My father was not much of an advice giver, and for many years I was grateful for that trait of his. One thing he said did stick with me - as you get older, make sure your physicians, lawyers, financial advisors, and such are younger than you are, in fact, much younger than you are. That way, when you probably need them most, they won't have retired.
To a great extent, I have taken that advice, and it has worked out pretty well. With one exception.
My internist. His parents and mine were friends, and we've known each other for - well, a very long time - and when I returned to the Twin Cities in the late 1970s, he became my physician. And that relationship has been an excellent one in every respect.
Except one. I haven't much enjoyed my three adventures with him in matters colonoscopic. It's not the procedure; it's the preparation. Once that's over, and the happy juice starts flowing at the beginning of the long trip up and back, it's just a question of time. Not much discomfort, some amusing conversation, and then you toddle home and collapse for the rest of the day - or nowadays - for that day as well as the next.
In early June, I survived the preparation for what well may have been my last colonoscopy, and all things considered, the procedure went well, and the report turned out to be excellent.
At the end of the first procedure, I came out of the fog, sat up and looked at all the medical equipment surrounding me and said to Nurse Jennifer, "This place looks like a scene from a James Bond film." She asked me which one, and apparently I replied "The Riddle of the Sphincter." I don't remember it very clearly, but others apparently did.
Five years after that, I knew I had to come up with some sort of similar line in case Jennifer was on duty for my next procedure. She was, so I said I had kind of a silly question to ask her; that turned out to be, "You know, Jennifer, that powder in that gallon size plastic jug was really hard to get down...should I have mixed that with something? [Yeah, well it was more successful than you might have guessed....]
This year I approached the event with the usual reluctance, but knowing that my doctor was cutting back on his practice and eliminating colonoscopies, etc., from his repertoire, I wrote him a letter of appreciation and made sure to include an observation about my thanks for his always approaching his task with rectitude.
Maybe he appreciated it.....
Friday, July 20, 2012
Facebook, et alia...Bah! Humbug!
After dipping my big toe very tentatively into the worlds of facebook, linkedin, twitter, and the like, I have decided to make a U-turn and head in the other direction.
No doubt that those in mid-career find use in these online experiences, and no doubt that teen-agers relish their 2700 messages a month as a proxy measure of their popularity, but persons of my age cohort ought to have different and more productive priorities.
Frankly, I am surprised when I am invited, cajoled, emailed, contacted, to acknowledge electronically that someone over 70 - like me - wants me to "friend" them. We should be doing volunteer work, weeding the garden, reading a book, canning peaches and not fretting about how many online "friends" we may have accumulated purposely or accidentally.
We're already friends, and thus far we seem to have managed to contact each other regularly or irregularly as circumstances require through more traditional means from telephone to the very occasional written note.
I have enough trouble with all the damn telephone solicitations which arrive daily from just after 9 am to just before 9 pm...so much so that sometimes I forward my phones to a completely fictional Mary Margaret McLain, an older Scottish woman, and - miracle of miracles - she takes virtually no messages, except from old friends who know that underneath that old lady's voice is nothing more than me.
It is not that I wish to be a hermit...just that I wish to have some sense of control over what's left of my life. So you might find me on Facebook or LinkedIn, but even I won't be paying attention to me.
Thank heaven.
No doubt that those in mid-career find use in these online experiences, and no doubt that teen-agers relish their 2700 messages a month as a proxy measure of their popularity, but persons of my age cohort ought to have different and more productive priorities.
Frankly, I am surprised when I am invited, cajoled, emailed, contacted, to acknowledge electronically that someone over 70 - like me - wants me to "friend" them. We should be doing volunteer work, weeding the garden, reading a book, canning peaches and not fretting about how many online "friends" we may have accumulated purposely or accidentally.
We're already friends, and thus far we seem to have managed to contact each other regularly or irregularly as circumstances require through more traditional means from telephone to the very occasional written note.
I have enough trouble with all the damn telephone solicitations which arrive daily from just after 9 am to just before 9 pm...so much so that sometimes I forward my phones to a completely fictional Mary Margaret McLain, an older Scottish woman, and - miracle of miracles - she takes virtually no messages, except from old friends who know that underneath that old lady's voice is nothing more than me.
It is not that I wish to be a hermit...just that I wish to have some sense of control over what's left of my life. So you might find me on Facebook or LinkedIn, but even I won't be paying attention to me.
Thank heaven.
Friday, May 4, 2012
Not Your Normal Trip in a London Taxi
Some travelers I know like to prefer to keep their personalities under some sort of mask, almost as though they believe that they don't have to engage the unfamiliar world swirling around them.
Instead, they remain impassive, playing the role of judge and jury without saying a word. Travel can be anxiety producing, especially if you don't speak the language, don't know the rules, don't understand the cuisine, much less the map of the public transportation system.
Instead, they remain impassive, playing the role of judge and jury without saying a word. Travel can be anxiety producing, especially if you don't speak the language, don't know the rules, don't understand the cuisine, much less the map of the public transportation system.
Or…or you can prepare yourself, and by that I mean be interested enough to do a little advance reading, develop a curiosity about some aspects of the place you're going to visit, and decide to take advantage of opportunities to engage locals -whether you're lost or would like a recommendation for a nearby restaurant or just sitting next to a stranger on a bus.
Years ago, I used to hide behind a mask, but now that I'm in my anecdotage, that approach no longer seems to be satisfying, so I initiate conversations, try to help other strangers if asked, and over time, I've found that nearly every interaction teaches me something…sometimes about the place I'm in and sometimes about me.
In London recently, I had a surprising experience, and I thought one worth sharing.
After the usual hectic preparations, Karen and I flew through the night to London. Our first task on arriving at Victoria Station was to deliver a load of batons to a customer, after which we wanted to visit an old friend who had been taken to hospital. Normally we would take the Underground, but we had too much luggage, so we opted for a taxi to the hospital. Complicating matters, later in the day we had to take a train to Cambridge, about an hour north of London where we had booked accommodation.
Now taking a taxi in London is not inexpensive, but my late mother had a rule to the effect that sometimes it's just smarter to spend the money. On the way to visit our friend, I chatted with our round-faced and very cheery driver about when he learned "the knowledge" (the training all so-called black cab drivers must take to be licensed), the impact of the impending Olympic Games on the city of London in general and on his business in particular…just the usual conversation one sometimes is lucky to have with a person navigating the streets of London.
Enroute, it occurred to us that a hospital might not be the place to try to leave six pieces of luggage while we visited our friend, so I asked the driver what it would cost for him to wait half an hour. A few seconds later, he told us that because it would take him twenty minutes to get back into town to get another fare, he would be willing to turn off the meter for thirty minutes, let us leave our luggage in the taxi, and pick us up after the visit. We agreed immediately and the driver and I exchanged and tested cell phone numbers, so we could ring him when we were ready.
We had a very nice visit with our friend John and his wife, and when I rang the driver, he came straightaway, picked us up, and took us to the train station. We paid for six minutes of waiting time beyond the half-hour we had been "given," and while the final tab was substantial, I paid up, added a generous tip, and silently thanked my mother for her sensible advice many years ago.
One of our London friends later wondered why we would leave our luggage in such a vulnerable situation. We never thought of it that way….we thought of it as a very kind act by one human to other humans, not unlike the help we got with our bags at Victoria earlier that day when several young people made our lives a bit easier with their helping hands.
They were paying it forward, and later in the trip we were able to be helpful to others. Nothing like a trip to remind you that we're all padding in the same canoe, and helping each other is always a good - and often easy - thing to do.
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Finding A New Leash On Life
I know an older gentleman - or so he thinks - who upon arriving on the front porch of sixty-five - began to wonder whether what he done in life had any meaning whatsoever. A lifelong bachelor, he had tried several careers, none of which had appeared to suit him for very long, although he had happy times in most of them. He had lived alone for many years but always had a dog or two around to keep him company. The last two had departed at about the same time his hip pain arrived and worsened, so he had chosen to remain dogless for a time.
Eventually, he had a hip replacement (three hours in a sawmill, several months of getting back to normal, and the balance of a lifetime full of worry about falling down). But it went very well, and very soon he resumed his usual schedule.
About ten months later, he got a call from a woman who ran one of the local humane societies. The man had been on the board of the society and had now been without an animal for several years. She said that a scottish terrier had shown up at the shelter, and would he be interested in having a look? That was the man’s favorite breed of all, and he had enjoyed the companionship of several over the decades, so almost immediately he drove down to the shelter.
Behind a plexiglass wall licking all the hands that came over to pat her, there "She" was, loving all the attention. The dog had been found by Animal Control wandering in the city, had gone unclaimed, and was now eligible for adoption.
She - that is, the dog, pranced and cavorted, and the man knew instantly that he would adopt her, and he also understood that this wild, less-than-a-year-old creature was about change his life a little.
There was a “period of adjustment,” as the two-legged and the four-legged got to know each other, gain trust in each other, and learned to live together with a degree of understanding. Her wildness calmed over time, and he continued to be fully engaged by this bright-eyed creature, whose movement communicated joy, commitment, and enormous curiosity - and, in the way of terriers, a modicum of restrained affection. Good enough for him, thought the man.
