCORCHING THE SOUFFLE!

EVERYTHING GIVES ME GAS

From all that I can gather from reading the news, following other people’s blogs and tweets, and watching television shows (ok, I know “The Golden Girls” is LONG GONE), sixty is the new forty. This makes me happy, and I am looking forward to experiencing the best years of my life, coming right up.

However, I am also starting to discover some of the glitches of aging. I knew this was coming, because I have been looking at my Mom’s hands get more gnarled as the years pass, and the joints on my own hands seem to be clamoring for attention these days. But I was not prepared for some of the other indications of my own rapidly approaching dotage that have made themselves most unwelcome in my life as of late.

I have a CORN on my foot. My God, I remember my grandmother complaining that her corns hurt! I have always been very particular about the fit of my shoes, and I don’t wear stilettos, so I am baffled about where this little devil came from. The good news is that it is the rationale for the pedicures that I now have to get regularly to keep it under control, and my husband seems to feel that these foot ministrations come under the heading of medical expenses, and so I have no guilt in that department!

Food that in the past was benign is now malevolent. Yes, we all know about beans. BUT NOW, EVEN GREEN BEANS? I find that I cannot predict what foods will bring on embarrassment, and so as an insurance policy, I now take Beano before every meal. I have to lie about it in restaurants with friends, telling them that I have Lactose Intolerance. Really, who wants to admit that these days, eating in general causes flatulence?

And I am finding that I lose things all the time. My car keys, which used to be very obvious in their location, have now taken to lurking in the strangest places: by the sink in the bathroom, in the pocket of my sweater, and most interesting of all, and this mystery has yet to be solved: IN THE REFRIGERATOR. All I can think of in that case is that I had them in my hand when putting the groceries away, and just set them down in there “for a second.”

Things ache now. My neck, my knees, my sacrum. I have a very lively relationship with my chiropractor, who is very cheerful, and says things like “Well, you have to remember that you aren’t as young as you used to be, and moderation is the key.” I HATE MODERATION. Evidently, this is obvious, because even my yoga teacher has had to impose restrictions, telling me that I am not allowed to practice at home until I have been a yoga student for long enough to have some sense. That is not how she put it, but the meaning was clear!

My husband and I have slowed down in the romance department. This is none of anyone’s business. But when he looks at me with a gleam in his eye, sometimes I look back at him witheringly. There is just so much energy allotted to us each day, and I have to prioritize mine…

All of this being said, I do find retirement to be the best of times. Each day holds great potential, I have no one else to consider when making plans, duty is a thing of the past, and money is no longer the issue that it once was. I can come and go as I please, and adventure is always just around the corner. Nothing can hold me back!

Standard equipment these days? Beano in my purse, liniment in the medicine cabinet, lots of glucosamine and chondroitin, and a positive attitude. Today’s plan? The Honda dealership, for

DUPLICATE SETS OF CAR KEYS.

THE STONE AGE

As I was watching “Frontline” the other evening, as it revealed just how “wired” our children are, with their iphones, blackberries, and laptops, busy multitasking and staying in touch with every other individual on the planet at all times, I thought about my childhood. I grew up in the fifties, when life was a lot simpler, and most people went through their lives doing things sequentially. Things were uncomplicated and we led linear lives. Connections between people were intermittent, not constant.

For instance, if you felt a sudden urge to talk to somebody, you had three options: You could walk into the room where that person was and have a conversation. You could call that person on the phone. Or you could go on foot or in a car to where that person was located, and then start talking. If that person was not immediately accessible, you would just have to write a letter.

Modern conveniences? A matter of definition. I lived in a normal to small house, and my Mother had all the modern conveniences. That meant that she had to wash dishes herself (or make her daughters do it) after every meal. She had to heat up leftovers IN THE OVEN, for Pete’s sake, and that meant that we had to wait at least FIFTEEN MINUTES for them to get hot so that we could eat them! We did not have anything resembling a Swiffer or Dyson, and so dusting and vacuuming took awhile. We had a little triangular thing in the corner of the sink to put peelings and things in. We then had to take out the GARBAGE every night, because if we didn’t, the kitchen would get stinky.

