Goodbye 64

A
Approaching the peak with help from my friends...

I am about to put this Old Blog to rest. I called it When I'm 64 because I was and I started it to document the final year before I turned Officially Old.

It was a lot of fun, but as the end neared, I ran out of words and got caught up in a bunch of other things called Life that seemed to storm around me until just now. 

What I've learned: 

No one seems to know what Officially Old is anymore. I had more queries about that than anything else. For the record: 65 is the government number picked out of a fedora eons ago to define when citizens should stop work and start enjoying the fruits of their labors. It reigned until some folks took it to court because medical breakthroughs meant they were in better health and didn't want to stop working. They won and Officially Old has been under attack since. I have it on somewhat good authority that my kids won't get their Just Rewards until their 70s and beyond.

Government bureaucracy gets thicker as you get older. Still haven't managed to get all those promised payments coming to me, have to certify photocopies of this and apply for true copies of that and certify checks to pay for the other application to get the paper to send with this application...not to mention all the new sites I have to join, and if I make a mistake in typing I must live with it because government sites are rigidly against mistakes and don't allow do-overs. Sigh.

 Alas, I have a finite pile of savings and infinite lifespan. Those two facts cause stress that could shorten the second and have no effect on the first.

 While being Officially Old means I can relax and legitimately claim aches and pains and dimer eyes, reduced hearing, distracted thoughts and less staying power, I find that I am expected to keep up without whining or I won't get invited to take part. I spent my birthday climbing a steep mountain called Ha Ling that locals run up and down with their dogs several times a season. I had four faithful with me, my son, his wife, one and one old friend. We took five hours. In snow, sleet, hail, sun and whiteout. Angel food cake with berries on top, a quick Happy Birthday to you! and down in dense cloud with the leader hoping she wasn't leading us off a cliff. 

Josh is calling Jade to tell him Mom has almost made it...

Thought that the climb was a really outstanding way to become Officially Old, but since then have done a couple of more mountains of equal or twice the difficulty with no concessions given to my age. Hummmm.

I find paperwork (a word headed for obsolescence?) overwhelming these days. Possibly because of the aforementioned bureaucracy, but it seems I am always at the computer doing something when I would love to be outdoors doing something else. My dilemma is making keeping my body active equal to my accounts and work done. Sometimes I manage to feel grateful I have all these choices I love to do vying for my time. Not paperwork, but painting, or working with photos or writing poems...or hiking or tennis or snowshoeing. 

Technology is forcing me to become logical...sigh. If I don't get my photos organized so I can find what I want quickly, I waste time looking...sigh. On the plus side: they say using your brain to learn new things keeps you young (or builds neural connections, nearly the same thing, I think). But I don't have to like it. 

Oddly, while feeling beset by stuff, I have more time to consider friends & family and what I can do for them; remember what things are happening in their lives and ask about them; be kinder and hopefully gentler. Which is a very good thing because I got a good dose of hardheadedness from my dad that wins me no votes for nice guy of the year.

Anyway, now that I qualify to check the Senior box, it's time to close When I'm 64 and move on to two other blogs. I hope you will join me, I need all the friends I can get! 

Now to figure out what I can do for my next birthday event...

Angel food cake with berries and Happy Birthday to You in the snow on top.

They are: 

In the Moment Photography: go to http://tonisueowen.blogspot.com/

If You're Not Having Fun, What's the Point?: go to  http://grandmomt.blogspot.com/

Now to figure out what I can do for my next birthday event...

Over the Mountain

That's Ha Ling to the right, my last gasp as a youngster could be on top.

Technically I won’t be Officially Olde until Monday evening, but since tomorrow (Sunday) is the Party on the Peak and the Party in the Park, this may be my last chance for a When I’m 64 blog.

It’s been a crazy year in a lot of ways. I still don’t know everything about what to expect when I start being Officially Olde in September (the government doesn’t turn into the givernment until the month following your qualifying birthday). There are a bunch of forms that ask for a lot of information, not all of which I have right now.  All in good time.

I sure wish I had a nickel (OK, a quarter) for everyone who’s either asked me what Offically Olde is or told me age is just a number (explain that to the government). I’m climbing a peak to party on top partially because I can and partially to share the experience with friends and partially, I guess, because Old just ain’t what it used to be. It’ll be a two or three hour slog and we have a ton of smoke from fires in British Columbia and Russia here, so the view could be bad-smog-day-in-LA hazy. It may even be raining.

We don’t care.

As for age, there will be oldies (me & some other 1945ers) and 20s, with several scattered in between. One may be older, but I haven’t asked her age -- I hardly ever do, since numbers don’t matter unless we’re civil servants.

 We will start together and meet at the top, each at their own pace, no trophies for first or last. I’m paking my favorite cake: angel food, with some fruit for juicy flavor in a separate container to combine at the top. And my camera. And water. And a coat. And one 6 and one 5 candle, since the Dollar Store did not have a single card, paper plate, napkin, light up pin or banner touting 65. I combined a 60 with a 5 in the kids’ section.  Guess nobody celebrates 65. Don’t know why.