Over time their routines developed - getting up, going for walks, going to the office, going in short trips, and the like. She let him know when she needed to go out, when she wanted to play, when food was at the top of her list. Both of them learned by her leaps and bounds.
When she was around, he seemed calmer; when she was in the same room, he spoke to her quietly and laughed out loud at her antics. When he would go somewhere else in the house, she would be nearby, and when she was outside, he would check on her every few minutes to make sure she was all right. Quite a pair, those two - at home or on the road.
When the two were getting their exercise, near the house or in the town where the man worked, the elegance of the dog, her inquisitiveness, and her willingness to be patted by hands large and small, meant that she produced a conversation...sometimes about her breed, sometimes about her origins, and occasionally she would inspire memories, stories, and often tears about a new friend’s much loved dog no longer alive. The man’s dog seemed to help the passing strangers - and him, too, and he was touched by the effect she had an others...of all ages.
In turn, the dog seemed to understand the man’s moods - when he needed her nearby, there she was; when he didn’t, she found other forms of entertainment - watching the traffic on the nearby road, observing the loons, ducks, geese, swans, and - one night - a pregnant raccoon waddling across the lawn at 3:00 a.m.
In her early months, the dog did not “play well with others,” but over time her terrierist impulses moderated, and she became quite social, enjoying the chance to receive and to send “p-mail” during the daily walk.
One day, the man woke up and realized that his dog was a “once in a lifetime dog,” an animal who came into his life almost as though some unseen hand or force had made it happen. He knew that while she was a dog, she was more than an eating and eliminating quadruped. She was a participant in much of his daily life, and she had made her presence felt deep in his soul. He came to think of her as a kind of mediator between the irrationality of everyday life in our country and the quiet time which most of us do not get enough of any more.
He knew that she had changed his life in important ways, and now, each morning, he looks forward to the new adventures he and she will have that day, along with the routines which are now taken for granted in their relationship.
And he is enormously grateful for this eighteen pound energetic bundle of energy, curiosity, and joy.
In fact, she’s helped him develop and maintain a new leash on life. His own. He’s a lucky guy, and believe me, he knows it.
So from Islay the scottish terrier and me, a double "woof of greeting" and best wishes for a Happy Christmas and a New Year full of sunshine and joy.
Eventually, he had a hip replacement (three hours in a sawmill, several months of getting back to normal, and the balance of a lifetime full of worry about falling down). But it went very well, and very soon he resumed his usual schedule.
About ten months later, he got a call from a woman who ran one of the local humane societies. The man had been on the board of the society and had now been without an animal for several years. She said that a scottish terrier had shown up at the shelter, and would he be interested in having a look? That was the man’s favorite breed of all, and he had enjoyed the companionship of several over the decades, so almost immediately he drove down to the shelter.
Behind a plexiglass wall licking all the hands that came over to pat her, there "She" was, loving all the attention. The dog had been found by Animal Control wandering in the city, had gone unclaimed, and was now eligible for adoption.
She - that is, the dog, pranced and cavorted, and the man knew instantly that he would adopt her, and he also understood that this wild, less-than-a-year-old creature was about change his life a little.
There was a “period of adjustment,” as the two-legged and the four-legged got to know each other, gain trust in each other, and learned to live together with a degree of understanding. Her wildness calmed over time, and he continued to be fully engaged by this bright-eyed creature, whose movement communicated joy, commitment, and enormous curiosity - and, in the way of terriers, a modicum of restrained affection. Good enough for him, thought the man.
Over time their routines developed - getting up, going for walks, going to the office, going in short trips, and the like. She let him know when she needed to go out, when she wanted to play, when food was at the top of her list. Both of them learned by her leaps and bounds.
When she was around, he seemed calmer; when she was in the same room, he spoke to her quietly and laughed out loud at her antics. When he would go somewhere else in the house, she would be nearby, and when she was outside, he would check on her every few minutes to make sure she was all right. Quite a pair, those two - at home or on the road.
When the two were getting their exercise, near the house or in the town where the man worked, the elegance of the dog, her inquisitiveness, and her willingness to be patted by hands large and small, meant that she produced a conversation...sometimes about her breed, sometimes about her origins, and occasionally she would inspire memories, stories, and often tears about a new friend’s much loved dog no longer alive. The man’s dog seemed to help the passing strangers - and him, too, and he was touched by the effect she had an others...of all ages.
In turn, the dog seemed to understand the man’s moods - when he needed her nearby, there she was; when he didn’t, she found other forms of entertainment - watching the traffic on the nearby road, observing the loons, ducks, geese, swans, and - one night - a pregnant raccoon waddling across the lawn at 3:00 a.m.
In her early months, the dog did not “play well with others,” but over time her terrierist impulses moderated, and she became quite social, enjoying the chance to receive and to send “p-mail” during the daily walk.
One day, the man woke up and realized that his dog was a “once in a lifetime dog,” an animal who came into his life almost as though some unseen hand or force had made it happen. He knew that while she was a dog, she was more than an eating and eliminating quadruped. She was a participant in much of his daily life, and she had made her presence felt deep in his soul. He came to think of her as a kind of mediator between the irrationality of everyday life in our country and the quiet time which most of us do not get enough of any more.
He knew that she had changed his life in important ways, and now, each morning, he looks forward to the new adventures he and she will have that day, along with the routines which are now taken for granted in their relationship.
And he is enormously grateful for this eighteen pound energetic bundle of energy, curiosity, and joy.
In fact, she’s helped him develop and maintain a new leash on life. His own. He’s a lucky guy, and believe me, he knows it.
So from Islay the scottish terrier and me, a double "woof of greeting" and best wishes for a Happy Christmas and a New Year full of sunshine and joy.
Monday, August 15, 2011
A Tale Told By Not Quite An Idiot, Full Of Sound and Fury....
I was wasting away the tail end of an evening as the new Minnesota season I call "Hell," because it was very hot and very humid for several weeks, far beyond what we northerners deem appropriate in that short stretch from Memorial Day to Labor Day.
So the tv was on, and a news story passed by about all the deafness which adults are suffering from for all the reasons we should know - music too loud on headphones or in earbuds, artificial sound reinforcement at athletic events (I notice it most at college hockey games, and although I've never been to a rock concert, I'm led to believe that they batter the ears continuously.
Last weekend, K and I attended a 45th anniversary party of a couple of old friends - thoughtful, generous, and very smart people, who love nothing more than a good party and who know, better than most, how to pull it off.
Many of the guests were my age a bit older, and we walked inside a big tent for an absolutely superb meal at tables of six. I hadn't seen a couple of table mates for some time, and the other couple K and I see regularly so the conversation was interesting and animated...well, until the musical group began to play.
Loudly, because they were inside the tent, and the amplified sound couldn't find a place to escape. Looking at the musicians, they had accumulated a lot of experience, and I believe that they are no different from radio announcers who wear headphones as they work. Over time, their hearing takes a beating.
Let me summarize: Here is a group of interesting old farts in a magnificent setting about to tear into an exquisite dinner, all of whom would like nothing more than to chat, in spite of the high probability that many of them (us) would lose the mid-range speech because of the conversational din (before music). And at our age, the persistent concentration required to decode what somebody else is saying, is tiring. Very tiring.
When the music started, conversation became impossible, and while the dancers were glad for the music, those who might not be able to dance for whatever reason, really couldn't have a conversation without a good deal of effort.
Once your hearing is impaired, you either find external help with some sort of hearing aid, or you suffer, with all the negative outcomes which you can imagine.
So if you're entertaining, consider the hearing health of your guests. If you're going to a noisy athletic event, buy some earplugs to knock the sound back at least ten decibels. Or you could find a place to cast sound reducers for you - these still allow you to chat with the people in your vicinity. Sure, they look a little goofy, but it's better than having to put you hand to your ear all the time to focus whatever sound somebody might be aiming in your direction. I bought mine a couple of years ago, and they've been really helpful.
You have been warned....
So the tv was on, and a news story passed by about all the deafness which adults are suffering from for all the reasons we should know - music too loud on headphones or in earbuds, artificial sound reinforcement at athletic events (I notice it most at college hockey games, and although I've never been to a rock concert, I'm led to believe that they batter the ears continuously.
Last weekend, K and I attended a 45th anniversary party of a couple of old friends - thoughtful, generous, and very smart people, who love nothing more than a good party and who know, better than most, how to pull it off.
Many of the guests were my age a bit older, and we walked inside a big tent for an absolutely superb meal at tables of six. I hadn't seen a couple of table mates for some time, and the other couple K and I see regularly so the conversation was interesting and animated...well, until the musical group began to play.
Loudly, because they were inside the tent, and the amplified sound couldn't find a place to escape. Looking at the musicians, they had accumulated a lot of experience, and I believe that they are no different from radio announcers who wear headphones as they work. Over time, their hearing takes a beating.
