At My Age, It's Just Our Third Anniversary

It was love at first sight. She was so bright-eyed and full of life. Young and old couldn't stay away from her, and neither could I.

So the little black scottish terrier came home with me on October 15th, 2005. I named her Islay, after my most favorite Scottish island, pronounced "eye-lah" by the way, and we set about getting to know each other in the way that men who think they know dogs are managed immediately and completely by a four-footed who has a much clearer view of the world.

The three years has gone by in a blink, and without too many ups and downs. Oh, there was the time she took off, and by the time I found her fifteen minutes later, my heart was stuck in my throat...for about two days, as I remember it. Then she had a stay at my favorite kennel and was beginning to have some digestive problems until an old friend dognapped her, pirate style, and kept her with her menagerie of beasts until my return.

When she arrived at my old farmhouse, I thought about putting her in a crate or keeping her in a small room overnight, but that lasted about two, maybe three nano seconds. Now she leaps onto a storage container at the foot of the bed, and then onto the bed itself. Immediately, she finds a place nearby, generally where I have planned to put my feet.

She did this last night, so I moved to the middle of the bed, and when I awoke she had moved to the head of the bed where I normally put mine. d If I slumber too long, she will move herself next to me and then roll gently into me just enough to get me to open my eyes.

Her alternative solution to the problem is to leap down from the bed and walk around it, her nails clicking on the floor, and then I am up like a shot at hearing those sounds.

Quite a few scotties have been part of my life, and I have loved them all, even the paraplegic one I inherited from my mother, but none of them comes close to Islay in energy, creativity, leaps and jumps, showing affection.

Dog lovers will understand what I mean when I write that she makes me a better person, that she brings ineffable joy to my life each and every day, she makes me walk and ride my geezer trike with her trotting alongside. She comes to the office and watches over us, greeting the letter carrier, delivery person, or guest with tail-wags and a sense of excitement.

It is a true statement that I cannot imagine my life without her.

Islay came to me from the local Humane Society. They told me that she was found wandering in Saint Paul by Animal Control staff. I don't know whether that's true or not, but I do know that whatever conspiracy it was which allowed her to become part of my life is a conspiracy for which I am deeply grateful.

So if you think you might be able to help out an animal, dog or cat or gerbil or whatever, visit your local humane society. If you find a new companion, you can be sure that it will open your heart in new ways and make your days full of sunshine, and your gift will be repaid a thousand-fold.

You are hereby warned.

Blowing Your Troubles Away

I find myself fretting quite a lot about the current economic situation, and I'm asking myself the same questions you are - about having enough money for the rest of the ride, about diversifying my investments, about cutting back on current expenses, and about having a little pile of cash to help us work our way through this new jungle in which we find ourselves.

It has occurred to me that fretting is pretty much a waste of time and that it is better to be proactive. My idea came from something I saw recently on a trip to the North shore of Lake Superior. On a beautiful sunny day, there were some kids blowing bubbles; all it took was a jar of soapy water and a little metal thingie to hold a the liquid in place until it could be blown into a bubble and subsequently into the air. There was much whooping and laughter, and even some gamboling going on.

K reported that a few weeks later, she and a couple of her relatives blew bubbles along a particularly beautiful part of the shore, and it brought them immeasurable pleasure.

She told a friend from church who subsequently took her hiking group to the same spot to blow bubbles, and they, too, found doing that a "hoot."

So, I think we should find ourselves a jar of bubble juice - it comes with the metal thingie inside, and it's very inexpensive, so when you're feeling down about your/our situation, head outside and blow away your troubles with bubbles. Watch them float away on the breeze, sparkle in the light, and then disappear. Get your friends together to blow your troubles away, laugh, and gambol, and have some fun.

Much cheaper than a trip to the shrink, and perhaps even better for your state of mind, even if only for a little while.

Blow away your troubles in bubbles...it's the next participatory fad, and you heard it here first.