My Mother was very busy. She had to run a lot of errands. You see, back in the old days, people got food at one store, clothing at another store, medicine at yet another store. I remember at the start of every school year, we would drive from our town in northern West Virginia to PITTSBURGH, where there were really nice department stores, to get my school clothes. In our small town, there weren’t a lot of clothing stores, and not a lot of selection. And my Mother was a big believer in the axiom that if you bought your clothes in town, you would “See yourself coming and going.” That was a BAD THING. And by the way, back in the day, we paid RETAIL prices for everything.

And let’s talk about school. I had to wear A DRESS every day. As a child in winter, I was allowed to wear pants under my dress on the way to school and back, but DURING SCHOOL HOURS, I had to have the bare legs. What a pain it was. Go in the homeroom. Go in the cloakroom (a term no longer in use, I am sure). Take off coat, hat, mittens, and boots. Take off pants. Hang everything up. Take shoes out of grocery bag and put them on. Repeat process at the end of the day. Boys just got to come in, take off their outerwear and get on with things. Plus, those bare legs we girls had were chilly.

In high school, we still wore dresses. Back then, pantyhose were on the verge of invention, and so we had to wear OLD FASHIONED STOCKINGS. How did we hold them up? WITH GIRDLES. Imagine this. I and most of my friends were built like twigs in those days, but we still writhed our way into girdles five days a week. And then we had to TAKE ALL OF IT OFF in order to put on our GYM CLOTHES for Phys. Ed., and then struggle back into it all.

Back in those days, most families had one car. Some had two. Teenagers had none. I know—HOW ON EARTH DID KIDS GET TO SCHOOL BACK THEN? Our Moms took us. We had carpools. And on weekends, we all asked for a car, and drove WHAT OUR PARENTS DROVE. No cute convertibles for teens back then. We drove station wagons, our fathers' sedans, or nothing!

In the fifties, when kids had free time, we had a number of options: books, “American Bandstand,” homework, and talking on the phone with friends. Homework involved reading assignments and GOING TO THE LIBRARY. Research involved little index cards and bibliographies. Footnotes had to be written in a particular format. I know! How archaic! And while doing our homework, we could play records or listen to the radio, but TV was too distracting!

I grew up playing games on boards or with cards. I spent a lot of time by myself, thinking. If I wanted to get away from it all, I just walked out the door. I wonder if my life those many years ago was better or worse than the lives of the plugged in generation. I admit that I like being able to connect with others via technology. I like living in the fast lane. But I know what solitude is like.

I guess we never stop evolving. Societies change, people grow and develop, and technology just keeps insinuating itself into our lives. They say that soon, virtual worlds will exist right alongside reality, and we may lead lives in multiple universes. Micro chips will allow us to read one another’s minds. We will be able to work with people from other countries without leaving our laptops. Communication will be ubiquitous. But here is the thing:

Who will walk all the dogs?

A CHARMED LIFE

I have finally reached a time in my life that I can say suits me very well. I have what I need and what I want. I do what I want to do. I have an excellent companion, and friends of the highest water. So what does all this mean?

I am no longer a full time parent. My house looks just the way I want it to, with no dirty shoes, backpacks, or school books around. There are no plates with half eaten food in unsuspected locations, found only after the smell gave them away. The arrangements of magazines and books are as I have made them.

All the pets that live here have been fallen in love with and chosen by me. They hold no allegiances to any college students, school teachers, or talent agents who USED to live here. As a matter of fact, they FLEE in surprise and fear from those girls. The pets think that the universe revolves around ME. The dog is a faithful follower, and the cats deem me a worthwhile person to hang with occasionally. I can inhale cat fur to my heart’s content. I find that medium haired white cats smell like comfort and the little sleek coats of Siamese cats are redolent of something a little spicy. Inhaling my cats takes up a considerable amount of my free time.

In winter, the fireplace is a hub. My husband and I sit on facing sofas, with cups of coffee, tea, and laptops. He communicates with thousands on his; I blog to a few hundred on mine. We both find great stimulation and comfort from our many friends in cyberspace. As I get older, I get more curious about my friends in England, Vancouver, Prince Edward Island, New York, and in the northern woody regions of the U.S. Some of them have cats that I have come to admire almost as much as my own!