Let me summarize: Here is a group of interesting old farts in a magnificent setting about to tear into an exquisite dinner, all of whom would like nothing more than to chat, in spite of the high probability that many of them (us) would lose the mid-range speech because of the conversational din (before music). And at our age, the persistent concentration required to decode what somebody else is saying, is tiring. Very tiring.
When the music started, conversation became impossible, and while the dancers were glad for the music, those who might not be able to dance for whatever reason, really couldn't have a conversation without a good deal of effort.
Once your hearing is impaired, you either find external help with some sort of hearing aid, or you suffer, with all the negative outcomes which you can imagine.
So if you're entertaining, consider the hearing health of your guests. If you're going to a noisy athletic event, buy some earplugs to knock the sound back at least ten decibels. Or you could find a place to cast sound reducers for you - these still allow you to chat with the people in your vicinity. Sure, they look a little goofy, but it's better than having to put you hand to your ear all the time to focus whatever sound somebody might be aiming in your direction. I bought mine a couple of years ago, and they've been really helpful.
You have been warned....
Thursday, March 31, 2011
About Our Neural Synapses
It was in 1979 I bought my first computer - an Osborne. Some of you chronologically qualified may remember this smallish, portable, DOS based machine. I ended up taking it to work, and writing and producing my own correspondence. I learned typing at the age of 13 and had spent much of my life since in front of a typewriter (a wonderful Olympia still here in the house), so I could print out my first draft, do the edit, print the final version and get the letter out the door.
Turned out this upset the higher ups in my work place...after all, I had a secretary. True enough, but she was wonderfully bright and capable, and I figured that I might lose a few minutes and give her more and more interesting things to do.
I then progressed to an Osborne 2...it's still in the basement and runs, the last time I checked. Don't know where I'd find those floppy disks, though.
In 1985 I acquired a Mac Classic, and it changed my life. With that 64k of RAM, why there was no world I could not conquer. Since then, I don't know how many Macs have run through my life - a bunch, that's for sure. Nowadays I have a computer at home, one in the office, an iPhone, and a first generation iPad.
I can run the office computer from any computer in the world, so I can be somewhat untethered when I travel, and I spend hours doing what I like to call "research," and what "she who would command" labels "playing around."
True enough. But play, in its highest form can be the most exhilarating kind of learning anywhere around.
Whether I'm spending time in The National Gallery in London via Google's Art Project, or reading the downmarket Daily Mail in London, some kind of learning is going on.
And then there are the problems, some of which I can solve myself. Last night I had to reformat an external hard drive for the Mac, and the instructions from the manufacturer were created by the writing team of Kukla, Fran, and Ollie (you have to be a certain age to understand that). I struggled for a bit, found some help elsewhere on the web), solved the problem and got the hard drive formatted and the computer's hard drive backed up.
So the neural synapses have gotten a bit of a work out - and that beats the hell out of an evening of solitaire or high school reminiscences....
Turned out this upset the higher ups in my work place...after all, I had a secretary. True enough, but she was wonderfully bright and capable, and I figured that I might lose a few minutes and give her more and more interesting things to do.
I then progressed to an Osborne 2...it's still in the basement and runs, the last time I checked. Don't know where I'd find those floppy disks, though.
In 1985 I acquired a Mac Classic, and it changed my life. With that 64k of RAM, why there was no world I could not conquer. Since then, I don't know how many Macs have run through my life - a bunch, that's for sure. Nowadays I have a computer at home, one in the office, an iPhone, and a first generation iPad.
I can run the office computer from any computer in the world, so I can be somewhat untethered when I travel, and I spend hours doing what I like to call "research," and what "she who would command" labels "playing around."
True enough. But play, in its highest form can be the most exhilarating kind of learning anywhere around.
Whether I'm spending time in The National Gallery in London via Google's Art Project, or reading the downmarket Daily Mail in London, some kind of learning is going on.
And then there are the problems, some of which I can solve myself. Last night I had to reformat an external hard drive for the Mac, and the instructions from the manufacturer were created by the writing team of Kukla, Fran, and Ollie (you have to be a certain age to understand that). I struggled for a bit, found some help elsewhere on the web), solved the problem and got the hard drive formatted and the computer's hard drive backed up.
So the neural synapses have gotten a bit of a work out - and that beats the hell out of an evening of solitaire or high school reminiscences....
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Art Museums You Can Visit In Your Pajamas
Those clever scamps at Google have done it again, especially for those of us whose age and diminished physical capacities have crimped our travels but not our imaginations. Google has worked out relationships with seventeen of the world's museums - from the Hermitage in St Petersburg to the Museum of Modern Art in New York - that allow you to walk the galleries and study selected paintings close up, and I do mean "close up."
The first time I looked at Van Gogh's "Starry Night," I was impressed; as I was able to "move closer" to the painting, I was amazed because I could see the individual brush strokes more clearly than I ever could in the museum.
I was gobsmacked (one of my favorite English slang words) and - dare I say it? - moved by this experience, remembering those years in my life when my hip was going downhill and visiting a museum, any museum, was like climbing a mountain. And if I could get to one of my favorite Vermeers at The National Gallery in London, I needed to sit down a lot.
The museums are producing videos to increase your appreciation of the experience, and over time, no doubt more tantalizing goodies will arrive on the site.
If you're about to travel to one of the cities where Google's Art Project has a museum or two, this program is ideal for having a quick look to see how you might want to spend your time in the collection.
You can even create your own gallery of favorites, and as arrangements are made with other museums, your experience is likely to broaden and your appreciation to deepen.
Yes, I know it's not the same as really being there, but with this approach, there's no searching for a viewing spot in a crowded gallery, no need to suss out where the bathroom is, no need to purchase a guide, no need to hunt for a place to sit.
Just click here to start your art adventure.
The first time I looked at Van Gogh's "Starry Night," I was impressed; as I was able to "move closer" to the painting, I was amazed because I could see the individual brush strokes more clearly than I ever could in the museum.
I was gobsmacked (one of my favorite English slang words) and - dare I say it? - moved by this experience, remembering those years in my life when my hip was going downhill and visiting a museum, any museum, was like climbing a mountain. And if I could get to one of my favorite Vermeers at The National Gallery in London, I needed to sit down a lot.
The museums are producing videos to increase your appreciation of the experience, and over time, no doubt more tantalizing goodies will arrive on the site.
If you're about to travel to one of the cities where Google's Art Project has a museum or two, this program is ideal for having a quick look to see how you might want to spend your time in the collection.
You can even create your own gallery of favorites, and as arrangements are made with other museums, your experience is likely to broaden and your appreciation to deepen.
Yes, I know it's not the same as really being there, but with this approach, there's no searching for a viewing spot in a crowded gallery, no need to suss out where the bathroom is, no need to purchase a guide, no need to hunt for a place to sit.
Just click here to start your art adventure.
Friday, March 25, 2011
Our National Debating Society
On a recent "Real Time," HBO's show starring Bill Maher, Carl Bernstein was a member of the panel.
Yup, that Carl Bernstein. You know, Nixon, Watergate, I am not a crook, that reporter.
He said something that stopped me cold, and here is my paraphrase:
For the last thirty years Congress has been nothing more than a debating society.
All that money spent to elect debaters, and so little to show for it.
As the world we know appears to be crumbling, increasingly conflicted, rife with poverty, the politicians have excelled at one thing - that is, opening their pie holes and filling our ears with codswallop (look it up...it's one of my favorite English words).
Our complex world becomes black and white; the poor are completely responsible for their own circumstances; the rich are overtaxed, and our revolution began in New Hampshire and not Vermont, according to one of our Minnesota representatives; and politicians talk about the needs of the body politic, but basically they're just running for re-election.
My nature suggests that I find a cave, fill it with whisky and books (the three dimensional kind) and try to hold on, but my mind says it's time to start holding these master debaters' feet to the fire to encourage them to solve a problem or two...and sooner rather than later.
Good luck to us all.
Yup, that Carl Bernstein. You know, Nixon, Watergate, I am not a crook, that reporter.
He said something that stopped me cold, and here is my paraphrase:
All that money spent to elect debaters, and so little to show for it.
As the world we know appears to be crumbling, increasingly conflicted, rife with poverty, the politicians have excelled at one thing - that is, opening their pie holes and filling our ears with codswallop (look it up...it's one of my favorite English words).
Our complex world becomes black and white; the poor are completely responsible for their own circumstances; the rich are overtaxed, and our revolution began in New Hampshire and not Vermont, according to one of our Minnesota representatives; and politicians talk about the needs of the body politic, but basically they're just running for re-election.
My nature suggests that I find a cave, fill it with whisky and books (the three dimensional kind) and try to hold on, but my mind says it's time to start holding these master debaters' feet to the fire to encourage them to solve a problem or two...and sooner rather than later.
Good luck to us all.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Not Only Short People
I've known for some time that as one ages, one's height changes. This compacting process occurs very slowly; I didn't take much note of it until I realized that the cuffs of my pants were frequently under my shoes. This made walking something of a challenge, and eventually the material would divide - where the young have rips at the knees of their pants,we seniors have them at the level of the cuff....