 I’ve been climbing to get in shape, but not as often as I’d like. Life has gotten in the way. I spent a weekend helping a buddy move five hours away (yeah, yeah, nice of me, but that won’t help when I miss her when she’s gone). And a weekend trying to see if my sister, brother and I can bury grievances and get along. On the surface, it seemed like a bust. My sister couldn’t stand the sight of me after the second day and we never said goodbye. My brother was cold as ice on the trip back to the airport, bitterly disappointed he hadn’t been able to broker a ceasefire or peace.

I wasn’t feeling too copacetic myself until I got some distance on it and talked to a few friends and realized it wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought.  For one thing, we had a hoot the first few days. Together. With family. Laughing. Playing Liars Dice. Hiking. That was pretty cool.

In  fact, it was outstanding compared to some sibling stories I’ve heard. One friend, a gentle woman I adore, told me she has seven siblings...and talks to one.  One! And I heard repeatedly that getting along for a few days, then having tempers flare, defenses rise and hurts hurt is pretty par for the sister-brother scene.

We may have set our sights too high. If we get along for two days and fall apart by the third...it’s a no brainer to plan two-day parties, isn’t it? If we don’t want to dredge up all the crap we’ve been hoarding all these years, so be it. Live on the surface, get along, laugh, hug, love--and stay upwind of the crap.

I’m not saying it was an unmitigated success, but it wasn’t a disaster, either. There is hope.

First, I have to explain this to my brother and sister, who are moping about the Summit breakdown. Me, the Spin Doctor, must show them how it was not a failure, or a harbinger that there will be no more. There certainly could be, just shorter ones.

It has been a very good year in many ways. Maybe this being Olde is more than it’s cracked up to be because I don’t feel like waiting for things to happen anymore. I saw my landlord changing the oil in his car. I want to do that. Not just to save money, although that’s cool, but why the heck not?

It’s a goal.

I was going to report being 64 really isn’t a big deal, but I’m beginning to suspect it is. It opened some gate or wall or something and I don’t feel constrained or intimidated or shy about doing what I want or trying something new.  I’ve always been like that, but now even more. So look up old friends, go places you haven’t seen – or visited for a while – play some Liars Dice and laugh with the family and kick back in your penultimate year before you become Officially Old.

Then kiss being young goodbye, thank heaven, and get on with exploring the other side. Not only is it not what it used to be, but I hear it’s a hell of a ride.

Don't let yesterday use up too much of today...

The WGG tossing rocks in the river, sweet!

I'm still on this side of Officially Old, but time is slipping away fast.
It's been a year of peaks. Just as I thought I'd reached the top of acceptance, understanding, humor and serenity, another peak appeared behind it, meaning another bit of slogging so I could get to the top and see the other side.
I stopped blogging because life got complicated and full of emotional family stuff and travel and activities and to avoid being lonely (I'm fine with alone - lonely is something else) I spent a lot of time with friends and fun folks.
So now, ready or not, I'm sending out the invitations and the Party on the (final) Peak is mere weeks away.
I found it's hard not to look back when the climb is such a long slog.
I found that looking back is both therapeutic and a time waster: depending on how you do it.
I've found that looking ahead is dandy, as long as you live mostly in the moment and maximize each day.
And finally, I've found that 65 ain't what it used to be. Mention you have a Significant Birthday and others jump in to tell you theirs is 1) older 2) more significant 3)  a bigger deal somehow. Is every birthday a contest of longevity from now on? If so, I will let everyone else "win" because frankly I don't care. I just thought the transition from officially middle aged to old was too good an excuse to pass up a party - or a hike up a symbolic peak.
My son is hiking up with me. I am deeply gratified by this. The universe left him this one weekend free in a tangled, ever-filled schedule. He didn't leave it open for me, he lost my birthdate in a switch to a new Windows account and didn't actually know when it was when I called to confirm his hiking or non-hiking status.
The universe wants me not to be alone.

I love it when it works that way. And after the hike, a potluck party at a riverside park for anyone who wants to come. The WGG will be there, along with my Dilly and Number One Son.
The day before I turn offically Old.

Sweet. 