And then there is the bed. For my sixtieth birthday, I bought myself linen sheets. The real thing. I can’t tell you how LUXURIOUS that is! It takes up a little time maintaining them, for they are much more labor intensive when it comes to laundering, but sleeping on linen makes me feel like a Jane Austen heroine.

In winter, I love tea with milk, scones that have way too many calories, sunsets that are just too gorgeous against the black branches, chats with friends, and having suppers in the kitchen with candles. Chili is good, turkey soup is better. I like to cook casseroles with noodles. Winter necessitates such comfort foods, and without mashed potatoes once a week, my life would be just a little less comfortable!

Finally, at my age, friendship is just too precious to stop cultivating. Technology has brought new friends out of my laptop like magic! Whoever said that the age of letters is past? Granted, Facebook postings aren’t letters—but I have developed a very good writing relationship with quite a few new friends that I simply would have missed meeting without blogs, tweets, and the like.

Is this growing old GRACEFULLY? If by definition, growing old gracefully means aging without falling down, or without getting muscle spasms during yoga class, or looking like a sylph while walking on the stairmaster, I am NOT growing old gracefully. But if an alternative definition means still enjoying your darling husband who is also old, having giggle fits with friends you have known for years, emailing an old beau to find out what he had for dinner, Facebooking about favorite books, or having five cats and a dog, then I am growing old very gracefully, thank you. And by George,

MY LIFE IS A CHARMED ONE.

THE BUCKET LIST

As I was making a quick pass through the house, tidying it up before leaving to run some errands, I came across a big book on the floor in my husband’s “office.” Its title alarmed me: “1001 Buildings To See Before You Die.” I wasn’t aware of this goal of Charlie’s, and I had to sit down for a minute to process what this might mean for the remainder of MY life. Honestly, I had thought Charlie was finished with traveling. But this opened up some scenarios in my imagination that gave me the willies.

Let’s start with the United States. Evidently, there is a Medical-Dental office in San Francisco that is a must see. It seems that it is modeled after a Mayan pyramid. Inside, the ceilings have Mayan glyphs. There are bronze chandeliers. I wonder if the exam tables look like the altars for human sacrifice? Do the spit sinks have little waterfalls? Do you have to make a doctor’s appointment in order to get the tour?

Then there is Hangar One, at Moffett Federal Airfield in California. Ok, it IS one of the largest unsupported structures in the United States. But my God, IT IS AN AIRPLANE HANGAR. And by the way, in 2003, it was discovered that the entire structure was leaching toxic lead and PCB’s into the surrounding soil. NOW THAT IS SOMETHING YOU DON’T WANT TO MISS ON YOUR NEXT TRIP!

Charlie has always had a thing for industrial parks. Often, when I request that we “go for a ride,” instead of gliding through sylvan glens, or looking at the latest in McMansions, I find myself looking out of the windows at gravel pits and concrete facilities, sewage processing plants, or Charlie’s favorite: the abandoned General Motors factory (of which we have PLENTY in the Dayton area). So I am sure that on his list of places to go and see is the Magnitogorsk Metal Kombinat, or “Stalin’s Pittsburgh,” in Chelyabinsk Oblast, in Russia. This place was created as a model industrial town for making steel, and it was home to a few thousand industrial workers living in tents. Wow, to be a housewife in THAT town! Even the BOOK says that in this place, living standards and quality of life were “very low.” Obviously, a must see for American tourists!

I don’t know about you, but visiting places where they butcher things has never been high on my list of places to go before I die, but apparently the “Stalls and Abattoir” in Vrin, Switzerland, are a real tourist Mecca. The buildings’ sloping roofs and wooden construction owe much to the Swiss chalet design. But this would be my first question: WHY DON’T WE JUST GO AND SEE SOME SWISS CHALETS?

This book has A THOUSAND AND ONE of these places! Granted, it does include the Arc de Triomphe, the Alhambra, and the Parthenon. Ok. But my husband has been to all those places. I have even been to some of those places. Knowing my husband, those places on the beaten track would have no real appeal, because ALL THE TOURISTS go there. Oh, no! For us, the Pentonville Prison in London would be on the itinerary, along with the Crown Liquor Saloon in Belfast, the Tampere Fire Station in Finland, and by nature of its name, the Dick House in France.

