Hearing them

I’m in trouble! A mysterious injury is causing me to limp. Has been causing me to step gingerly. My other foot protested at the extra work and is now on strike. It is hard to limp when both feet are involved.  And this morning an old shoulder injury has asserted itself with a twang.  

If my mother were here, she would have given me some kind and wise advice. Something so simple and practical that I wouldn’t have thought of it myself if I lived to be 100. 

If my dad were here he would have said, “growing old is for the birds!”

If my brother were here he would have made me laugh at myself, my foot, and life in general.   

And if my sister were here, she would have regaled me with her own woeful tales and then added by way of explanation, “old, old, old!”  

I miss those voices but I hear them still. 

History on rewind

Because my husband and I weren’t born yet when What's My Line was a weekly game show, we have been cranking back the hands of time and increasing our knowledge of the 50’s at the same time by watching reruns on YouTube.  Isn’t YouTube a boon to mankind? 

The host and panel members of What’s My Line dressed in marvellous specimens of fashions of the decade. Glamorous gowns and beehive hairstyles. Evening suits with bow ties. Even the odd tux. It’s worth watching just to see the fabulous dresses and hair piled high! 

The host was a paragon; articulate and droll, funny and gallant. His name was John Daly (He had four sons all named John! Sort of like Dr Seuss and his Thing One and Thing Two. It’s good they had middle names to fall back on) 

I think while watching, we are learning things we never knew.  A variation of educational entertainment and history on rewind. 

elusive

Want to feel as homely as a mud fence? No? Well don't look in the mirror at the Hair Dressers then.
For goodness sake, avert your gaze. Otherwise you'll find yourself staring in disbelief, your eyes locked on your homely self.
Hair, wet and lank and limply hanging about your ears.
A mysteriously developed double chin.
A haunted look.
Mirror, mirror on the wall....
Hey, remember when the Hair Dressers used to be called the Beauty Parlor.
Well, I suppose.
After.
Not during though.
Definitely NOT during.

Cuteness can be so elusive.
My little granddaughter has only been four a short week.
"I don't want to grow up," she lamented. "I want to stay cute and little."
"Cute and little?" I say, surprised.
"You'll always be cute," I assure her.
"You'll be cute even when you're a little old lady."
I smile confidently.
"No I won't," she says shaking her head. "You aren't, Gramma."

 Elusive.

strangest thing

Yesterday,
crossing a street in Fort Langley,
leaves blowing on the wind,
I felt the strangest thing.

That the wind could blow
and there I would be,
18 again and a student at Trinity,
walking in Fort Langley without having experienced all the things that have happened in the interval of time.

had to be there

"Teenagers are getting arthritis," she exclaimed, her emphasis on the word teenager. "It's because of the texting," she added incredulously, and I imagined a generation of seniors unable to grasp their canes.
Isn't eaves dropping a revelation?
When I began to tell my husband what I had just heard I began to laugh and couldn't stop.
It was because of Far Side. I suddenly remembered an old Far Side comic about a Boneless Chicken Ranch.
I think you had to be there.

smile of youth

I met an elderly man yesterday who reminded me of my dad.
Of my dad as an elderly man.
The same slight build.
The same clear, friendly eyes.
A people person.
Frail and dear.
He told me he hitch-hiked across Europe as a young man, and that he liked the Scandinavian countries best.
Because of the beautiful girls, he admitted.
He loved to hike and swim in those days.
And he loved horses, had Welsh ponies for years.
But he remembered those beautiful Scandinavian girls.

He was a veteran like my dad.
Had raised a family.
His wife died just a few weeks ago.

