Growing Old Without Grace

It's June 24th, three days into summer, and my garden and clocks (I'm a whimsical and funky clockmaker--my clocks, not me) are beckoning me to leave my computer behind for a while and tend to other things. 

I've put the final touches on my new book "Growing Old Without Grace" (a compilation of posts from this blog) and in a few weeks it will be available at Amazon.com.

Have a great summer.

The Fountain of Youth

We've been hearing for some time that forty is the new thirty and fifty is the new forty,  but that is no longer true.  Now, in the second decade of the twenty-first century, forty is the new twenty, fifty is the new thirty, and if you can do simple math you can extrapolate from there all the way up to ninety where the twenty-year subtraction ends.  Ninety is ninety.  Sorry Mother.  

Never before in the history of mankind has this age-reducing phenomenon occurred.  What a drastic change from only a few decades ago when forty was considered old.  Women wore their hair short with tight salt and pepper curls hugging the scalp.  Have a few cavities?  No problem.  Just yank those suckers out and get yourself a nice white set of false teeth.   Can't see close up anymore?  How about these exceptionally ugly glasses with a line across the middle?  Are you stressed?  Have another cigarette with your Valium, Honey, and go sit out in the sun for a few hours.  But don't be late for dinner because we're having your favorite:  good old fashioned country-fried chicken with mashed potatoes and gravy, macaroni and cheese, green beans cooked in bacon grease,  all the white bread you can stuff in your mouth, and Grandma's apple pie ala mode.  What?  Can't get up from the table after all that food?  No problem.  Just crawl on over to the couch and take a nap.  We'll wake you up when it's time for bed.

We can stop looking for the fountain of youth.  It's been found.  The discovery has been a joint effort by many interested parties:

Baby Boomers.  Since the 1960's, baby boomers have refused to accept business as usual, and they also subscribe to the Second Law of Thermodynamics: Without proper care and maintenance, all things fall apart.

Plastic surgeons.  These people have no interest in monetary gain.  They just love, love, love making people look pretty.  Oh, and they like big boobs, too.  It's a thing with them.  I don't know why.  But it has nothing to do with money, though. No, really.  It doesn't.

Banks/credit card companies.  These companies derive pleasure from loaning money to people who want to look young and beautiful.  It's not about the money, so don't even go there.  They just don't want old, ugly customers.  It's that simple. 

Nutritionists/Exercise gurus.  These people are sadists and that's all I'm going to say about them.

Aging Movie Stars.  These highly trained experts on anti-aging don’t want to get paid for their expertise on anti-aging.  They’re stinking rich already.  They just want to share their beauty secrets with you.  No, really.  It’s true.
 
Pharmaceutical companies.    Altruistic in nature, always concerned about the welfare of the populace, these companies enjoy playing in their labs making products that can be injected, inserted, consumed, and applied by the masses of people who just want to look twenty years younger than their actual age.

Dr. Oz.  Speaking of looking twenty years younger than your actual age, Dr. Oz has a website for that.  www.RealAge.com.  Yes, if you act now, you can actually shed twenty years and not even get out of your chair.  But wait; there's more.  Dr. Oz has absolutely no interest in money.  He just loves to help people.


Can you tell which one of the two women below is older?

You guessed it.  The one on the right.  That picture was taken on Mother's Day 2012 and my sister Lynnette is fifty-two.  The picture on the left is our grandmother and it was taken on Mother's Day 1942; she was fifty.

Always Consider the Heart

 (Originally written June 26, 2010)

"Do you think these clothes just magically pick themselves up off the floor and walk to the closet, young lady? What do I look like? Your personal maid?"

Oh, no! I was turning into my mother, and no one at 11490 Trails End was happy about that.

It was the summer of 1978, and I was renting a quaint little cottage on the banks of White River in Fishers, Indiana, when I suggested to my parents that my sister, Lynnette, move in with me. She was going to school to become an artist, accountant, or arborist.  She hadn't made up her mind yet and her eenie meenie miny moeing was creating tension at home. The plan was for me to help their eighteen-year-old daughter catch that elusive tiger by the tail and focus on one specific career.

She went through all the A's and then the B's before settling on an occupation in the C's. Dad was hoping she would go as far as the D's and become a doctor, and Mother had her heart set on the letter M, as in Married with Children. But Lynnette wasn't listening to her parents, and it was becoming quite clear that this headstrong Taurus, no matter where she lived, would follow her own agenda.

"I guess you haven't met Mr. Sponge and Mrs. Dawn yet," I said one day when she walked into the kitchen and caught me cursing at a sink full of dirty dishes. "Do you think that these dishes will magically wash themselves and then climb back up into the cabinets? What do I look like? Your personal maid?"

Oh, my! Not only had I become my mother, but I had borrowed the record that she used to play for me, and I was now playing it for my sister. I was supposed to be a positive influence and a role model, but instead I was a nag and a not-so-nice nag at that.