CSI: My Morning

The first thing that hit me when I unlocked the door was the powerful smell.
Suspicious. Sickly sweet.
Stepping carefully around scattered papers, I spotted an open accordion file propped precariously on the seat of a recliner. A folder marked “Cowbee and Miss Keeeee” was empty.
The phone book was fanned out on the floor, open at the “Vacuum – Washing” pages. Upon investigation, the word “Tina” was scribbled on the right hand page.
The computer was sleeping.
I set my carrier down carefully, sensitive to the vibes of déjà vu penetrating the place.
Carrying my bag, I followed the smell into the next room. It was a shambles. Suitcases and boxes tossed on top of each other and leaning against the wall. White excelsior pellets littering the floor. A broken umbrella on the bed in a jumble of red and yellow. The file cabinet wide open, a table askew next to it.
The tile floor by the kitchen wall was wet and littered with the glittering evidence: green glass. One large piece said “Mad Dogs and Englishmen,” which explained the stink. White wine. Specifically: chardonnay.
It could have been worse.
I spotted an empty hole among the stacked storage items along the wall to the left
I moved toward it, careful to avoid the wet tile by stepping on the carpet. Suddenly, I felt something cold and wet soak my stockinged left foot.
That was when it all began flooding back. Spraying that very spot to clean up Miss Kitty’s vomitus this morning. Her second day of not keeping anything down. The panicked search for a veterinarian . The instant appointment – yikes, it’s that serious! Scrambling through storage to get the cat carrier. Grabbing the stupid umbrella my granddaughter bent out of shape the last time she stayed over. Jamming it on top of the refrigerator. Yanking a suitcase from the stack. Blinking hard to clear teary vision. Upsetting the bag of excelsior. Knocking hats off their pile. Seeing the umbrella fall out of the corner of my eye. Hearing the crash/tinkle of glass smashing. Ignoring it. Tossing cases and boxes toward the bed. Hauling the cat carrier out.
Getting Miss Kitty into it. Heading out the door. Setting her down to race back to get her papers. Searching the accordion file for her “I’ve Been Adopted!” envelope that wasn’t there. Dumping the file. Shoving the table out of the way and yanking the file cabinet open. Finding the envelope. Racing out the door to grab the carrier. Trying not to speed on the way to the vet.
Where she was diagnosed with  Bolus Gigantus Syndrome, also known as a Giant Hairball.
And it only cost $158.
Plus a bottle of wine.

What's New With Old

I feel cushioned by pronoia. That's the opposite of paranoia. It's when you feel others are saying good things about you. I haven't done anything special to make anyone do this, it's just a feeling I have. 

I used to operate on paranoia; the feeling that people were saying bad things about me. This is way better.

Feelings are based on things that can't be quantified or qualified. They just are. So whether you feel paranoia or pronoia: you will be right.

I will be officially "old" in August. Let's call it the pronoia an early birthday gift. I've reached an age where I don't care what most other folks are saying about me, thank heaven. I'm sure that contributes to the pronoia. I've developed patience that outlasts irritation and I can distract myself from getting annoyed by enjoying a warm sunbeam, long hike or the purr of my cat. 

I just spent waaaay too long obsessing over the question of how I can tell if I'm losing my mind. 

It started with a visit to my mother for her 88th birthday, not that she knew it was her birthday. Or cared. She is fading into the wallpaper, with bits of her mind wiped clean by TIAs, known as mini strokes. She told me she can feel them. Not that they hurt, but she knows when one is happening. And afterwards, she said, it's like a piece of her brain is gone.

OMG. That's exactly what is happening. And she can feel it.

So...has she put it together so that she knows she's losing her mind?

And if that's so, what keeps her from panicking? Or maybe she has. There isn't anything she can do about it, but that doesn't stop people from getting angry or terrified or acting out. I spent three days with her and we didn't connect because I brought grandkids. She does best with one or two at the most. They were wonderfully attentive to her and she connected with them so I could stand back and observe.

And panic. Was I looking at me in 20 years?

I upset them with my worry. They felt frustrated that they couldn't do anything about it or answer my questions. I promised I would see a doctor and let them know. They seemed relieved. I saw a doc, who said, "You seem fine to me." I was not relieved. We scheduled a complete check up for next week. 

I got a book from the library, The Memory Prescription (a 14 day play to sharpen your brain: repeat as needed). I had to read three chapters before I got to the memory test. I scored 100 percent. It said I might find the rest of the exercises easy.

What I found was that it eased my mind. The worry dropped away. I developed pronoia. Life became rosy.

The one thing I learned from all this? Don't waste time worrying, find a solution.

Or even better, invest in books, games, programs, therapies, schemes and plans devoted to telling you if you are losing your mind, and what to do about it. I am the last of the War Babies. Behind me is a tsunami of Boomers just waiting to do for The Aging Mind what they did for Botox and Real Estate: send it through the roof. They've lost the battle against losing their youth, now they'll tackle losing their minds.

My bet's on those who will advise them how not to.

In and Out Boxes

 

Photo: I love sharing cosmic laughter, it's good for the soul.

I’m analyzing the response I got from my first Annual Opt Out Email when I told everyone on my BCC Funny Forwards Email list they could opt off.

I remember being pleased with my considerate Internet Etiquette. Resolved not to clutter the in boxes of those who didn’t look forward to the occasional laugh, didn’t share my sense of fun or didn’t have the time. If they weren’t having fun, what was the point?

When I didn’t get many responses, I rethought the process. Realized those who didn’t read or deleted or put a spam label on the emails wouldn’t have read the Opt Out one either. Hummmm.