He seemed to have an inner light.
A quiet courage.
His deep set blue eyes were red-rimmed with age.
But he had the smile of youth.

happy new

Oh how I've missed my blog! Dare I in the spirit of newness determine to more frequently put words down that record bits and pieces of life as it rumbles by?
As it roars by.
As is spins me in circles?
It's not that I think of blogging as a diary.
Although, it can sort of work like one.
"Can it really be two years ago?" I will exclaim to myself on looking back at a story.
No, not a diary, but definitely a record of life in a way that I find so helpful.
It's helpful in the writing.
Helpful in allowing me to sometimes see more clearly.
I don't always even know what I'm feeling about something until I write it down.
Words on a page stare back at you and demand to be honest. It's why I sometimes write my prayers.
I've had a two steps forward, one step back sort of 2015.
And at times, one step forward, two steps back, or three, or four. A sort of snakes and ladders year.
Lots of snakes.
But some very amazing ladders too!
I always thought some magical mantle of maturity would fall from the sky when I hit a certain age. That I would feel calm and dignified in the face of personal failings. Or better yet, would be free at last from embarrassing blots on my daily record and would become a wise and winsome creature.
I consulted Wikipedia and this is how it defines maturity- maturity is the ability to respond to the environment in an appropriate manner. This response is generally learned rather than instinctive. 
Hmmm, appropriate manner is so vague. That's good right?
And it's learned, not instinctive.That's hopeful too isn't it?
Maybe only insurance policies mature at a certain time.
Bet that's true.
Happy New.

vintage woman

"That was a car from the nineties," my grandson observes, turning in the truck to look out the side window.
"From the nineties...how can you tell?" I ask.
"They just look different," he kindly explains. "They're an older style."
I do the math.
"When I was your age," I say, "an older style was a car from the fifties."
"The fifties!!" he exclaims.
"That was more than fifty years ago."
"They would be antiques now," I muse.
"Grandma, you're an antique.
Because you're more than fifty years old."
"Well," I bluster.
"Not an antique. I'm not antique. Maybe vintage..."
A vintage woman.
Sure sounds better than an antique one.

70's

"Oh, I remember that," my daughter exclaimed, her voice warm.
There are still some fragments of the past, languishing in my garage (wow, what an understatement) and I have been determined to get to the bottom of them.
To unpack them.
To unearth them.
To free them.
And me.

The blue jean bag slouching on the bench was made by my teen age self in the seventies.
I lined it with a very funky print and painted the apple on the flap. I happily used it for a block of time.
Teen age time.

Days danced onward and my own daughter happily used the bag for a block of time.
Teen age time.
Maybe one of my granddaughters will find it is just the thing to sling over her shoulder and stride off into the morning.

keep walking

If Spring Fever ever strikes you while you already have Cabin Fever, you may find yourself taking your frail, elderly mother to the movies.
You may find yourself including an elderly friend to round out the party.

If this ever happens to you, follow these important steps to ensure a successful time.

Look at the clock and count backward. Take the start time of the movie and divide it by the distance from the car multiplied by the time it takes to put on shoes and stock up on Kleenex and then leave a few minutes earlier to be on the safe side. Remember, rushing is not in the vocabulary of women who have passed their 89th birthdays.

Park at the theatre entry.

Walk into the theatre.
Keep walking.
And walking.

Make sure everyone is balanced and propped up adequately while you  pay for tickets.

Inquire needlessly about senior discounts.

Pay 15 dollars for the whole lot of you,
Remember that youthful clerks also work from a mathematical formula.
White hair times canes, divided by the likelihood of everyone living long enough to see the whole movie.

Head for theatre entry number nine.
Walk across lobby.
Keep walking.
And walking.

See movie name over door.
Saving Mr. Banks.

Sit in back row.

Watch movie trailers.
Watch movie trailers.
Tell ladies there are only a few more trailers left.
Watch movie trailers.
Assure ladies the movie won't be as loud.
Watch movie trailers.

Watch movie.
Enjoy movie but hope no one else is shocked, crushed or dismayed.
Note that your companions are stoic in the face of tragedy.
Note that your companions are watching with rapt attention.
Ponder last time mother has been to the theatre.
Consider the 1960's as a possibility but realize that the 1940's may be more accurate.

Sit through the ending of story.
Sit through credits.
Sit.

Make your way to car.
Keep walking.
And walking.