What made nagging at my sister difficult were those big innocent eyes that appeared to say, "What did I do, Sissy? I'm sorry. I'll do better. I promise." Errrrrrr! How can you be mad at Bambi? Oh, trust me, I managed to find a way.

"How nice! A dark brown ring around the tub? Was Bambi taking a bath today? What am I now, the baby doe's personal maid?"

One day, while I was being particularly rough on my sister, it hit me. Did she mean to track mud on the carpet and burn a hole in my favorite blouse? Did she leave the knee-high pile of dirty clothes in the hallway just for spite? The dried up macaroni and cheese container stuck between the sofa cushions...was that left there on purpose to aggravate me? When she and her boyfriend backed out of the driveway and ran over my 1962 mint-condition MG Midget, was she testing me? Were her actions malicious and mean-spirited, or was she just simply being eighteen and, duh, clueless?

It was the uncontrollable sobbing that finally got to me. Was I being too hard on my little sister? Should I have taken a more gentle approach? Did she need more time to mature into a responsible adult? Did I need to give her some slack? It does make perfect sense that before we get angry and spew hurtful words, we should always consider the heart. My sister was a sweet girl with an innocent heart; she was not guilty of malfeasance, only immaturity. But, even with this realization and new-found clarity, I still could not stop crying. So I moved out.

Whatever

"Just to let you know, Mom, tomorrow I'm turning eighteen, and I'm going to get a tattoo and pierce my ear, and there's nothing you can do about it because I'll be emancipated," Jason barked as he shuffled out the front door wearing bright orange hair, low-slung baggy pants, a wrinkled T-shirt, and a filthy Fighting Cocks baseball hat.

"That's nice, Jason.  Since you'll be on your own now, here's an invoice for your half of the mortgage, utilities, and groceries.  Oh, and see this car insurance bill?  That one is all yours, sweetheart!" I said, but he was already in his buddy's car with the radio's base punishing anyone within 100 yards.

I knew early on that raising Jason was not going to be easy.  He made that perfectly clear on Day One.  "Nope!  I'm not sucking on that thing.  Are you kidding me? No way! I'll starve first!" Then on Day Three he stopped breathing and the doctors said he might not make it.  But he did make it, and J.J. and I took him home on Day Seven.  On Day Nine, his lungs filled up with fluid and the doctor said it could be pneumonia, but it wasn't.   On Day Ten, the combination of stress, anxiety, fear, worry, and finally relief caught up with me, and Jason and I could be heard crying in unison from the old white farm house on South Morgantown Road.

On Day One Thousand Ninety Five, my son and I found ourselves alone--husbandless/fatherless--in The Stonehedge Apartments in Greenwood.  Jason wasn't really without a father; he just didn't live with him anymore.   It was Jason's apartment; I was the necessary roommate he tolerated because I was the one with the money.  Also, I could cook, clean house, do laundry, pay the bills, reach the ice cream in the freezer, and drive a car, which came in handy when you're only 38" tall and have a mind of a three-year-old.

I could tell you stories about Jason's life from zero to eighteen as a wannabe independent free agent, but I signed a confidentiality agreement when he was ten, during the time he thought he was Michael Jackson.  It's true.  He really did think he was The Gloved One, M.J., Wacko Wacko Jacko, Smelly Applehead Mike.  I have proof; it's in the safe, but unfortunately I can't share it with you, unless, that is, there's a significant amount of money involved.  Then I might be persuaded to snitch.  I have my retirement to consider, you know.

After Jason's stint as the energetic, overactive, hyper King of Pop, he slipped into a slouching, somber, slo-mo "Whatever" stage.  He was still a free agent in his mind, but now he wanted absolutely no attention, interference, or instruction (no picture-taking allowed either) from the outside world, meaning outside himself and his few selected friends.

"What would you like for dinner tonight, Jason?"

"Whatever."

"I need to wash your sheets, Jason.  Could you please clear a path to your bed?"

"Whatever."

 "You do realize that getting D's and F's could keep you from graduating high school, right?"

"Whatever."

On Day Six Thousand Five Hundred and Seventy, Jason pierced his ear.  Remember the father who did not live with his son?  Before the diamond stud saw the setting sun on Jason's emancipation day, Daddy was back home...sitting on the doorstep...waiting for his son.  I'm sorry but I'm bound by the confidentiality agreement to not discuss this any further, but I'm pretty certain that court records are available to the public. 

It's Day Eleven Thousand Three Hundred and Sixty-Two;  Jason is thirty-one now and holds no resemblance to the defiant "whatever" free agent from thirteen years ago.  I had my concerns about his ability to successfully navigate and negotiate his way through some of his not-so-good choices, but my worries were for naught.  At twenty-four he turned a corner and ran smack into maturity, and he has been making his mom proud ever since.

Day Six Thousand Two Hundred and Five