My boys told me to keep them in the group, but send anything personal or important in a direct, not batch, email. They would read, when they had time, maybe half. I thought that was diplomatic and sensitive. What surprised me was my younger son telling me emailing forwards is considered bad manners. He gave me the impression ‘no one’ does it. Yet I get them all the time (or I wouldn’t have any to pass on). And not just from old fogies like me.

Hummm.

I sent out a good news email. Not a forward, but BCC to a bunch of friends and family. Not everyone replied, although it was the kind of news you would reply to.

Hummm.

I feel like I’m in a déjà vu Christmas List where you played chicken with the names on The List. The first years when the friendship was still fresh, cards were no problem. Then came the year no card came in the mail. Those of us sentimental or paranoid enough to keep lists (and keep track of the lists) would put certain names on the cusp. One more year of no card and off the list they went, dropping out of your life like bubble gum or braces. Of course, the year you dropped them they sent you a card, leaving you to decide whether to mail a card late or just reinstate them for next year. I kept the list in pencil to accommodate the changes in names, addresses, validity.

This is all ancient history: Communication B.C. (before computers). FB and Tweets are the social way to keep in touch, your “Friends of...” is the new Christmas list. Only they don’t have to answer. You just throw out your life to whoever wants to know and check on your friends’ lives. Make a few comments, but nothing like long chatty emails (letters).

FB is the new family Christmas letter: with photos, chatty news about what’s happening, who done/won what, et. al. and no requirement to respond.

Tweets are IM fleeting thoughts.

Hummmm.

I will move Forward with my list because I feel good sharing fun with my friends and family. No more Opt Out Options. They already do that. If I want to reach somebody I don’t hear from, I’ll invite them to FB. Or send an (old fashioned) email. Even a hard copy snail mail. I can be an anachronism. I’m old enough. Heck, I have a dozen actual Christmas cards still decorating the Venitians in my office.

There are a lot of ins and outs of communication 2010. I plan to use all the In and Out Boxes (except Tweets) there are. I like keeping in touch.

Cheers

SLI

Holy Moly!

 Photo: Floating Sisters has me floating on clouds!

That Was the Week That Was (TW3) was a satirical comedy show I loved (back a few years) in the vein of Saturday Night Live, This Hour Has 22 Minutes, the Royal Canadian Air Farce and the Rick Mercer/Stephen Colbert/Jon Stewart shows. 

I just had a TW3. HooWee! To begin with, it’s been years since I knew somebody competing in athletics. I’d forgotten the thrill of feeling a connection to the glorious champions pushing themselves toward a goal. Being the Olympics, I could thrill just watching television, producing sweet maraschino moments when the local Olympians I know were competing whether they won, lost or just showed up. Vicarious, but so satisfying.

For another, my recent attempts at diplomacy and networking...worked! I shouldn’t be surprised, but this is new for me. My little town has become a warm cocoon where I can reach out and find a whole host of helpful souls from tennis partners to how to get a wrong righted. I had a bunch helping me get officially listed for a substitute job I applied for in August. I fell through the cracks and it was an uphill slog calling to check, politely pointing out I was still waiting, diplomatically rechecking, then checking back. I am smart enough to know I have a temper and can wither with my words—something I picked up in childhood and have never—unfortunately—lost. To hold that in check and use sweet, or at the very least neutral, words is quite an accomplishment for me. I’m patting my back (it’s terrific exercise). The upshot is that for five months, I told friends, who suggested things which I tried; I found out what was behind the hold up; I tried end runs and passes; I kept my temper and this week I got called because I am on the list.

Old dogs: new tricks; you bet!

I also took my courage in my hand and sent off some photos to a competition I wasn’t sure I was qualified for, but did it anyway. This week I found out they bought one. Can you feel my grin?

Old dogs: new careers; absolutely!

It is sunny. I will walk downtown to pick up a book the library is holding for me. My mountain town has a Sunny Side and a Dark Side. I live on the Sunny Side. 

Lucky me.

Sunny days to you.

SLI

Party, Part Two

Photo: Yep, the peak is steep, sheer even. Fortunately, this is the front. I'm climbing the switchback trail on the back.