Drive home older and wiser and amazingly relaxed.

dizzying circle

At just past midnight last night, it occurred to me why Darth Vader never remarried.
That moment of clarity came as my husband slumbered on.
Snored on.
It also occurred to me that the person who falls asleep first wins.
It is a contest that I am destined to lose these days.
The cycle of life has swept me along in a dizzying circle and brought me back to my youthful beginnings as a married woman.
I didn't sleep well then either, not because of Darth, but because my ears were tuned to the slightest stirrings of my children.
To their faltering step, their coughs and squeaks.
I slept in fitful batches then and dreamed in fragments.
The days and years passed by.
My aged mother lives with us now.
She is caught in a cycle of her own.
She has become as vulnerable as a little child.
I lay awake and listen for her faltering step.
I sleep in fitful batches and dream in fragments.
And I listen grimly to Darth.
This morning,  tea in hand, my husband defended himself by reminding me that I too snore.
"I am woman, hear me roar," was my callous response.
Lack of sleep will do that.

my favourites

I haven't really stopped to think about self-image lately.
About how I see myself.
I did learn how someone else sees me though.
Today, in the library.
Beside the magazine rack.
A very little boy made his way through a forest of legs until he was beside me and called back to his father.
"I want THAT Christmas book. The one by the Grandma."
A question mark formed over my head.
The Christmas book was really a foodie magazine with a frosted Christmas cookie on the cover and the father and son were soon snuggled in an arm chair, 'reading' it together.
The question mark followed me home though, and I have pulled it out and looked it over a few times this evening.
I am a grandma.
A real life grandma.
And I love being a grandma.
Mind you I'm a very, very young one, right?
Now, it's not that I mind aging.
It's just that I saw myself as a person of no particular age.
I think that's it.
I saw myself as me.
The girl who became a woman.
But I guess I am the girl who became a grandmother.
And I celebrate that.
But there is still a feeling there.
An important feeling.
We are much more than how we are perceived by others.
I was never just a child or a teen or a mom or a grandma.
Those names are just titles.
I was who I would become and am who I was all rolled together.
Looks can be deceiving, but in this case the child spoke truth as children do so well, and as titles go, grandma is one of my favourites.

special

We celebrated my birthday today, a smidge early.
That just spreads out the joy, as my Mother would say.
When my grandchildren arrived, my grandson was wearing a tie. His mother confided that he had chosen to wear it himself, in honor of the occasion.
I was flattered.
And charmed.
Even now, hours later, I still feel a special glow.
I think it's called happiness.

stay friends

My four year old granddaughter's birthday is on the horizon, just a few weeks away.
Perhaps this is why she suddenly, plaintively confided, "I don't want to get older." I put my arms around her and she added wistfully, "I enjoyed being three."
Dear, dear little girl.
I felt such a conflicting rush of emotion.
I wanted to laugh of course.
Why are the heartfelt sentiments of children so funny I wonder?
But, children are very wise and often grasp essential elements sooner than an adult would.
I noted that she didn't say she enjoyed being four, but was looking with longing a little further back.
I can clearly remember feeling the same way.
Still do at moments.
I also remembered her mother saying something very similar as a tiny child, and her big brother too for that matter.

Aging has its charms and compensations but it can be hard to let go of one stage to take hold of the next.
We can stay friends with the child within us all of our lives though.

remembering

The lights were dim.
The auditorium packed.
We were breathlessly following the story unfolding on the stage.
The Sound Of Music is set in a perilous place and time.
For a while this afternoon we almost forgot we were watching a play.
And while we forgot, it seems someone was remembering.
The Officer of the Third Reich raised his arm in a salute and barked, "Hiel Hitler."
Directly across the aisle from me, an elderly man's face contorted and his hand flew to his mouth.

something white

I am fascinated by this photo of my grandmother.
Is it because I can see an echo of both her father and her mother in her face, and the shadow of my mother as well?
Or is it her steady, level gaze of quiet confidence?
Her bearing almost regal?
Well, it should be, but I find that I can't tear my eyes away from her hair.
Such hair.
So richly dark.
The grandma of my memory did not have mysteriously dark hair.
By then, It had begun its sure and steady transformation from brown through grey to white.