I came up with a guy decision and just rolled my pants legs up a titch and joined that large cadre of old men who look absolutely weird to people under thirty-five...you know, the geezers you used to see in the hardware store in the tool department looking as though they were out on a day pass and potentially dangerous. But after all, the pants are mostly pretty near shot anyway, and why spend $12 bucks to have them hemmed?
I had just figured all this out, when I discovered something which accompanies increased shortness - that is, most of the furniture you sit in has suddenly gotten closer to the floor...so much closer that getting out of a chair or sofa has become a regular lesson in the geometry of getting up and out.
Finally, once you are up and have your bearings, the first steps tend to be reminiscent of Popeye's rolling gait (you remember Popeye, don't you?). Once you have the feet moving, and once momentum reaches a certain point, then walking becomes almost fun - well, OK, it becomes bearable.
So much fun that you'd damn well have an ibuprofen or two close to hand and not be sitting down when you realize you need it. Forewarned is forearmed, after all.
I came up with a guy decision and just rolled my pants legs up a titch and joined that large cadre of old men who look absolutely weird to people under thirty-five...you know, the geezers you used to see in the hardware store in the tool department looking as though they were out on a day pass and potentially dangerous. But after all, the pants are mostly pretty near shot anyway, and why spend $12 bucks to have them hemmed?
I had just figured all this out, when I discovered something which accompanies increased shortness - that is, most of the furniture you sit in has suddenly gotten closer to the floor...so much closer that getting out of a chair or sofa has become a regular lesson in the geometry of getting up and out.
Finally, once you are up and have your bearings, the first steps tend to be reminiscent of Popeye's rolling gait (you remember Popeye, don't you?). Once you have the feet moving, and once momentum reaches a certain point, then walking becomes almost fun - well, OK, it becomes bearable.
So much fun that you'd damn well have an ibuprofen or two close to hand and not be sitting down when you realize you need it. Forewarned is forearmed, after all.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
New Geezer Rule
It's been very hot and humid in these parts lately, and at times like these we take a far more sympathetic attitude towards those who endure climates like this for much of the year.
Our agemates continue on their merry social way, taking no note of shirts that soak through about three steps outside the front door or that feeling of being really unfocussed when asked a questions like, "How are you?" or the fact that at some fancy social events women can wear next to nothing while men strap on their black wool dinner jackets, bow ties, and long sleeved shirts because they believe they can grin and bear it through damn near anything.
So K and I came up with a new rule - we call it the 70/90 rule - that is, if you're over seventy and the temperature is over ninety degrees (Fahrenheit) you can do or wear anything you want.
Anything.
We know that the accumulation of years tends to provide one with sufficient inner fortitude to behave as outlined above anyway. But we live in a world of rules, so why not play the game - a little?
Our 70/90 rule is completely flexible. Invited to a benefit for a worthy organization on a snowy night in January? Invoke the 70/0 degree rule, accompanied by a "snow and ice rider."
Asked to bring you two left feet to a dinner dance on a May evening? Just remind the host that you follow the 70/60 rule and are unable to attend.
He'll probably be envious.
Doing something you don't want to do isn't fun, may be a waste of time, and there are those rare occasions (c.f., Command Performances) where the rule(s) must be suspended.
Mind you, I said suspended, and nothing more.
Our rule is a gift to you, and may it help guide you to more quiet evenings at home with a movie, popcorn, and a wee dram of a nice single malt.
Our agemates continue on their merry social way, taking no note of shirts that soak through about three steps outside the front door or that feeling of being really unfocussed when asked a questions like, "How are you?" or the fact that at some fancy social events women can wear next to nothing while men strap on their black wool dinner jackets, bow ties, and long sleeved shirts because they believe they can grin and bear it through damn near anything.
So K and I came up with a new rule - we call it the 70/90 rule - that is, if you're over seventy and the temperature is over ninety degrees (Fahrenheit) you can do or wear anything you want.
Anything.
We know that the accumulation of years tends to provide one with sufficient inner fortitude to behave as outlined above anyway. But we live in a world of rules, so why not play the game - a little?
Our 70/90 rule is completely flexible. Invited to a benefit for a worthy organization on a snowy night in January? Invoke the 70/0 degree rule, accompanied by a "snow and ice rider."
Asked to bring you two left feet to a dinner dance on a May evening? Just remind the host that you follow the 70/60 rule and are unable to attend.
He'll probably be envious.
Doing something you don't want to do isn't fun, may be a waste of time, and there are those rare occasions (c.f., Command Performances) where the rule(s) must be suspended.
Mind you, I said suspended, and nothing more.
Our rule is a gift to you, and may it help guide you to more quiet evenings at home with a movie, popcorn, and a wee dram of a nice single malt.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Cold Water & A Dog
A week ago we had high winds and rain move through the neighborhood in the evening, followed by the loss of power for around six hours - nothing like having the lights pop on at 4:00 am both to surprise and disorient you.
The experience made me realize that I wasn't very well prepared for these irregular occurrences, so the next day I created a "lost power box," which included a crank radio, flashlights, batteries, candles, matches - come to think of it - I should have added a bottle of single malt for purposes of emotional adjustment.
The next day I realized that something had gone wrong with the supply of hot water in the house, so I wandered down to the basement (my own version of Dante's Hell) and noted the boiler pressure was lower than usual. I took the necessary steps to add a little water to bring the pressure up and was startled when the relief valve blew and water started pouring into the basement...and I couldn't stop it.
Ultimately, I cut all the power to the boiler and closed every valve within reach, and the flooding ceased. For a variety of reasons, mainly having to do with a very complicated schedule, I postponed the appointment with the boiler repair person for several days.
In the hot and humid July we've had, the cool water "bath" next to the sink wasn't effective but it was sporadically amusing, and Islay the scotty and I coped reasonably well. As the week wore on I became accountably grumpy - wet basement, uncomfortable weather, no hot water - oh, and I'm not getting any younger, by the way.
The morning I was my grumpiest, I dragged myself out to the car with Islay in tow. As we got underway, she took up one of her favorite positions, sitting on the console, facing front, and ears up, her eyes sweeping from left to right on the lookout for barking opportunities and the like.
I might be bummed, but Islay was not.
In fact, she never is. Life is a smorgasbord of opportunities for her, and she wants to take advantage of as many as she can. She addresses life with perpetual enthusiasm and good humor and reminds me of a friend who has had more than his share of troubles and who if you inquire about his well-being always responds, "Excellent!" Once I asked him about his response, and he asked me, "What choice is there?"
Good questions, and the dog had a better answer than I did. For the moment, I've realized that I'll be better off, if I just follow the precepts by which the Islay the Scotty lives. What's more, I think she knows full well that she is a good model for me and no doubt is pleased that I finally figured it out.
Turns out learning can take place in the oddest places and circumstances...for which I am grateful.
The experience made me realize that I wasn't very well prepared for these irregular occurrences, so the next day I created a "lost power box," which included a crank radio, flashlights, batteries, candles, matches - come to think of it - I should have added a bottle of single malt for purposes of emotional adjustment.
The next day I realized that something had gone wrong with the supply of hot water in the house, so I wandered down to the basement (my own version of Dante's Hell) and noted the boiler pressure was lower than usual. I took the necessary steps to add a little water to bring the pressure up and was startled when the relief valve blew and water started pouring into the basement...and I couldn't stop it.
Ultimately, I cut all the power to the boiler and closed every valve within reach, and the flooding ceased. For a variety of reasons, mainly having to do with a very complicated schedule, I postponed the appointment with the boiler repair person for several days.
In the hot and humid July we've had, the cool water "bath" next to the sink wasn't effective but it was sporadically amusing, and Islay the scotty and I coped reasonably well. As the week wore on I became accountably grumpy - wet basement, uncomfortable weather, no hot water - oh, and I'm not getting any younger, by the way.
The morning I was my grumpiest, I dragged myself out to the car with Islay in tow. As we got underway, she took up one of her favorite positions, sitting on the console, facing front, and ears up, her eyes sweeping from left to right on the lookout for barking opportunities and the like.
I might be bummed, but Islay was not.
In fact, she never is. Life is a smorgasbord of opportunities for her, and she wants to take advantage of as many as she can. She addresses life with perpetual enthusiasm and good humor and reminds me of a friend who has had more than his share of troubles and who if you inquire about his well-being always responds, "Excellent!" Once I asked him about his response, and he asked me, "What choice is there?"
Good questions, and the dog had a better answer than I did. For the moment, I've realized that I'll be better off, if I just follow the precepts by which the Islay the Scotty lives. What's more, I think she knows full well that she is a good model for me and no doubt is pleased that I finally figured it out.
Turns out learning can take place in the oddest places and circumstances...for which I am grateful.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Anticipating The Inevitable
It is said that old age is not for sissies; it is equally true that it is not for the unprepared.
How many people who slip through their forties, decide to remodel the house, and in doing so take no note whatsoever of the possibility that, in just a few years, the toilets in the house may be too "low," grab bars are needed in the bath, even a ramped alternative to the front or back door might make sense.