Perhaps a few details about the peak are in order. To start, it’s not impressively high, just 7,897 feet (2,407 m). I have climbed a 10,000 footer in Yosemite and been on top of 14ers, as the Coloradans call their impressive collection of mountains over 14,000 feet. (Full disclosure: “been on top of” is not the same as climbing. Some of Colorado’s giants have roads to the top.)
The trail is only 6 kilometres (or 3 miles in American) but the elevation is the trick. It’s a non-stop uphill slog that rises 2,457 feet (or 819 meters in Canadian). The guidebooks allow 1 to 3 hours to ascend.
Dogs are allowed.
They tell me it gets crowded on sunny days in the summer.
The local seniors hiker’s group with the terrific name the Meanderthals have a pic of them sitting on the top looking quite fit.
The other side has a sheer drop off rated at 5.10d (aka “sheer drop off”) and popular with real mountain climbers who want to tackle the longest pitch north of Mexico. I have fooled around with climbing, even climbed baby stuff or at a climbing gym, but nothing remotely like Ha Ling. I figure to watch them encouragingly from the top.
The area is lousy with rock climbing walls, pitches and cliffs. The Canadian Rockies are like baby teeth compared to those old timers further south. The Rocky Mountains are mighty but worn down from eons of erosion (and maybe rock climbers/hikers). Their flanks are rounded, their heights jut bluntedly into the sky. The sharp incisors of Canada’s much younger Rockies are half the height but replete with sheer drops and soaring peaks.
Ha Ling just juts into the sky, calling me to party at the peak.
Once up, I have been advised to also climb up Miner’s Peak to the east. The two are like a saddle, with Ha Ling the horn and Miner’s the back, so as long as I’m there, what the hay, eh? Rumor has it it is a 20 minute slog from one to the other. Any beer would be froth by the time I get to the top, so the refreshments will have to wait til we get back down...physically.
Emotionally, it will take a little longer.
But that’s what big birthdays are for, yes?
Training starts now. Everyone's invited.
SLI

A Party on the Peak

Photo: Even the universe is on board with Ha Ling Peak as a Place to Party on my 65th.


I have dropped into a trough of relatively few demands from a high that had me scatter-brained and spread in all directions like buckshot. I kept my head—mostly—by remembering that it would all pass and relative calm settle in.
And it has. ** sigh **
Time to focus on the big goal of 2010: my birthday climb of Ha Ling.
I like celebrating big birthdays with big events. The last one the boys, wives and I took on the Grand Canyon. What an unforgettable trek that was: the highlight of a very highlit year.
Ha Ling is a bald peak that towers over town. It’s impossible not to notice, and it occurred to me that I would love to see the view from the top as a place I've been. It is a suitable goal for my 65th. I would also like to join the large percentage of residents, older and younger, who have stood on the top. You can’t get lost, although some trails are better than others, and the real challenge is at the top where the scree is the old “two steps forward, one step back” slog. The trek down can be a bore on sore muscles.
The view, they tell me, is spectacular, and it seems a fitting place to raise your arms in pure joy of accomplishment.
I don’t know what the aboriginals called it, but Ha Ling was called The Beehive for much of the white man’s presence in the Bow Valley. It is possible it didn’t have a name because the natives considered the valley sacred and used it for ceremonies or quick passage.
For most of the years Canmore was used by the white man for travel, coal mining, gas station pit stops, Olympic training and tourism, it was The Beehive, which is absolutely resembles.
That changed in 1980. The story is that in 1896, some white men bet a local cook named Ha Ling that he couldn’t climb to the top in less than 10 hours. He left at 7 and was back for lunch. They wouldn’t pay because they couldn’t see the flag he'd planted and didn't believe him. So he led a party to the summit to show them his flag. He left a bigger one behind for those who declined to climb and collected his fifty bucks.
It became Chinaman’s Peak to honor his feat but the name didn’t become official until 1980. That only lasted 17 years, when it was renamed Ha Ling Peak.
His feat is way more impressive than mine since there is now a parking lot half way up and clear trails to the top. He was up and down in one day from the valley. I plan to be up and down in five hours, from half way.
I have seven months to train.
Good, the waistband on my pants has shrunk and my arms have lost their tone. I’d like to greet my 65th year in shape. I’ve invited anyone who wants to go with me for A Party on the Peak.
SLI

The Pity Me Blues

Photo: Everyone has bad days, just don't make them your life.

I love the blues. Given a choice of music, I’ll go blues, jazz, classical, depending on what I’m doing. Up here in the sublime mountains, I don’t get good reception (those peaks get in my way) but I just discovered Galaxy on my cable channels.

I’m in Heaven, a Lady Singing the Blues.

There’s one song I can sing too much, however: the Pity Me Blues.

I’m not saying the occasional breakdown isn’t warranted and even good for the soul—and tear ducks—but prolonged angst is a one-way trip down. That’s what I call the Pity Me Blues.

Take the older Safeway cashier the other day. I was headed to the self check-out when I saw him standing alone with no one in his lane. Thinking it would give him some company, something to do besides standing there bored, I plunked my basket on the conveyor belt and stepped up to the credit processing center with a smile as I got out my Safeway and credit cards.

Fixing me with an annoyed look, he barked, “So you want me to unload your basket for you?”

I was flummoxed. Defensive. Apologetic. I’m not good in accusatory situations anyway, my brain scrambling for why he was making me feel as if I’d done something wrong. Something that was Not. His. Job.

I covered my fluster by getting the cards ready as he picked my items out of the basket. He then said, “I guess I’ll have to put the basket back for you,” and brushed me back as he walked past to put the basket in the stack behind the conveyor belt.

There was still no one in his line. No one waiting. The whole store was pretty empty. I remarked about this and he said it was Monday and the storewide 10 percent off day was Tuesday. So besides making me feel like I’d demanded he do work that was not in his job description, he told me that I was either a forgetful idiot or a spendthrift.