As I played with my grandchildren on the weekend, my little granddaughter sang out,  "I Spy With My Little Eye, something that is white."
Turned out to be my hair.
I thought in exclamation points.
What?!
My hair is just beginning its sure and steady transformation.
Isn't it?

This evening, as I flipped down the visor of my daughter's car and gazed into the mirror, I was mesmerized by the sight of strands of hair, my hair, curling up and catching the light, like something white.

earning a star

I broke a tooth flossing.
Now how does that saying go about an old horse and its teeth?
Never mind. My dentist kindly assured me that it had absolutely nothing to do with my age although he did have to back pedal abit when he started in about old fillings.
As I sat limply in the chair listening to the drill and concentrating on breathing around mouth guards, I reminded myself of the joy of rewards. I have a hard and fast rule that a visit to the dentist is worthy of a reward for being a brave girl. My mother may have started this when I was six or seven but it seems a tradition worth maintaining don't you think?
It wasn't long at all until I staggered from the dentist chair and steered my car to the nearest thrift shop. A brief wander and my spirits rebounded wonderfully.
There is always the thrill of the hunt at a thrift store, the possibility of uncovering a treasure and sure enough, a chip carved ornament was there like a gift amongst the clutter.
A little reward, like earning a star.

i am a girl

I am a girl. I know this is true because my little granddaughter told me and children are very wise.
Girls often love dolls and I am no exception.
In fact, the very first doll I have a clear memory of belonged to my mother.

My great grandmother Minerva was an artistic and resourceful woman, a mother of ten children.
She crafted dolls for my mother and her two little sisters out of wood, and wool, cotton and leather.
These wooden dolls didn't grow up and leave home like the little girls they were made for.
They stayed at home to keep my grandmother company.
Time passed and a new generation of little girls climbed the wide cedar stairs to my grandmother's log house and sat on her braided rug surrounded by handcrafted toys.
My mother's wooden doll was dressed in red velveteen with tights made from an old pair of stockings. Her little lace up shoes were fashioned from leather. Hand tatted lace adorned her neckline and sleeve. These details were lost on me, but I do remember her golden hair, burnished cedar, and her welcoming wooden hands, her steady, reassuring smile.
These were a ruse as it turned out.
Clasping her about the middle and lifting her always resulted in a solid meeting of foreheads.
The thunk would be followed by indignant tears.
"She's not very friendly is she," my grandmother would soothe.
I grew wary and wise, or perhaps childhood affection won the doll over at last.
That old doll and I had many happy afternoons together before I was caught in the fast moving stream of time and swept away into teenage years and beyond.
Decades marched swiftly by and my mother lives with me now, she and her dollie. My own daughters are children of yesterday, and at last, my own grandchildren climb my stair........

like artwork

I love old buildings.
And I love old windows, especially when a pane is missing like a front tooth, leaving a blackened space.
Can you imagine cleaning all those little panes?
The graying wood, the water darkened boards and little rectangles of sky are somehow satisfying.
I could stand and gaze at them like artwork in a gallery.

stick to vanilla

I can't believe I need reading glasses.
And I'm so young.
I suppose that is partly to blame for the cookie calamity.
The glasses part, not the young part.
Well, actually, I was tired and not paying attention when it happened. Cooking while tired is not without its hazards.
I dont' believe glasses would have helped after all. We see what we think we see.
I thought I saw almond extract.
It was actually peppermint.
I didn't notice while I stirred and mixed.
It was only upon reaching the heat of the oven that the essential oils did what they do so well.
Of course, as always,  lessons were learned.
I learned that Christmas cookie recipes can not be tampered with.
Once trained, our taste buds become set in their ways.
I learned that we don't like peppermint cookies.
But, my grandchildren, who have taste buds that are still open minded, didn't mind them at all.
And I learned, when in doubt, stick to vanilla.