Wh-o-o-o-o-o-o-sh.....

The Family Reunion

Last weekend, eighty-six in our family gathered at a resort in northern Minnesota to, uh, well, you know....If you were under twelve, you were bored, heavily involved in fun, and getting to know relatives you had only heard about.

If you were middle-aged, you watched your children meet other members of the family, swam, golfed, boated, canoed, played tennis, and managed to find your way to the fermented and distilled areas so thoughtfully provided by resort management for refreshments.

If you were in the geezer generation, you talked and talked and talked and talked...mainly about now, but family stories were bubbling up all over the place. You noted family resemblances, admired new spouses, clucked over the occasional divorced, but mainly took pleasure in seeing the family find ways of making new friendships and renewing old ones.

Long ago, many of us lived in Minnesota, but now we have dispersed all over the place, and getting together is not easy. It's not just the challenge of getting from place A to place B; it's the realization that to maintain a family takes considerable effort, as much an act of will as an act of love.

And it is at such events that one becomes palpably aware of those who preceded us, not only in previous generations who made us possible but also those who have departed more recently - the pain of these departures has not yet been eased by time. 

So the stories and the pictures we brought to share take on another dimension, because if we do not do these things, who will there be to tell them at some future reunion?

Giving & Receiving

As one ages, there are three phases of stuff which arrives in the daily mail. The "introductory" phases is that first mailing from the American Association of Retired Persons (AARP) which arrives around one's fiftieth birthday. This is a great opportunity to stomp around the room sermonizing about several topics - I'm too young, how did they know I was about to become fifty, why would I ever belong to that, and lastly and reluctantly, well perhaps I ought to consider joining...later.

Phase two begins with innumerable invitations to discuss your retirement with a veritable cascade of organizations and people, all deeply interested in helping you surmount the reality of your failing cash flow, your failing health, your failing abilities to manage yourself in your home, and your inevitable final trip after you have tumbled off your perch. This phase runs from the early sixties to the late sixties.

The third phase has to do with giving to worthy organizations, none of which will be able to survive another week without your committing to a bequest giving program, a big check now, an annuity deal, a charitable remainder trust, or some other device to empty your exchequer on behalf of some worthy organization. Comely lasses will chat with you for yours about your uniqueness and special relationship to their organizations and how long you will be remembered for having shifted a little something in the direction of their organizations.

Not long before my mother died, she decided to make her "bequest gifts" while she was still on deck. She asked me to write letters to accompany her check asking only that the gift be acknowledged in the way that the IRS required and that no matter how long she lived, all she wanted to hear from the organization was an annual report. All of the organizations she supported complied with her request, and there was one young woman from the University Museum in Chapel Hill who would take Mother out to lunch and never mention anything to do with money, for which act of personal charity she has been widely admired by my family.

My mail box is full of attractive invitations to benefits, projects to support, organizations on the boards of which I have served over the years, and frankly, the plethora of paper is beginning to wear me and the guy who picks up the recycling box every week out.

Better, i think, to look to the youngsters in their forties, tasting success, full of energy, in their peak earning years, and still unaware that the great American giant of Ageing, the AARP, is readying the first warning that the end is approaching. Leave the rest of us aged souls to think on the sins of our youths as we approach the end of our perch, without the accumulated guilt of not supporting organizations with which we were associated three or more decades ago.

Where The Hell Are We Going?

The heat and humidity are late arrivals this summer, but the merest intimations of them remind us that forms of suffocation pervade our lives these days. Air conditioning or a fan will help us deal with hot damp weather, but I don't have a clue what will help us deal with the national angst which drips from every news channel, newspaper, radio talk show, Potomac-Gas-Bag-Observers-And-Experts, and political compaign ad. All of it oozes around us and sucks our independent intelligence from us through sports, "reality tv," and the natural human tendency to ignore bad news.