Now I always use baskets. It’s my pathetic way of limiting what I buy to what I can carry and I have a sore elbow from lugging overloaded baskets around grocery stores. I have never been chastised for putting the basket on the belt. By anyone. At any store. Ever. Even when there are huge lines and not an empty store filled only with one disaffected clerk.

My rampageous imagination filled in his background: a former CFO either forced to work after being laid off (and who would want to lose an employee with his attitude, I wonder?) or retired and dissatisfied with his pension or working to pad his pension and fill his empty hours. Whatever his story, clearly he viewed the cashier job as a comedown, beneath him, and customers who didn’t act as he thought they should insulted him. He was singing the Pity Me Blues loudly and clearly. I never saw him again, but then I never looked. I didn’t go back to Safeway for a long time after that, preferring the friendlier store down the street.

My point, and I have one, is that everyone gets the blues, but only losers give them a permanent home. You can feel bad because you hit an unfair patch in life. Rage. Cry. Assign blame. Whine if you must.

Then get over it, get out and get on.

I can now let the tears fall, the frustration break out in sobs, the feeling of doom and gloom settle over my vision. I say “now” because I couldn’t always. I kept a rigid upper lip, a firm hand on the control knob. Now I know even cowgirls get the blues. Sometimes my energy and optimism are overwhelmed. I let them whelm until the storm is over and I can see the other side. Which is almost always another way to attack the issue, a new idea, a reset button to approach it or abandon it, whichever is better. Crying clears the brain. It’s pretty good at clearing dust from the eyes, too, so you can see that everybody faces the same fact: Life Ain’t Fair.

Singing the blues is great. I riff around the house all the time.

Just don’t let it slide into an endless Pity Me Blues loop. That’s not the blues, that’s just a bad attitude.

Stopping Traffic

Photo: Cowboy (r) and Miss Kitty express their opinion of my new whistling prowess.



In my not-quite-yet old age, I have learned stuff I always wanted to know how to do.
Like whistling. Really loudly. Piercingly. Enough to stop a New York taxi or a child intent on running across a street for ice cream.
The world is divided into the majority who cannot whistle worth spit, and those few who can produce concert quality tunes and/or ear splitting whistles.
I have known how, or at least been able to produce a loud whistle, several times in my life. Always after I browbeat a stranger who knew how until they gave in and taught me everything they knew. For that I am grateful to them all. It is not their fault I didn't retain the knack. Each time I gained the knowledge, I didn't follow up on it, and forgot. Pretty quickly.
Ah hah! You say, someone who isn’t willing to practice. I guess I have to agree, but it’s not like you want to use that whistle willy nilly. (Excuse me while I add willy nilly to my EW, endangered word, list.) I mean, the high screech can scare little kids and really bug some folks. That's my excuse for not preserving what at the time seemed so simple.
Some use an index finger at each side of their lower lip. Some make a circle of their index finger and thumb and insert it in their mouth. Others do other things. What I didn't take the time to learn was how I was producing the sound. I just copy catted (another dandy EW) til I produced a satisfactory blast.
Then one night I was researching an article for the net on how to play high notes on a trumpet. Experimenting with some of the mouth positions, I hissed, as directed, and whoooosh! There it was.
I felt like I had a new toy. Since I’d discovered the technique myself—and had clear memories of losing it so easily—I happily played around with how to produce it, how to make it higher or lower—and especially louder—both with and without fingers. The concept is to create a cavity in front of your lower teeth, arch your tongue and blow air through your bottom teeth. Experiment and find your sweet tweet spot. Now that I know, I can fancy it up with misdirection and fancy unnecessary finger moves.
My cats came to sit and stare at me. They retreated when I got better. They crept closer when I stopped.
Here I am, living in bear(and cougar and coyote)country, where a really shrill whistle could literally save my life.
I plan to keep practicing. I know the key so the door should open whenever I want it to.
I also know how to tie a shoelace three different ways.
You might want to know why I would want to know this.
The answer is because when I learned there was a way to tie your shoe other than the old standby granny knot, I wanted to learn it immediately. At least, that's the story I made up, and it's partly true.
Actually it was my mother who noticed. Her personal trainer tied his shoe not in the “normal” way. My mom was a pastmistress at thinking outside the box, so she asked him about it.
I wanted to learn how.
Over the years, I have failed to practice it and had to work it out again. (I do the same thing with magic tricks, if I don’t run through them regularly, I lose the trick and have to figure it out—which isn’t bad training for how not to give it away, actually).
I bought a pair of bright orange very long shoestrings. For a buck, they serve as a training drill for my knots and a play toy for Miss Kitty.
I learned the third knot from a movie where Harrison Ford is shot, suffers brain damage, renounces his evil lawyerly old self and becomes a great old guy who had to learn how to tie his shoes from his daughter (who learned it from him—a nice touch).
So now I know three knots.
And how to taxi-whistle is Coming Soon.
Kewl.

Cheers
SLI

EeeeeewMail & Internet Etiquette

photo: Feathered friends sharing IM chuckle.





