April 2nd 2012 -- I'm still 52 years old

This was a work day: I sat at my desk for more than half of my waking hours. If it wasn't for Mitt and Ann Romney calling, I might not have stood up and moved until Hubby got home! Dog and Hubby and I worked in the yard for about two hours, cleaning up the willow's weeping, the proof that Maximilian sunflowers are prolific, and discovering two plum babies worth saving, three asparagus, three quince in leaf, four currants, and leaves on the Manchurian apricot and the pear trees. Lovely day (partial day) in the sun, committing purposeful work that burns calories. Dinner was chops on the Christmas gift grill and another steam-in-the-bag (love those!). Now, back to work until my favorite t.v. shows come on.

This was a normal day. A workaholic's day. A regular (this semester) Monday. A day when I think outside of "me" and think about "me" as a purveyor of truths and questions to ponder. When the piles of ungraded papers get high enough to topple, I ask myself -- quick, before the students ask! -- what is the purpose? And then I grade some of those papers and realize what students MAY learn from the homework: to read the directions, to follow a rubric, to read critically and for meaning. It's not the points -- though you can't convince them of that! -- it's the action, the purpose, the implicit message of homework: do your best. I hope students discover their own personal best! W. Edwards Deming wrote and lectured about a person's perception of intrinsic quality, and William Glasser took the idea into the schools. How do you teach a student about his or her own personal best? How do you say, with the teacher's red pen, that this is good, and that is, like, lame-o? What sort of homework makes a student excited, engaged, and contemplative, about self, talents, goals, and a sense of one's own "best" work? This was a normal day: I asked the questions and found few answers. I am a plugger!!

I cannot reach my toes.

In the photo, Dad, brother, Grandmother (never "Grandma" and "G.G." to my children), me about age 9, Mom. I can't tell where we are.... I have great legs! A tomboy's legs. Nice shoes! And dig that jacket on Mom! Retro rules: fashions always come back. I may never again, however, wear a dress that short.

Still getting older...........with a Best Friend Forever

I spent yesterday with my BFF. We have known each other for 32 years! Amazing! We are the same (gardens, man-type preferences, favorite movies), and we are so different: she drives a Prius and uses a Droid, but doesn't have a Facebook page or a blog and can't use Powerpoint. We see each other about every other month, meeting half-way for lunch and shopping -- and giggles and sounding-boards. She reflects me, I think. I need her, often, to be reminded of who I was, who I am now, and how I got here. I hope that she will help me find my way back to who I was destined to be.......

I posed the "Annual Scrapbook" idea to her, that I got from Suzanne, who does it every year for her extended family. Suzanne sends out the email to everyone with a topic -- every month for a year -- and each person writes back with a story, a memory, a photo or two, and even another question. "What was your first job?" revealed that her aunt, now in her 70's, once worked as a secretary at a stockyard! For the Thanksgiving gathering, Suzanne simply copies/pastes all those emails (a few hardcopies are scanned in, and some people use Word or WPdoc) into a continuous script, then prints them out on cardstock as well as making a CD copy, and distributes them to "head of family." Everyone who chooses makes more copies and creates a binder for the collection of the year's stories.

Part of the emotional burden of growing older is the fear of forgetting. Perhaps those teenage dreams are now proved to be silly, and perhaps some doors to some alternate futures are really closed for good. But what if I can't remember my own lifestories that I'd want to share with my children (grandchildren) and nieces and nephews? I worry sometimes that without objects to hold and smell and squint at as mnemonic devices or touchstones the memories will -- if I am lucky enough not to have Alzheimer's corrosion -- simply float away or being pushed out by new thoughts. If I do not make a monument to my past, I will lose it.