The infirmity which preceded my hip replacement and the recuperative limitations which followed it made a number of things very clear. But as I looked around the house, I saw that I had done a pretty good job of anticipating many aspects of old age and making some design adjustments.
During a major remodeling of my more than a century old farmhouse about fifteen years ago, the architect balked when I insisted on a ground floor guest bath with a walk-in shower and a sink which could deal with a wheelchair. The slightly higher toilet was a no brainer, as was the wider door for the wheelchair. I emerged victorious, and it's made quite a difference.
On the other hand, I didn't think to add hand rails to the stairs upstairs and to the basement, much less hand rails which made coming up the outside steps easier. But that's been down now, and two things are left.
Because we're redoing the upstairs bath, I'm thinking seriously about a regular bathtub with a side door - if I ever get to the point where I can't step over the edge of the tub. That's not a big deal.
My other ambition is to find some genius who can construct an aluminum dock for use in the lake during the summer; at other times it might be able to be configured as a ramp to one of the entry doors at other times.
These days there are lots of solutions to the challenges which accompany ageing. They are not all expensive - that is until you don't have them and not having them causes a problem which leads to the Emergency Room.
In this instance, when you have plenty of time, you might put "Geriatric Planning" on your schedule.
How many people who slip through their forties, decide to remodel the house, and in doing so take no note whatsoever of the possibility that, in just a few years, the toilets in the house may be too "low," grab bars are needed in the bath, even a ramped alternative to the front or back door might make sense.
The infirmity which preceded my hip replacement and the recuperative limitations which followed it made a number of things very clear. But as I looked around the house, I saw that I had done a pretty good job of anticipating many aspects of old age and making some design adjustments.
During a major remodeling of my more than a century old farmhouse about fifteen years ago, the architect balked when I insisted on a ground floor guest bath with a walk-in shower and a sink which could deal with a wheelchair. The slightly higher toilet was a no brainer, as was the wider door for the wheelchair. I emerged victorious, and it's made quite a difference.
On the other hand, I didn't think to add hand rails to the stairs upstairs and to the basement, much less hand rails which made coming up the outside steps easier. But that's been down now, and two things are left.
Because we're redoing the upstairs bath, I'm thinking seriously about a regular bathtub with a side door - if I ever get to the point where I can't step over the edge of the tub. That's not a big deal.
My other ambition is to find some genius who can construct an aluminum dock for use in the lake during the summer; at other times it might be able to be configured as a ramp to one of the entry doors at other times.
These days there are lots of solutions to the challenges which accompany ageing. They are not all expensive - that is until you don't have them and not having them causes a problem which leads to the Emergency Room.
In this instance, when you have plenty of time, you might put "Geriatric Planning" on your schedule.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Geezer Driving Class
Nothing like spending a Saturday morning in a snowy Minnesota February with a group of my generation taking the four hour geezer refresher driving class. All classroom, nothing behind the wheel (probably just as well).
I assume this is done nationwide, but I haven't fact checked that. When you hit double nickels you can sign up for the course, and by showing up and staying awake, you get a certificate that gets you a ten per cent discount on your car insurance. The first round is eight hours in two four hour blocks (just think that you're flying coach to Vladivostok, but the flight attendant speaks English).
Then every three years you take a four hour refresher for around twenty bucks.
Over the years, I have had some average instructors and some quite good ones, and this time my luck continued.
But here's what has surprised me at every round of the geezer course - I learn something very useful. This time it was that in Minnesota my gps can now be positioned low on the windshield - before it was illegal to do that. And you know those handicapped parking thingies that hang off the mirror? Well, not while you're driving - they're obstructing your vision. Probably goes for the pine tree smeller and the pair of dice you sometimes see, but perhaps geezers have moved beyond that sort of thing.
And here in Minnesota, when a police person has got some poor schlub pulled over on the side of the road, you'd damn well better clear the adjacent lane, or you will see all kinds of colored lights, and your wallet will go on a diet.
And I was startled to find a new way to aim your side mirrors to improve your field of view...dismayed to learn what I had begun to accept - that I don't see particularly well at night because of the impact of ageing.
Funny thing, many of my retired friends can't find the time to take the course...go figure that out.
What I can't change is that my reaction time hasn't improved in the last five decades, nor has my vision, and the fact that I tend to observe the speed limit puts me in the minority, and I understand that I am more at risk on the road than many other drivers.
But more and more, the people on our roads seem to think that they are in some sort of informal NASCAR race - they shift from lane to lane every half minute or so, reject the use of their turn signals, and their preferred speed is way the hell and gone beyond what the law allows.
SO YOU, YES, YOU - HOTSHOT UNDER FORTY IN THE BIG FANCY CAR - GET THE HELL OFF MY BACK BUMPER OR I MIGHT TOUCH MY BRAKES JUST ENOUGH TO SCARE THE LIVING CRAP OUT OF YOU, NOT TO MENTION YOUR COMPANION!!!!
And you, YES YOU, THE ONES UNDER FORTY - BACK OFF, STOP TEXTING, GET OFF THE PHONE, STOP GOSSIPING WITH YOUR FRIENDS, AND GET YOUR KIDS UNDER CONTROL
Thank you very much for thinking about it...anyway.
I assume this is done nationwide, but I haven't fact checked that. When you hit double nickels you can sign up for the course, and by showing up and staying awake, you get a certificate that gets you a ten per cent discount on your car insurance. The first round is eight hours in two four hour blocks (just think that you're flying coach to Vladivostok, but the flight attendant speaks English).
Then every three years you take a four hour refresher for around twenty bucks.
Over the years, I have had some average instructors and some quite good ones, and this time my luck continued.
But here's what has surprised me at every round of the geezer course - I learn something very useful. This time it was that in Minnesota my gps can now be positioned low on the windshield - before it was illegal to do that. And you know those handicapped parking thingies that hang off the mirror? Well, not while you're driving - they're obstructing your vision. Probably goes for the pine tree smeller and the pair of dice you sometimes see, but perhaps geezers have moved beyond that sort of thing.
And here in Minnesota, when a police person has got some poor schlub pulled over on the side of the road, you'd damn well better clear the adjacent lane, or you will see all kinds of colored lights, and your wallet will go on a diet.
And I was startled to find a new way to aim your side mirrors to improve your field of view...dismayed to learn what I had begun to accept - that I don't see particularly well at night because of the impact of ageing.
Funny thing, many of my retired friends can't find the time to take the course...go figure that out.
What I can't change is that my reaction time hasn't improved in the last five decades, nor has my vision, and the fact that I tend to observe the speed limit puts me in the minority, and I understand that I am more at risk on the road than many other drivers.
But more and more, the people on our roads seem to think that they are in some sort of informal NASCAR race - they shift from lane to lane every half minute or so, reject the use of their turn signals, and their preferred speed is way the hell and gone beyond what the law allows.
SO YOU, YES, YOU - HOTSHOT UNDER FORTY IN THE BIG FANCY CAR - GET THE HELL OFF MY BACK BUMPER OR I MIGHT TOUCH MY BRAKES JUST ENOUGH TO SCARE THE LIVING CRAP OUT OF YOU, NOT TO MENTION YOUR COMPANION!!!!
And you, YES YOU, THE ONES UNDER FORTY - BACK OFF, STOP TEXTING, GET OFF THE PHONE, STOP GOSSIPING WITH YOUR FRIENDS, AND GET YOUR KIDS UNDER CONTROL
Thank you very much for thinking about it...anyway.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Recalling Dick Francis
During my public radio days, a news reporter stopped by my office to ask my advice. It seems that she was scheduled to interview some writer named Dick Francis and didn't know a thing about him. Did I recognize the name?
But of course.
In the early 1970s, my father - who did not like horses - discovered Dick Francis's mystery novels, each of which was based on some aspect of life with horses. He had been a successful jockey, and upon his retirement began writing. It took him a while to turn his pen to mysteries, and he found his work almost immediately popular.
When the mysteries began to arrive in book shops, many of us found ourselves drawn into this unfamiliar world to the degree that we couldn't wait for the next one. The former jockey who, with his wife doing "research," and presumably providing the kind of critiques at which women excel, became widely admired in this new profession. The plots were clever, the characters sufficiently drawn, and the writing vigorous and direct. Each autumn in the UK a new Francis tale would arrive, to be followed by publication in the USA the following Spring.
Anyway, I filled in Linda P., the young reporter, and asked her to bring Mr Francis by the next day so that I could meet him. When they arrived in my office, I was surprised by the author's deep blue eyes and the softness of his handshake. He spoke quietly, and his manner was gentle.
Immediately I thought I could understand how skilled he must have been in managing a horse at full tilt.
His most recent book which I had acquired in London was on my desk top - I hoped for an autograph - he was intrigued that I would have what he called the "English" edition and pointed out with pride that his wife had designed the book's cover.