Over the weekend I heard an expert point out that the taxes we pay from January through the end of April just about cover the interest on the national debt; military losses in Afghanistan exceed those in Irac; Iran pees on the leg of every western country as it pursues its nuclear strategies; the cost of food and fuel rises unabated; one presidential candidate doesn't seem to have a clue, and the other finds it challenging to provide specific proposals to move us forward.

It's not just curmudgeons like me who are cranky; it's everybody, and with good reason.

Most of us, and I include myself here, have not been paying attention to the fracturing of our constitution, the larcenous behavior of fat-cats (and a nearly invisible Vice-President), and a White House administration which has had as its most notable accomplishment ineptitude on an inter-galactic scale.

Even my conservative friends are counting the days, minutes, hours, and seconds until "this lot" departs in January, 2009. There is no guarantee that what follows will be better.

But it could hardly be worse....could it?

Playing Games for Better Health

About a year ago, I acquired a Nintendo Wii game system. My stated rationale was that I needed to have some sort of target practice game to help improve my vision after a bout of retinal surgery, but as any man knows, you invent all sorts of stuff to justify getting a new toy.

I had been to an educational technology conference a while back and spent part of one evening watching some adolescent boys and girls playing on several of the available "platforms." I realized then that I had completely misunderstood what today's games were about in terms of subtlety, strategy, and just plain fun. And I was marginally involved in a project which involved some applications of these technologies, and I thought finding out more about these things would be, well, fun - there's that word again.

After nine months of shooting balloons, targets, clay pigeons, pop cans (soda cans for those of you outside the American midwest) and aliens trying to capture miniature versions of a character whom I created and looks very like me, except much thinner [of course]), my scores increased, and I think my reaction time sped up some. Or I prefer to think so.

A couple of months ago, Wii came out with a game called Wii "Fit." It comes with a balance board which collects all sorts of data about the person using it, and it has games involving yoga, strength, aerobics, and balance. I managed to find one at a local store, took it home, and set it up immediately.

Two years ago I had a hip replaced, so there had been several years of gimping around before surgery but a good recovery thereafter. That said, I also felt that I wasn't walking as efficiently as I would like. So in the ten days of working with "Fit," I have focussed on games related to balance, along with some yoga. (I figure that in time, I'll begin messing around with the other two areas, but balance has been a big concern, especially after an icy winter year before last when I found myself on the pavement seven - count 'em - seven times.

In a short period of time, I have improved my balance both statistically and in the way I feel about my moving through my every day life. Even K has jumped on the balance board and we are now in direct competition, especially in the slalom race where she has led from the git-go. I am determined to catch up, no matter how long it takes.

No, I don't think that using this game alone will make me fit. But it will make me a healthier person in some important ways, and when I read that rehab centers are using the Wii for patients recovering from strokes, I understand. Just walking more efficiently has helped heaps.

The Wii may be a game system, but if you approach it in the right way, it will add new dimensions to your life which you may never have imagined.

I never expected to compete with K in the slalom, nor she with me, but this is seriously fun stuff, and good for both of us. You might want to park your talent for prejudging things and have a look. I'm very glad I did.

The Old Cottonwood Tree

A storm came through last night, and we had quite a lot of rain...a good old-fashioned midwestern rain; it went on for nearly an hour and then moved east to pester our neighbors in Wisconsin.

Islay the scottish terrier and I met the dawn well before six and started around the north end of the lake on our morning constitutional, she trotting companionably besides me in my semi-recumbent "geezer" trike, and I pedalling at the speed she requires.

Generally, we go half a mile on the bikeway/walkway next to the road to the first intersection before turning around to head back home. On the way back today, I was startled to discover that the giant cottonwood located a hundred yards from my house had snapped close to the base, and most of it was now resting in the water, about where the youngish and oldish fisherpersons often convene to take it the mighty walleye and bass which lurk in our small lake.

"Damn," I said to Islay, while I wondered why I had taken no note of this significant event on the first leg of our jaunt. I explained to myself that it was early, I was concentrating on Islay, and that my neural processing had not moved from the idling gear it had been in through the night.