Living with a man like my husband, who has his peculiarities, such as keeping track of the pollen count each year since 1990, or maintaining a spread sheet that records the amount of watts of electricity that we use yearly, should have prepared me for this. I wonder: are there travel agents who sell these tours? How would one advertise them? “Boring and Obscure Landmarks the World Over?” “Architecture for Geeks?”

I have never been one of those retired people who yearns to take a cruise every year. Or one of those women who likes to travel with packs of other women to see art museums, opera houses, or cathedrals. I don’t really want to snorkel or scuba on the Great Barrier Reef.

But any of those things sounds very appetizing when compared to the Hermann and Steinberg Hat Factory…

MR. MALAPROP

My husband has always had a unique and interesting turn of phrase. For instance, he has labeled that time in late afternoon when hunger and sleepiness take over as “having a sinker.” He calls coffee either “Java,” or a “cup of Joe.” Where he grew up, a milkshake is called a “cabinet.” I had gotten used to his phraseology. Then, ten years ago, he suffered a massive stroke that mostly affected the speech and language area of his brain. Suddenly, it was a whole new ball game. What were eccentric and regional linguistic applications became just a bit dicey. Charlie has always been one to massacre the English language, and since the stroke, his conversations have become a bit more dangerous. Always one to come VERY close to what he wants to say without always saying it correctly, he has become locally famous for his colorful communications. I had no idea that being the wife of a linguistically challenged individual would bring such notoriety. Yet there is a real charm to Charlie, and his errors just seem to add to his charm and increase his celebrity.

What is your name? If it is Lauren, Charlie will call you Lola. If you take pride in your German heritage, Charlie will add a “schnitzen” or a “schnecken” to the conversation at every possible opportunity. At Ikea, he will loudly announce the names of each furniture item, thoughtfully provided by store management: “Hey, Molly, do you need a DIMPA? What about some BLABAR?”

One evening, sitting around the fire with our children, somehow the subject of palindromes came up. Charlie’s eyes lit up, and he stood up and recited: “I CAN ROLL A BEESE, PANANAMA?” Without skipping a beat, the three of us replied, “Uh, huh—A MAN, A PLAN, A CANAL—PANAMA. I CAN ROW A BOAT, CANOE?” You see, after awhile, it gets easier and easier to translate. Annie did point out, though, that the rowing a boat portion of the exhortation was NOT a palindrome.

Charlie also has created some expressions that as a family, we use often. One term, “al dente,” is not what the rest of the world thinks it is. “Al dente” in the Campbell lexicon has two meanings. One: two people who eat in a restaurant and choose to sit adjacent to each other are sitting “al dente.” Sitting “al dente” is totally nerdy, we think. It precludes conversation without putting a crick in one’s neck, and it is NOT romantic! Second definition: “Al dente” is anything that is free of ornamentation, frippery, or extra accoutrements, as in “Do you want your steak with all the ‘fixins,’ or ‘al dente?’" Or, “I am not wearing any jewelry with my ball gown. I think it looks better ‘al dente.’” This term has been used with such frequency in our family through the years, that both of our children went out into the world USING THE TERM IN CAMPBELL FASHION. They have suffered great embarrassment as a result, and blame us for their public humiliation.

The apex (or should I say nadir?) of Charlie’s linguistic escapades occurred the other evening. Following a lovely Bach concert, there was a champagne reception honoring the performers. As we stood, flutes of the bubbly in hand, Charlie noticed a man that he knows. Gesticulating wildly, he beckoned the man over, and excitedly and loudly exclaimed, “MOLLY, THIS IS ED! YOU AND HE HAD YOUR BI-RECTUMS AT THE SAME TIME!” Ed looked confused and somewhat nonplussed. I, however, knew immediately that Charlie must be referring to the colonoscopy that I had recently. Ed looked to his wife for edification, and she also seemed a bit lost. I did manage to utter the word “colonoscopy” before the champagne shot out of my nose. At that point, it seemed wisest just to leave the reception.

This is the same husband who gave a toast at a wedding to “David and Lorraine.” The couple was in actuality named Dennis and Lauren. This is also the man who informed me that there was a new Mexican restaurant in town called “Abdul’s” (Abuelos). His favorite movie lately was “Sid is on the Roof” (A Serious Man). But through it all, he remains the most enthusiastic, in his own words: “bon vacant” around. I remain by his side, as translator, censor, and yes, cheerleader.