By a quirk of fate, I had gotten to know a former jockey in Minnesota who had won the Grand National on an American horse named Jay Trump. I mentioned this to Francis, and he lit up - turns out he was the only turf writer in England who had picked that horse to win. I hadn't known that after retiring from riding, he had become a writer for the Daily Express for a number of years, focussing on - surprise, surprise - horse racing.
Some years later when I was involved with a support group for the Veterinary College at the University of Minnesota, I wrote him to invite him to speak to our members during a forthcoming book tour. He wrote a long, thoughtful, chatty, and exceedingly gracious regret, and I treasure it to this day.
His wife died in 2000, but he carried on with his son Felix, and one surmises that Felix will now take on the burden of continuing what has become a most successful literary enterprise, but I fear that it probably won't be quite the same. The father experienced the joys and the pain of succeeding, falling, and failing in the highly competitive world of horse racing, but we can all hope that Felix can push the enterprise forward in his own special way.
Two interesting aspects of Dick Francis's life were his service as a bomber pilot in the British Air Force in World War II and his years spent as the jockey to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth, The Queen Mother. The former he never wrote about, so far as I know, and the second involved a great disappointment when his horse Devon Loch collapsed while in the lead near the end of the famed Grand National - and lost. That event will never been forgotten, but his novels will probably be read for decades to come.
His was a life of varied outcomes, and he seemed to manage it all with equanimity and grace - the kind of ride one would expect from a good jockey.
But of course.
In the early 1970s, my father - who did not like horses - discovered Dick Francis's mystery novels, each of which was based on some aspect of life with horses. He had been a successful jockey, and upon his retirement began writing. It took him a while to turn his pen to mysteries, and he found his work almost immediately popular.
When the mysteries began to arrive in book shops, many of us found ourselves drawn into this unfamiliar world to the degree that we couldn't wait for the next one. The former jockey who, with his wife doing "research," and presumably providing the kind of critiques at which women excel, became widely admired in this new profession. The plots were clever, the characters sufficiently drawn, and the writing vigorous and direct. Each autumn in the UK a new Francis tale would arrive, to be followed by publication in the USA the following Spring.
Anyway, I filled in Linda P., the young reporter, and asked her to bring Mr Francis by the next day so that I could meet him. When they arrived in my office, I was surprised by the author's deep blue eyes and the softness of his handshake. He spoke quietly, and his manner was gentle.
Immediately I thought I could understand how skilled he must have been in managing a horse at full tilt.
His most recent book which I had acquired in London was on my desk top - I hoped for an autograph - he was intrigued that I would have what he called the "English" edition and pointed out with pride that his wife had designed the book's cover.
By a quirk of fate, I had gotten to know a former jockey in Minnesota who had won the Grand National on an American horse named Jay Trump. I mentioned this to Francis, and he lit up - turns out he was the only turf writer in England who had picked that horse to win. I hadn't known that after retiring from riding, he had become a writer for the Daily Express for a number of years, focussing on - surprise, surprise - horse racing.
Some years later when I was involved with a support group for the Veterinary College at the University of Minnesota, I wrote him to invite him to speak to our members during a forthcoming book tour. He wrote a long, thoughtful, chatty, and exceedingly gracious regret, and I treasure it to this day.
His wife died in 2000, but he carried on with his son Felix, and one surmises that Felix will now take on the burden of continuing what has become a most successful literary enterprise, but I fear that it probably won't be quite the same. The father experienced the joys and the pain of succeeding, falling, and failing in the highly competitive world of horse racing, but we can all hope that Felix can push the enterprise forward in his own special way.
Two interesting aspects of Dick Francis's life were his service as a bomber pilot in the British Air Force in World War II and his years spent as the jockey to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth, The Queen Mother. The former he never wrote about, so far as I know, and the second involved a great disappointment when his horse Devon Loch collapsed while in the lead near the end of the famed Grand National - and lost. That event will never been forgotten, but his novels will probably be read for decades to come.
His was a life of varied outcomes, and he seemed to manage it all with equanimity and grace - the kind of ride one would expect from a good jockey.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Conversation At The Concert
My father was at his happiest in a museum, at a ballet performance, song recital, symphony concert, opera performance, and the theatre - especially the theater. In a museum, he would wander happily by himself and find enormous refreshment in the process.
The other arts required him to sit amongst other people, and this circumstance was a challenge for him. People open cellophane wrapped candies, they cough, they stamp their feet, they arrive late, but worst of all, they talk....before the performance (often) and sometimes during the performance (less frequently).
He required some stillness, probably to allow him to focus on what he was about to watch, and that focus ran from the history of the piece, his knowledge of it (generally considerable), other performances he had seen over the years, and when he was done, he considered himself prepared.
God help you if you were a chatterbox. First you got the turn of the head, then the turn and stare, then the clear the throat, turn, and long stare, and that didn't shut you up, you got a succinct sentence. One night in Boston at the Shubert theatre, he and I, on a high school tour to look at colleges) saw a pre-Broadway performance of "The Most Happy Fella." Sitting behind us were three local dowagers, who chattered on through the overture, so my father went into his drill, finally finishing with the following statement: Will you old broads please shut the XXXX up, so that I can enjoy the performance?"
I sunk into my seat, but for the rest of the evening with Robert Goode and Jo Sullivan and the rest of the cast, we had absolute quiet in the row behind us.
Afterwards, I asked him about what I had witnessed, and he pointed out that he had paid good money for the seats and was entitled to enjoy all of the performance.
For the last several decades, I have employed the same behavior continuum in similar situations. Yesterday, at a morning concert of the Minnesota Orchestra (yeah, I'm that old) three Twin Cities dowagers chatted right up to the first note of the Sibelius, the Grieg, and the two Mozart pieces. I wanted to repeat verbatim what my father had said forty-five years ago on a night in Boston, but here in the midwest our niceness is based on a thick passive aggressive mode, and all I could manage was "And now, we'll all be quiet for Mozart."
OK, so it wasn't dramatic, but it worked, and it reminded me that though my father has been gone for many years, this apple didn't roll very far from that tree.
The other arts required him to sit amongst other people, and this circumstance was a challenge for him. People open cellophane wrapped candies, they cough, they stamp their feet, they arrive late, but worst of all, they talk....before the performance (often) and sometimes during the performance (less frequently).
He required some stillness, probably to allow him to focus on what he was about to watch, and that focus ran from the history of the piece, his knowledge of it (generally considerable), other performances he had seen over the years, and when he was done, he considered himself prepared.
God help you if you were a chatterbox. First you got the turn of the head, then the turn and stare, then the clear the throat, turn, and long stare, and that didn't shut you up, you got a succinct sentence. One night in Boston at the Shubert theatre, he and I, on a high school tour to look at colleges) saw a pre-Broadway performance of "The Most Happy Fella." Sitting behind us were three local dowagers, who chattered on through the overture, so my father went into his drill, finally finishing with the following statement: Will you old broads please shut the XXXX up, so that I can enjoy the performance?"
I sunk into my seat, but for the rest of the evening with Robert Goode and Jo Sullivan and the rest of the cast, we had absolute quiet in the row behind us.
Afterwards, I asked him about what I had witnessed, and he pointed out that he had paid good money for the seats and was entitled to enjoy all of the performance.
For the last several decades, I have employed the same behavior continuum in similar situations. Yesterday, at a morning concert of the Minnesota Orchestra (yeah, I'm that old) three Twin Cities dowagers chatted right up to the first note of the Sibelius, the Grieg, and the two Mozart pieces. I wanted to repeat verbatim what my father had said forty-five years ago on a night in Boston, but here in the midwest our niceness is based on a thick passive aggressive mode, and all I could manage was "And now, we'll all be quiet for Mozart."
OK, so it wasn't dramatic, but it worked, and it reminded me that though my father has been gone for many years, this apple didn't roll very far from that tree.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Keeping One's Balance
My doctor tells me that - at my age - I need to concentrate on maintaining my balance - a polite way of encouraging me not to fall down a lot.
He says that falling often is the first in a short sequence of events which can lead to one's dropping off one's limb on the tree of life. Most of us want to defer that result as long as possible.
Long ago I learned to fall frequently - first on the skating rink and subsequently on the hockey rink. Playing hockey is an education in falling down and getting hit and falling down. After a while, you don't think much about it.
Time passes, and one morning you wake up and find that you are middle-aged, so you set about trying to defer the inevitable impact of ageing...a process very much like trying to defy gravity. More years go by, and then the day arrives when you look into the mirror and wonder, "Who the hell is the old guy looking back at me?"
About a decade ago when I was on the cusp of advanced middle age, I slipped and fell on a patch of ice near our offices and landed smack on the back of my head. I think I was unconscious for a few seconds and subsquently discovered I couldn't get back on my feet. So I crawled into the building and down the hall to the only business open, a tea room.
As I crawled in, the ladies were very amused at this unique attempt at humor, but when I told them what had happened, they brought a chair forthwith and helped me into it. They were most solicitous, and when I felt better, I returned to the office and called my doctor who gave me a brief interview and told me to go home and make no important decisions for the next three days. I asked him about this recommendation; he told me that I would be "goofy" until about the fourth day. Naturally, I thought he was kidding, but it turned out that he was oh so very right. My hockey "intuition' was long gone; there was no doubt about that.