That tree was the tallest one near the shore on the north end of the lake. It was mighty when I moved into my house thirty years ago, and it marked a good fishing spot where in midday, there was some shade; it also had become a home for the occasional bald eagle which stopped by to fish in his or her own way; it was, in every respect, a tree one just enjoyed looking at (or at which one enjoyed looking, if you prefer your usage of the classic sort).

I am not going to dig deeply into metaphorical jabs about the passing of mighty trees and how that might apply to those of us whose bark is beginning to peel back and whose center of gravity has shifted a bit. But I shall observe that when something has become part of your visual history every day for three decades, its sudden departure vibrates well past the eyes.

That landscape will never be the same now, and each of us who has driven, walked, jogged, cycled, or boated past that tree will miss it - our deciduous friend has departed, and a small part of us will mourn this change, as we mourn other changes in the daily rhythms of our lives.

We know about such changes, but that doesn't mean we have to like them.

And we don't.

It's About Poo, and I Don't Mean Winnie....

Islay the Scotty and I go out nearly every morning - I ride my semi-recumbent "geezer trike," and she trots along beside me, marking territory, trying to chase wildlife, and greeting two- and four-footed fellow travellers on the path next to the road.

Along our way, we pass by several refuse containers with dispensers of smallish plastic bags for use in cleaning up after one's dog. These are provided by the city of White Bear Lake, and those of us who occasionally forget to bring our own are grateful for this modest urban indulgence by our town.

Judging by our trip this morning, Islay and I conclude that there are others who live here who seem to believe that the droppings of their pet are valuable as fertilizer or as works of art or as a quadrupedal "gang sign" to others of that ilk. Or they believe that the "poop fairy" comes along in the dew of early evening and scoops up the remains and carries them off to some sweet smelling abode where they can reside for eternity. (The English seem to like the word "poo," better than the word I used a few lines ago, and I agree it has a touch more innocence and might be used in the mixed company of very good friends.)

Oddly enough, it appears that it is only owners of larger dogs who succumb to these fantasies about the impact of their forgetfulness. Once or twice, I could have sworn that a horse with diarrhea had come down our road several hours after a particularly large meal.

Yes, it's not a pleasant topic, but after a certain age, matters biological take on the same sort of fascination they did when you were three or four, and it simply can't be helped. Better to focus on the misbehavior of neighborhood dogs than anything which might be, shall we say, closer to home.

Gone Away

Some years back, during my radio days, I got to know a retired BBC Radio manager who lived with his wife in a thatched cottage in rural Suffolk.  Frank was in his eighties when we met, and his  Irish wife Maureen was one of those women who could have been almost any age.

They were both strong people, both opinionated, and I liked them both very much for quite different reasons.  Frank died some years ago now, and we were lucky to see him a couple of months before his death on one of his "good" days.  He had not lost any of his wit or sense of irony, and we have always been glad we made the effort.

Not long after Frank died, Maureen went into a "care home," and we lost contact...partly because it was Frank that drove the relationship and partly because it was hard to figure out how to get in touch with her, except by mail.

So every year thereafter, I sent a Christmas card along with a note.  I never heard anything back, but I never had any expectation that I would.

Until this year.

In early March, my Christmas card was returned to me, and on it was a sticker with a variety of explanations next to little boxes, one of which was "ticked," as our British colleagues would say.

It read, "Addressee Has Gone Away."  Not died, not departed, not moved house, not on vacation, not forwarding order expired, just "gone away."  I feared the worst and wondered how to find out what really had happened to Maureen.

In an old address book, I found the name and address of one of Frank and Maureen's closest friends in their village, and via the internet, I found his telephone number, so I rang him up.  He very kindly remembered who I was and explained that Maureen had died last May, that he was seeing to her estate, and that the rumpled old cottage in which she and Frank had lived had not yet been sold - it would require a lot of renovation, but they had loved it just the way it was.