Grunts, gestures and log pounding
Long distance by foot, smoke signals and carrier pigeons
Tin can talkies, Pony Express and snail mail
Notes in a bottle, billet deux , telegrams and telephones
Satellite phones, Dick Tracy cells, PDFs and 4G
Email, FB, chatting, IM
Texting and (back to the birds) twittering ...

Woke up this morning resolved to put into practice something I thought of a month ago. It is the opposite of those glurgy email forwards that say with words, adorable kittens and music that they appreciate your email forwards even if they never respond and how emails keep friendship going and how the bond you create through sharing forwarded emails is so strong...(ad nauseum or etc. depending on your opinion of them).
For some reason in December, I stepped back and looked at my email habit. Thought: why don’t I send out a mea culpa message and allow folks to opt out. While I, wonderful, discerning person that I am, screen the stuff I get and send on only the IMHO best, perhaps there might be someone—or even two—who disagree or don’t enjoy my Best Of, or are too busy to read or whose caches are already overflowing, or who (gasp) don’t share my sense of humor. Perhaps these sensitive souls don’t want to hurt my feelings.
Well, heck, I can take it. There might even be former soulmates in my peripatetic life who don’t feel the need to keep connected to someone they may never see again. People who got along without me before they met me and would like to do it again. No ill will, just a reluctance to request me to sever the connection.
I wondered if I am an Email stalker, persisting in unwanted attentions despite a lack of encouragement. Or it could be that the silent ones on my modest list are happy to receive and not give.
I can hear the shouts of “get a life” out there, thank you; I’m just explaining the thought that struck me last month, that Email groups are the new Christmas card list. Back in the days of snail mail and thank you notes, you kept a hardcopy address book of those who once shared your life but one of you moved, or moved on, or changed jobs, spouses, neighborhoods, tax brackets, schools, interests & passions or stopped going to the gym/yoga class/Starbucks/club/board meetings/volunteer job. Ad nauseum or etc. Once a year, you would mail out cards (sometimes accompanied by the dreaded Family Newsletter) to keep connected. Some would add a message, some just sign their name. Lists got adjusted by those meticulous or insecure enough to keep track and eliminate anyone who failed to mail one.
Email forwards, being instant, effortless, free and funny/interesting /syrupy/enlightening or full of facts or import, tend to accumulate longer lists than hand-written, stamp-required cards. I’d gathered all my friends—dear, related, virtual, former and others—into a group called “Funny” and hit send.
I try to send them in BCC mode to keep from exposing their addresses to who-the-heck-knows-who, and remove the layers of addresses from those who don’t (but fear the horse is long gone from that barn). Some reply LOL, ROFLOL, :o} or Thanks! Others send an email once in a blue moon. Others never.
I decided to clean up my list. Offer to remove without prejudice anyone who doesn’t enjoy the forwards. Create a clean IMHO Fun Group 2010. With unlimited electronic memory, the addresses will still be available for breaking news.
The annual Opt Out Email. My new Internet Etiquette.
After all, if they’re not having fun, what’s the point?

SLI

It used to be easy to worry...

photo: Cowboy used to jump on top of doors in his younger days.





I know what they say, the time you waste in worry is totally wasted because things will happen whether you worry or not (worry being different than planning or preparing).
But I'm getting to the age where things could actually be permanent. Certainly the wrinkles--sorry, character lines--are here to stay.
I've been noticing things with my faithful companion Cowboy, who will, as near as we can figure (he being a rescue), be 14 on February 14 (the arbitrary birthdate I gave him). He is slower. More deliberate. It's a good day when he engages in play combat with Miss Kitty. It warms my cockles when I see him stalking her and sticking around to stick up for himself.
He thinks about leaping up to the kitty condo seat now. Prepares himself. He of the effortless leaps four and five times his height as a tiny kitten chasing a bumblebee toy on an elastic string that I had to replace over and over. For years just hearing me open the drawer I kept it in made him come running and leaping.
Cowboy will stick around when my granddaughter is here. Miss Kitty does a Mister Mistophelees vanish. At 2 last year, the WGG squealed when she saw the kitties, scaring the bejeebers out of them. She wanted to squeeze 'em. They wanted nothing to do with that. Wouldn't get close, except when we were reading quietly on the bed.
Now she's a quieter 3 and Practical Cowboy will come for treats. He keeps a distance, belly drops when caught, stays still, allows her to come close in case she has gifts, gives her the impression he likes her while keeping an avenue of escape open.
He squeals a little himself if I don't pick him up right. Lays down next to the computer, even on it a little, rests his head gently on my mouse hand. Crawls in my lap like he did as a kitten when he was so tiny he had to be picked up. Still snuggles, purrs and sleeps.
Gets me up when he's out of his favorite food. Knocks things off the desk or rattles papers in the trash to get my attention.
He's a wise one, with me. I look into the future and my throat catches at the thought of one without him, so he gets a few more treats, more coat brushing and I refill his food a little quicker.
Even Miss K, at a mature 8 going on 9, is a little slower to jump, but still loves chasing shoe strings.
So when there is an ache, my mind worries it like a bone: could it be the Big Arthur, or tobogganing down that hill? What's the twinge in the knee? The constant need for glasses. And the big one: the mind. It seems harder to organize, retains less, has a softer focus--normal...or Alzheimer's?
It used to be easy to worry, cause what I worried about hardly ever happened.
Now? I know worrying won't stop any of it, if any of it can be stopped. It might, however, make me pay attention to something that could be.
As long as I don't let it get in the way of playing with the kitties and the WGG.