After that fall, I changed my views about walking in the winter in Minnesota and acquired a variety of shoes, boots, and attachments to same to help me navigate the snowy and icy periods typical during our long winter. After the hip was replaced, I was especially cautious, and the winter after the replacement, I got too confident and slipped on the ice seven times during the winter. This led to a further review of walking accessories, and I acquired two molybdenum tipped walking poles and rubbers with the same kind of tips on the soles.
And then I discovered the Nintend Wii game system and their "Fit" program, now called "Fit Plus." One part of the exercises have to do with balance, and I began to do those exercises with a passion. My balance improved, as did my confidence, and my episodes of entertaining strangers in the out of doors diminished.
This winter, we began with heaps of snow followed by rain, yes, rain. So walking and driving have become perpetual exercises in paying attention ('though I still see people on their cell phones - go figure!).
For the time being, it's back to the treadmill and the hiking sticks for Islay the beloved scotty and me, along with even more time on the Wii in my attempts to defer that which needs to be deferred.
Good luck to us all this winter!
I still approach the winter environment with great caution and still do my Wii exercises, as well as occasional stretches on the treadmill when outdoors is just too awful for words other than those of the four letter variety.
Walking in winter is like many of other challenges which face us throughout our lives - questions of balance.
He says that falling often is the first in a short sequence of events which can lead to one's dropping off one's limb on the tree of life. Most of us want to defer that result as long as possible.
Long ago I learned to fall frequently - first on the skating rink and subsequently on the hockey rink. Playing hockey is an education in falling down and getting hit and falling down. After a while, you don't think much about it.
Time passes, and one morning you wake up and find that you are middle-aged, so you set about trying to defer the inevitable impact of ageing...a process very much like trying to defy gravity. More years go by, and then the day arrives when you look into the mirror and wonder, "Who the hell is the old guy looking back at me?"
About a decade ago when I was on the cusp of advanced middle age, I slipped and fell on a patch of ice near our offices and landed smack on the back of my head. I think I was unconscious for a few seconds and subsquently discovered I couldn't get back on my feet. So I crawled into the building and down the hall to the only business open, a tea room.
As I crawled in, the ladies were very amused at this unique attempt at humor, but when I told them what had happened, they brought a chair forthwith and helped me into it. They were most solicitous, and when I felt better, I returned to the office and called my doctor who gave me a brief interview and told me to go home and make no important decisions for the next three days. I asked him about this recommendation; he told me that I would be "goofy" until about the fourth day. Naturally, I thought he was kidding, but it turned out that he was oh so very right. My hockey "intuition' was long gone; there was no doubt about that.
After that fall, I changed my views about walking in the winter in Minnesota and acquired a variety of shoes, boots, and attachments to same to help me navigate the snowy and icy periods typical during our long winter. After the hip was replaced, I was especially cautious, and the winter after the replacement, I got too confident and slipped on the ice seven times during the winter. This led to a further review of walking accessories, and I acquired two molybdenum tipped walking poles and rubbers with the same kind of tips on the soles.
And then I discovered the Nintend Wii game system and their "Fit" program, now called "Fit Plus." One part of the exercises have to do with balance, and I began to do those exercises with a passion. My balance improved, as did my confidence, and my episodes of entertaining strangers in the out of doors diminished.
This winter, we began with heaps of snow followed by rain, yes, rain. So walking and driving have become perpetual exercises in paying attention ('though I still see people on their cell phones - go figure!).
For the time being, it's back to the treadmill and the hiking sticks for Islay the beloved scotty and me, along with even more time on the Wii in my attempts to defer that which needs to be deferred.
Good luck to us all this winter!
I still approach the winter environment with great caution and still do my Wii exercises, as well as occasional stretches on the treadmill when outdoors is just too awful for words other than those of the four letter variety.
Walking in winter is like many of other challenges which face us throughout our lives - questions of balance.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
A Close Shave
Over the years, I've observed that men are on a perpetual search for perfect sex, a perfect cup of coffee, and a perfect shave, and we'll settle for one out of three.
So let me make some observations about one of the other two - namely, a perfect shave.
As a teenager, I would stand in front of the bathroom mirror looking for something, anything, that resembled a beard. When it finally appeared, I learned about shaving from my father. Pretty simple in those days - shaving soap, a shaving brush, and a Gillette "Safety Razor." (The idea of using a straight edge just scared the hell out of me, so the double edged blade was the only choice. Lathering up from the hard shaving soap in the wooden bowl was easy, even fun, but It took a lot longer than I thought it should to learn to navigate the razor around my face. So I also learned about little pieces of toilet paper stuck on a cheek to stop the bleeding and the sticks (called styptic pencils) in the medicine cabinet to accomplish the same thing.
After I absorbed the basic vocabulary, I began the search for improvement. The first was the arrival of the Wilkinson razor blade, and then a parade of different razors followed - single blade, razors with vibrating motors, double blades, triple blades, electric razors (totally unsatisfactory for me), and once I settled on inexpensive razors from my local Target store, I began to review the "soap option." After decades with the brush and hard soap swirled into lather, I tried a succession of "brushless soaps."
Not the same, although I did conclude that some of them - the ones in a tube - were appropriate for use during travel when one wishes to reduce the impedimenta to a minimum. In my sixth decade of shaving, with ageing and dry skin, I finally left behind the hard soap in a bowl for soft soap in a bowl, but with the shaving brush.
If you haven't shaved with a brush, you've missed one of the great pleasures of life. Generally English, typically made with badger hair, the shaving brush transports and foams the soap on the face. It feels good, very good in truth, and when properly applied makes shaving a literal breeze.
When the shaving is done, getting the soap off your face with hot water and running your hands over the skin reminds you that you are now ready for the day, knowing that on some days, shaving might well be the high point.
A couple of days ago, while shaving, I realized that the shaving brush I was using was the same one my father used for many years. Made by Kent, a fine English brush manufacturer, its brown handle has had a few knocks, and the brush hairs are shorter and less "spread" than they once were. But it still works fine.
Each morning, when I shave, I am reminded that although my father has been gone for over two decades, there remains a complex web of connections between us. Most of them lie in memory or in objects which he enjoyed and which I inherited.
The brush is a different kind of link with its physical connection to my father, and it brings me more pleasure than I might ever have guessed. I like that in a very small way, I'm carrying on what I learned from him about something as elementary as the morning shave.
So let me make some observations about one of the other two - namely, a perfect shave.
As a teenager, I would stand in front of the bathroom mirror looking for something, anything, that resembled a beard. When it finally appeared, I learned about shaving from my father. Pretty simple in those days - shaving soap, a shaving brush, and a Gillette "Safety Razor." (The idea of using a straight edge just scared the hell out of me, so the double edged blade was the only choice. Lathering up from the hard shaving soap in the wooden bowl was easy, even fun, but It took a lot longer than I thought it should to learn to navigate the razor around my face. So I also learned about little pieces of toilet paper stuck on a cheek to stop the bleeding and the sticks (called styptic pencils) in the medicine cabinet to accomplish the same thing.
After I absorbed the basic vocabulary, I began the search for improvement. The first was the arrival of the Wilkinson razor blade, and then a parade of different razors followed - single blade, razors with vibrating motors, double blades, triple blades, electric razors (totally unsatisfactory for me), and once I settled on inexpensive razors from my local Target store, I began to review the "soap option." After decades with the brush and hard soap swirled into lather, I tried a succession of "brushless soaps."
Not the same, although I did conclude that some of them - the ones in a tube - were appropriate for use during travel when one wishes to reduce the impedimenta to a minimum. In my sixth decade of shaving, with ageing and dry skin, I finally left behind the hard soap in a bowl for soft soap in a bowl, but with the shaving brush.
If you haven't shaved with a brush, you've missed one of the great pleasures of life. Generally English, typically made with badger hair, the shaving brush transports and foams the soap on the face. It feels good, very good in truth, and when properly applied makes shaving a literal breeze.
When the shaving is done, getting the soap off your face with hot water and running your hands over the skin reminds you that you are now ready for the day, knowing that on some days, shaving might well be the high point.
A couple of days ago, while shaving, I realized that the shaving brush I was using was the same one my father used for many years. Made by Kent, a fine English brush manufacturer, its brown handle has had a few knocks, and the brush hairs are shorter and less "spread" than they once were. But it still works fine.
Each morning, when I shave, I am reminded that although my father has been gone for over two decades, there remains a complex web of connections between us. Most of them lie in memory or in objects which he enjoyed and which I inherited.
The brush is a different kind of link with its physical connection to my father, and it brings me more pleasure than I might ever have guessed. I like that in a very small way, I'm carrying on what I learned from him about something as elementary as the morning shave.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
I have become an "e patient!"
On a very rainy Monday couple of weeks ago, I woke up and felt that I had a problem in my right lower eyelid. The choice was to get in the car and drive through the pelting rain to a distant suburb and see my ophthalmologist or to find a more sensible strategy.