I was saddened by the news and moved to reconsider my obviously quite unsatisfactory attempts to keep in touch with friends and acquaintances who may have, for whatever reasons, meandered into an orbit different from my own.  

Once upon a time, we took pleasure in each other's company, and while circumstances may have changed, whether in proximity, interest, or commonality of purpose or belief, when we reach a certain age, we must make special efforts to keep our networks knitted together for as long as we can.

It's another tactic to keep us here just a bit longer....and the effort requires no large carbon footprint or great expenditure of money.  Just a bit of thought and a sense of kindness.

I'd better get with it and improve my performance in this department of living.

Day Trip

There comes a point in any winter, when one must say, "Enough, already." When this occurs, some go to Florida, Mexico, California, the Caribbean, but I stay here in the belief that a brief holiday in the sun will end, but upon one's return to Minnesota,  your view of the rest of the winter will help you redefine the meaning of the word "eternity."

After attacks of heavier than usual colds, me at the end of one  and K at the beginning of another, she observed the sunrise yesterday morning and said that she wanted to go for a ride. She had had enough of the cold's onset and winter's length. We bundled up and put Islay, the therapy scotty, in the back seat and headed in an easterly direction, toward Wisconsin.

We crossed over the frozen St Croix River between Minnesota and Wisconsin, headed to the top of the bluffs, left the freeway, and headed north, hoping that without too many navigatory tools (compass, map, previous experience) we could have a pleasant day meandering. As the suburbs gave way to more open countryside, beauty surrounded us, interrupted only by the occasional housing development plunked down on open land without a tree in sight. One gathers that largeish houses characterized by the incessant repetition of triangular shapes organized around a lump of three garages is the style of today.  After a while, our eyes began to yearn for good old American four-squares, bungalows, and converted cabins.

Far better were the older residential areas with lots of mature trees and houses which seemed to be designed to nestle into the rolling landscape. As the sun worked its way across the sky, the play of light and shadows on the forests and the snow were a constant delight to the eye.

But the most important element was the sun. The days are lengthening, and although the rough fingers of cold keep their grip firmly on our throats, we know that warmth is just around the corner, and we are reassured by the calls of the cardinals heard each time the front door is opened to let out the dog.

After four hours, we turned on the GPS and requested an interesting route, and the device responded with a recommendation which turned into a smooth road and a novel way home.

The cold remains outside, as do our colds inside, but our spirits were lifted by this little adventure, a kind of moving meditation, and I think the scotty felt exactly as we did.

An Hour In The Therapy Pool

Before my hip replacement, I was sent off to work with a physical therapist in a therapy pool to prepare for the great event. That experience cut my recovery time in half, and when the incision had healed, I headed right back to that 92 degree (F.) environment, and two years after the operation, I try to get there three times a week.

When I was a newbie, I was unsure what the rules and expectations were, so I spent a lot of time observing when the therapist and I weren't working. For some period of time, my presence in the pool was not acknowledged; then one fine morning, I got a couple of nods. Nods turned to smiles, and eventually one of the old hands smiled and said, "You seem to be coming here quite a lot...." I knew I was on the doorstep of acquaintance.

Pool life was even better after the therapist had trained me to my program, and I was working out alone. Acquaintance led to conversation - sometimes interfering with my workout - and slowly my network of new acquaintances grew.

There was one mediating factor in all this - simply put, when you are surrounded by the able bodied, and those whose body parts don't work well, don't work, or have gone missing, you are grateful for whatever you are able to do...and I believe that's true of everyone in the pool. I've never heard many complaints from others about their problems - it is what it is, we are who we are, and almost everybody seems to want to get on with life as best as he or she can.