Sli

Holy Moly: Tetanus!

photo: Just like this bee, gardens can sting you.



Went to the public health nurse today so she could read my TB test. Had to get a TB test because there is tuberculosis in the area and I work with school kids. When I got the under-the-skin-shot to see if I have any antibodies, I said I should get a reaction since everyone had to get TB and polio vaccine when I was growing up (mine was a sugar cube). I mentioned I didn’t get a scar from the TB test. She checked. Sure enough: no scar. She said it must not have worked.
Humph.
No reaction. Went back in three days. She confirmed this. Guess it didn’t work. There are no effective TB vaccinations for adults. We talked about vaccinations in general and she asked if I wanted a tetanus shot. I was pretty sure I’d had one in the last ten years, but not exactly when. My records are with my doc.
She told me in 2007 three seniors who had been working in their gardens on Vancouver Island in British Columbia died of tetanus.
Died? Scraped their finger on something in the garden soil? Nope, she said, tetanus is present everywhere in soil, you don’t need a rusty nail. The victims must not have realized what was wrong, tetanus not being anything we worry about in these days of H1N1.
Lockjaw kills, pretty quickly, she said. Can’t breathe. I checked: mortality rates range from 10 to 50 percent. They were 100 percent in BC.
She said a lot of seniors were courting tetanus because they don’t keep their immunizations up. Probably don’t even think about it. More worried by the flu. Seniors should have tetanus, flu and the pneumonia shot., but many don’t know it. There aren’t any school nurses to send reminders to seniors’ homes
You need a booster every 10 years for sure, but if you know you haven’t had one in five years, you can have one without doing harm.
So I got the shot.
My goal is to be able to remember in 2020 that I need another one.

SLI

The Countdown

photo: Sometimes what you're looking for is closer than you think.





I feel a little gypped. I mean, there are few enough birthdays that “mean” anything after you turn 21. Even 21 isn’t what it used to be, but after it, the birthdays are like stacked dominoes—it doesn’t matter how many dots are on them, what matters is they keep falling.
There used to be 39, which once marked the transition into middle age—and created the excuse of “middle age crisis” for men to dump wifey #1 to mount a younger trophy model on their rec room wall—but the Boomers did away with middle age. Everyone’s young these days—until they turn “old” like milk that’s gone sour. The exact expiration date this happens keeps getting pushed upwards, what with better food and preservatives and medicine and plastic surgery and Botox and every other device known to (wo)man to fend off any appearance of “character.”
Old is how you feel. You’re not old, you’re experienced. Aged to perfection. The slogan sellers are hard at work selling the idea of eternal youth. As a newspaper columnist, I did not dare call anyone under 80 old—and as an editor, I saved several reporters who used “elderly” as a modifier for someone in their 50s from being lynched—or the paper sued. It used to be “seniors” were 65. In some cases—those that haven’t yet been taken to court—this still holds, but few public figures use any adjective relating to age accumulation before 80 without a great deal of thought.
So this year of 64 is not a countdown to much of anything. I can apply for social security or pension as early as 60. I’ve been getting the seniors discount since my hair turned silver in my 40s. Qualified for AARP at 50. The vanishing frontiers of old age keep getting pushed further away by the advancing horde of Boomers.
Which kind of makes this “When I’m 64” thing less fun. We really are healthier, wealthier, better offier, but no Scouts open doors for us, no one respects our experience, no exclusive clubs offer membership.
There are perks. There have to be. There should be rewards for living this long. When I find them I will report. I have 8 months. Stay tuned.

SLI

Happy 20-10!

photo: My saucy mom will be 88 in March, you go girl!




I think it’s settled, we’ll call this 20-10. I wasn’t even aware there was any discussion about what to call it until a few weeks ago. I kind of favored 2-10, but then I preferred “doubloonie” for the Canadian two dollar coin, which they call the toonie,
By whatever name, it feels like it’s gonna be a pistol, as my dad used to say. Woke up this morning feeling good, all systems go, left the worries behind in 09; an excellent place for them,
Said to myself in the mirror: Good Morning, Sunshine! Be kind. Be nice. Think before you speak.
And that’s as good a mantra as I know. Works for resolutions, too. My logo for 20-10.
Off to a few New Year’s Day buffets then to see my son and daughter-in-law up from LA. Altogether a beautiful day. May there be many of them for all of us!

SLI