You only go around once. I want to go around with Charlie: the man of many words, many of which are bogus. He has wit. He has charm. He has a lot of fans. He has a certain, in his own words, “JE NE C’EST PAS.”

THE SOUL SELECTS HER OWN SOCIETY

I am reading a book about Emily Dickinson. I love her poems, but I am more fascinated with her life. She became a recluse in her family mansion in early adulthood. She loved to bake; evidently she walked about the house covered in flour. She wrote beautiful and pithy poetry that speaks to all of us.

I have often thought that it would be very romantic to become a recluse myself. Of course, in order to be a happy recluse, you must have a beautiful place to hide in. I think I have finally achieved that. My house is now, after we have lived here for twenty years, nicely decorated, and every room is beautiful. It also seems to me that there is an irony involved. Recluses need nice surroundings, but the recluses I am familiar with were INDIFFERENT to those surroundings most of the time.

This is because a recluse must have a life’s work. Otherwise, staying home twenty four/seven would get very boring. So I would need a beautiful room to work in. I would require a desk placed in front of a window, so that I could watch the world go by and ruminate about the neighbors, the surroundings, and nature. There would have to be inspiring art on the walls. Granted, as a successful recluse I would become inured to all the beauty of my study, but rules are rules!

This brings me to the life’s work. Problematic, because I can’t think of a subject large enough to consume me every day. Recluses are devoted single-mindedly to a life passion. My only real passion is pets. Could I spend every day in my workroom thinking about cats, writing about dogs, or researching animal diseases? Could I become a crusader for animal rights right there in my little room? Not likely. In the midst of a treatise on dog fighting, I would need a snack. While researching Von Willenbrand’s Syndrome, I would look out the window and realize the bird feeder was empty. Are recluses allowed out in the yard with sunflower seed?

Successful recluses have doting families who do their shopping, invite guests over in order to freshen the outlook of the shut-in, and accomplish all the tasks that the recluse simply can’t do, by virtue of the fact of being a recluse. I don’t have that kind of family. My husband is always gone. He is the opposite of reclusive. My kids aren’t around, either. I don’t have any loyal retainers to do my bidding. I think servants are a prerequisite for recluses. HERMITS, on the other hand, live completely alone, don’t want any family ties, and shun the concept of servitude for anyone. By that definition, being a hermit is totally OUT, as far as I am concerned.

Back to the reclusive life. I think a successful recluse must also have a highly developed sense of the SMALL. Spending all day at home, every day, would require an appreciation of life’s little details. For instance, I am sure that Emily Dickinson reveled in the dust motes in the air around her, watching as they swirled and caught the sun. She probably counted the pleats in her peplum. I feel confident that looking out the window at the garden was tantamount to meditation for her. I am not good at this. I have no idea how many buttons are on my favorite cardigan. I have noticed that there is dust on tops of all the picture frames, but that is about it.

Recluses often carry on long conversations with friends by exchanging letters. Emily Dickinson maintained lifelong relationships with a number of people, some of whom published her letters to them. Thus, she was able to make HER FRIENDS somewhat famous, just because they knew her. Today’s recluse would have access to Facebook and Twitter. I can just IMAGINE what fine tweets Emily could churn out.

I did actually try out the reclusive lifestyle last winter, when I had a skin cancer on my face that required surgery of Frankensteinian proportions. I was on a recliner in my TV room for two weeks. It was hell. Without Netflix, a cell phone, and Facebook as lifelines, I would have descended into sheer madness. It is because of this experience that I have such admiration for Emily and her ilk.

If Emily were around today, would she restyle her life? Would she at least talk with her friends using Skype? Would she still bake gingerbread from scratch, or would she use a mix? Would she have a cell phone and carry on conversations with fellow intellectuals from the safety of her room? Is it possible to be a productive recluse in today’s world without the use of technology? I couldn’t do it. My hat is off to Emily.

The Soul selects her own Society—
Then--shuts the Door—
To her divine Majority
Present no more

Unmoved—she notes the Chariots—pausing
At her low Gate—
Unmoved--an Emperor be kneeling

Upon her Mat
I’ve known her—from an ample Nation—
Choose one—
Then—close the Valves of her attention—
Like Stone—