After the surgery I was welcomed back. "Where have you been? Long trip, huh? Did we scare you away? Nice to see you." I realized something I should have known for months: The pool turns out to be this odd, ephemeral, constantly changing support group, mainly of strangers, with acquaintances and friends mixed in. For an hour or so, we ignore our troubles while we work on them and then return to the parts of our lives where we are more aware of our physical deficiences.

It's the physically and intellectually handicapped kids you see that alter your perspective the most. Always working with a therapist, they (and their families) are travelling down a hard road. The therapists are infinitely patient and supportive, and over time, one can see improvements even from a distance. One cannot leave the pool without a far greater sense of acceptance of whatever problem one might have.

It's true that most of us are codgers, and from time to time one of us falls off our perch. There are notes, flowers, and sadness, but the work of the pool never stops.

Some of us work out and feel better, some of us chat like geese and feel better, some of us swim laps and feel different - and better.

Without the experience of the pool, most of us would lacked such a clear path to accepting what we can do in our lives and to resolving to become better at it.

With An Emphasis on Hobbling

Here in the northland, as we like to call it, April is not the cruelest month (cf T.S. Eliot. No, on balance, it's January.

Last year, during a long stretch when all the roads and sidewalks seemed to be coated with ice, I fell down a lot, most memorably in front of a downtown restaurant where I entertained the diners with my struggles to get up...to the point where one started getting up from his seat, motioning with his hands and asking the question with his mouth, "Do you need help?" Being a guy, I refused in order to conquer me by myself.

Several months previous, I tripped over an uneven pavement stone in London on my way home from the theatre. Only my hands stopping my fall kept my face from the emergency room. As I looked up, I saw a queue of people waiting for a bus; most of them had the expression of "Poor old guy - probably drunk." I struggled to my feet, and a fellow in a dark overcoat carrying a briefcase, stopped and asked if I was all right.

"I think so," I said. He asked where I was going, and I named a nearby tube stop, and so we set off together. During those several minutes, he asked me a number of questions, and I soon realized that he was assessing my state to determine whether I should be seen by a doctor. I passed the test, and after thanking him, I turned left and took the stairs, very carefully, to the Monument Underground Station.

I think often of him, how kind it was for him to stop, and how generous it was for him to take subtle steps to see whether I required further assistance. He set a standard for me, and I have tried to find ways to reciprocate for his kindness.

Anyway, when you get to my age, you find your balance somewhat more precarious and you worry a hell of a lot more about falling down. So when I endured last winter and my several failures in traversing icy stretches, I knew I needed to re-evaluate.

I work on my balance through exercises and work in a therapy pool, I am extremely careful about footwear best for ice. In fact, I now have a number of choices, from soft rubber and deeply treaded slip on boots to rubbers from Canada with molybdenum tips sticking out of the bottom for extreme situations.

Once upon a time, I assumed that my years as a somewhat inept hockey player would have taught me to fall. That belief ended a number of years ago when my feet went out from under me on some ice just outside the building where our offices are, and I landed on the back of my head. I was out cold for a few seconds, then found I couldn't get up, so I crawled into the building on my hands and knees and found the first open door to be that at the tea room. They were amused when I crawled in, an occasion when my sense of humor preceded me when I wish it hadn't. The kind ladies got me into a chair until I regained full mobility.

I called my doctor who listened carefully and suggested that I probably had a mild concussion and that I should not make any important decisions for three or four days, because, he said, I would be "goofy." I felt pretty good, but it turned out he was absolutely correct.

In addition to footwear, I have added a hiking stick with a molybdenum top, but most importantly, I have altered my attitude.

These days, I take my time, plan my steps, use a lot of salt and sand around the front of the house and the drive. I get a bit worried about my titanium hip when I should probably worry about its perfectly normal companion, and I know that some of my friends go south for the winter for the warm weather and such, but perhaps because the risks of falling are somewhat diminished.

So if you see somebody trip, slip, or collapse, get involved and ignore any comments about being fine, please don't bother, and the like. You might be in the same pickle some time down the road and will be grateful for the assistance of others.