After a period of quiet contemplation in the smallest room in my house, I searched out my cell phone and using the bathroom mirror to allow me to see the image I was about to take, I snapped an image of my right eye. Then I e-mailed it to my doctor with a note saying words to the effect of do I need to see you for this or can you tell me what it is and what to do about it so that I can stay home and keep dry?
Within a half-hour, I had his response - what I had was not a particularly big deal, and I could take care of it at home without ointments or other medication just the application of hot water on a regular basis to the affected eye lid.
I had a couple of follow-up questions, so I rang the doctor, and we had a very pleasant chat, during which he observed that he had already filed electronically a "low-level" claim with Medicare. Well, that surprised me -- that is, that Medicare was sufficiently up-to-date that they could handle something like this. The doctor said that with my image and e-mail long with his e-mail response, he had enough to file a claim. Fine with me.
In finishing up the conversation he said with some apparent delight that I was his first e-patient and that I was beginning to catch a glimpse of part of our medical future... remote diagnosis and treatment done electronically.
Now obviously one cannot do this sort of thing with a doctor when you've fallen down on the floor and broken a leg, but when some of the niggling problems either aren't worth driving to the doctor's office or can possibly be dealt with over the telephone, even with the technology as simple as a cell phone image, well then maybe this brave new electronic world isn't going to be so awful after all.
At this stage of the game, I've given up updating my resume, but I do think it would be fun to have listed among my few accomplishments that of my newly found status as an e-patient.
(I have been learning a new computer-based dictation program, and this blog entry is the first to use that software. I have made a number of mistakes as I've gone along but all in all, I'm really amazed at how relatively easy dictating this rather than typing it has been. My thumbs, overworked after 50 some years of typing almost every day, welcome the respite.... If future entries seem to have been created by someone else, you can blame the software. That's what I plan on doing.)
Monday, June 22, 2009
Seventy...? You Can't Be Serious
Getting old sucks. Plain and simple. Relief at reading the obituaries of other and younger people is tempered by the realization that there's no way to stop the process of being edged out to the end of your limb on the tree of life, and the time will come will a large hand will descend from a passing cloud and take you off to another place.
Frankly, I'd prefer to be in Scotland, but the hand probably won't reveal one's destination. I would like the hand to know that I like moderate climates with a healthy amount of rain and that I find locations in the warmer climes completely unsuitable. OK, so I'm lobbying, but just a little.
A couple of weeks ago I left the world of the 6s and entered the world of the 7s, and as I look around me, I find that most of my friends are retired, enjoy leisurely lunches, trips to various places on the planet, and try to persuade each other that their array of golf or tennis games, board meetings of worthy organizations, and concerts at 11 o'clock in the morning are their preferred bill of fare.
Me...I'd rather go to the office and put in a few hours on the modest enterprise which has entertained me for the last several decades. I don't abhor the "r" word (retirement for you youthful readers), but it doesn't seem to suit me particularly well, so I like to say that I am changing gears, downshifting, you get the idea.
Such available time as there is will be devoted to some projects, ranging from traffic management on the road which runs by my house to the history of the Christmas Eve service at King's College, Cambridge, family genealogy, and to learn some of the lore about the highland place in Scotland where I've spent a week each May for the last few years. Nothing too serious, except for trying to catch up on the reading I fell behind on in fourth grade - a hill the summit of which will always be unreachable, I'm afraid. No harm in trying, as long as the eyes can manage.
Between that and dealing with Islay, the scottish terrier (the Empress Of My Universe) and trying to keep ahead of the weeds at home, I expect I'll be pretty busy.
By doing so, perhaps the hand will focus on others whose stillness may attract it more than a man who cannot quite accept the image facing him in the bathroom mirror every day. Excelsior, and let the race continue!
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Retirement or Shifting Gears....
My little business has been running me for almost the last quarter century, and about a year ago, I began to plan for its future.
Retirement is a word I've never liked because it suggests that one is leaving life's competition in order to contemplate the meaning of this and that before one drops off the perch. So when I'm asked whether I'm "retired," I prefer to say that I'm not, but I am "changing gears," probably because that description conveys a sense of action, of moving forward, of not departing the field of play...yet.
About a year ago, I started to think about what might be best for me and my business, and the first decision I reached was that I would not close it down so that I could go to some island off the west coast of Scotland and hike paths both old and new. No, I decided that I would re-design the business so that I could carry on those parts of it which are unique and run it from my office, my living room, or from some island on the west coast of Scotland.
When we stopped printing catalogues and focussed on selling on-line, I began learning a whole lot about contemporary technology, and that stream of new stuff banging around in my brain has been enormously helpful in keeping me both alert and growing. I don't want that to stop.
Nor am I ready to give up contacts with customers. Even though our contacts are by email and phone, I feel that we've been helpful to them in small ways beyond providing a product. I remember the guy in London who couldn't find the baton he wanted in London, so he called us, and we were able to get him what he wanted in time for his event....the son in Alberta whose father was a noted musician who wanted custom printed instruction cards for his dad's memorial service, so that the congregation could play together...the band members who found us for that special gift baton for their teacher upon his or her retirement...the speech therapists who taught us that nose flutes are not only fun but also helpful in working with youngsters with speech difficiulties.
So, in the next three months, there will be changes in the enterprise, the most notable of which will be the elimination of music gifts from our offerings so that we can focus on conducting batons from plain to fancy. We'll be selling some items through Amazon, and they'll handle shipping those orders for us. The volume imprinted batons and custom work will be handled by George, our baton maker.
George is a remarkable man. I've worked with him for over two decades, and in that time, he has provided a quality product at a fair price, first-rate customer service, and in spite of the pain he lives with after surviving a serious automobile crash, he does not hesitate to go the extra mile both for us and for our customers. We are grateful to him and his colleagues at the workshop every week. I don't want to give up that relationship either - the jokes and stories are too good to walk away from.
Over the years, a number of people have worked with me to keep things going. Anne, Susan, and Cynthia have been major contributors over the years, and Tom and Vicki provided important support at critical times. I am grateful to them all for their hard work.
After June 30th, it will be Islay the scottish terrier and me in the office. Islay has worked for me since she arrived in my home from the Humane Society and will ontinue to greet visitors and remind me about treats, walks, and lunch, among other things.
Beyond work, I have some projects I want to work on and finish up and some places to visit. It will be an interesting next step in my journey, and I hope you'll stick around and watch what happens....
Retirement is a word I've never liked because it suggests that one is leaving life's competition in order to contemplate the meaning of this and that before one drops off the perch. So when I'm asked whether I'm "retired," I prefer to say that I'm not, but I am "changing gears," probably because that description conveys a sense of action, of moving forward, of not departing the field of play...yet.
About a year ago, I started to think about what might be best for me and my business, and the first decision I reached was that I would not close it down so that I could go to some island off the west coast of Scotland and hike paths both old and new. No, I decided that I would re-design the business so that I could carry on those parts of it which are unique and run it from my office, my living room, or from some island on the west coast of Scotland.
When we stopped printing catalogues and focussed on selling on-line, I began learning a whole lot about contemporary technology, and that stream of new stuff banging around in my brain has been enormously helpful in keeping me both alert and growing. I don't want that to stop.
Nor am I ready to give up contacts with customers. Even though our contacts are by email and phone, I feel that we've been helpful to them in small ways beyond providing a product. I remember the guy in London who couldn't find the baton he wanted in London, so he called us, and we were able to get him what he wanted in time for his event....the son in Alberta whose father was a noted musician who wanted custom printed instruction cards for his dad's memorial service, so that the congregation could play together...the band members who found us for that special gift baton for their teacher upon his or her retirement...the speech therapists who taught us that nose flutes are not only fun but also helpful in working with youngsters with speech difficiulties.
So, in the next three months, there will be changes in the enterprise, the most notable of which will be the elimination of music gifts from our offerings so that we can focus on conducting batons from plain to fancy. We'll be selling some items through Amazon, and they'll handle shipping those orders for us. The volume imprinted batons and custom work will be handled by George, our baton maker.
George is a remarkable man. I've worked with him for over two decades, and in that time, he has provided a quality product at a fair price, first-rate customer service, and in spite of the pain he lives with after surviving a serious automobile crash, he does not hesitate to go the extra mile both for us and for our customers. We are grateful to him and his colleagues at the workshop every week. I don't want to give up that relationship either - the jokes and stories are too good to walk away from.
Over the years, a number of people have worked with me to keep things going. Anne, Susan, and Cynthia have been major contributors over the years, and Tom and Vicki provided important support at critical times. I am grateful to them all for their hard work.
After June 30th, it will be Islay the scottish terrier and me in the office. Islay has worked for me since she arrived in my home from the Humane Society and will ontinue to greet visitors and remind me about treats, walks, and lunch, among other things.
Beyond work, I have some projects I want to work on and finish up and some places to visit. It will be an interesting next step in my journey, and I hope you'll stick around and watch what happens....
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