When my mom died (two years ago now!) we ceased the Christmas gathering at her house -- so it's been almost four years since Mom's side of the family partied at her house, and it's been two years since I saw the Seattle nephews in person, and it's been more than 6 months since I saw the sandwich eaters of Madison. When we gathered at Mom's house, all of the adults fully aware that her clock was ticking, ticking, there were deliberate efforts to tell "Remember when...." stories about ourselves as children. Periodically, she would correct us, and frequently, Dad would chime in with a "I didn't know that!" There's something lost when the family linchpin dies, and something else later lost when the photos are in dusty boxes in the garage apartment.... (somehow, I have all the slides of childhood -- in the days before KodaChrome or Polaroid -- and Brother has Mom's organized and labelled photo albums). My family and I are not great telephoners, or letter writers -- though cells and email have given us so much Multi-Tasking opportunities that, on balance, we do talk more now than we did ten years ago. But the present doesn't seem, in my view, to have the same value or urgency as the past does. The present is mine, sayeth the busy lady -- and the past belongs to all of us. If we can remember it....

We need to gather, and talk, before all the nephs and neeces start bringing their own procreations to the party and start mistelling the family truths and myths. As I get older, it seems more and more important that someone else will tell, again, the story of the nose flutists in Leadville, CO, attracted to our campsite by Dad on the bagpipes. Someone besides me should laugh again at the story of Jeb and the vicious Bantam rooster -- who apparently hated the Vikings and the purple hat worn to the chicken pen...! Does anyone know why Mom said she always wanted to go to China? And how many people remember, with the same exasperated fondness, my grandma at my first wedding, in a cold church on a bitterly cold Saturday morning, dressed in long-johns under polyester slacks under her best wool suit under one of grandpa's coats? Really, my children should know how I met their father and he should tell them about the great ice-storm of the firstborn's first winter.

So, I have a bit of a conundrum: I can travel to and fro to create situations where someone starts talking about Those Days (I shall take a tape-recorder!), OR, I can sit here in a tornado of my own making, in a busy life of work and dirt and books and Facebook Scrabble games -- and start now to communicate the memories. Which ones? How? Memories or memory-making? Or is this just one more thing on the daily Do-List?

I'm 50. If I don't start now, I'll run out of time........ I'll start with the BFF. There is more value just for me -- and not all those other family members -- with BFF memories. I'll be selfish, and giving, in the same action! I'll find myself along the path to and from the past... (how efficient! how thrifty!). I'll start with The Story of The Rose, and then our first beer together, or dancing at the Rainbow, and then the Elvis impersonator, the house on Cherry Street, the Flying J Fiasco, .... and yesterday's adventure at the school house. I should write that one down right now.

Note to self: write in blog every week!

Time is flying!

When I was in fourth or fifth grade, and finally comprehended fractions, I figured out why the year had gone by so quickly: a year is a fraction of a life, and as you age, the fraction gets smaller and smaller! Well, that explains birthdays. But it doesn't explain how the clock these days seems to be juiced.

I wish to announce that I have just posted the final assignment in the second of two classes that I took on-line for re-licensure. When I took an adjunct teaching gig in another state (just across the river!) I had to compile the credential file -- and discovered that I was about to become un-licensed in June this year if I didn't hurry up and follow the rules! On-line was the answer (and I have been very very pleased with the set-up and with all that I learned). I signed up and paid the fee.... and then took on two more gigs. Life has been a whirl! There are seeds in seed-starter already dead or already showing root-compaction. The yard is raked (thank you, dear) and the flower beds look like dressed up chaos (thank you, daffodils). And there are at least four piles on the shelf of papers to be corrected (what was I thinking?!?!?). But the credits are done, and as part of this announcement, I declare them to be well-worth the time & effort.

Next on the list: apply for that full time job -- and also answer "YES" to an offer of adjunct work. Life is just a series of Showing Up, and the details (like how and when) will get worked out. I have faith in the spring: on the river, in my garden, and in my life.

Today, I splurged my time. I went shopping with a girlfriend who is a CPA -- we both stole time from other duties, and giggled and shared and got some new spring clothes! And, I went for a boat-ride in Hubby's new toy -- and we giggled and shared and made a new memory. It was a great day!

Now, it simply must be over. It's 10:30 PM. The dog gave up and went to bed. If it wasn't for the Brewers, Hubby would be in bed (he's involved in five separate Scrabble games on Facebook right now, but uses the Brewers as an excuse to stay up). I'm too old to stay up too late, and tomorrow's mental Do-List is long long long. And, I yearn to return to a re-read of Dick Francis's Bolt. Discipline: the key to aging gracefully and fulfilling all of your voluntary duties. Discipline says I must sleep now. Good night, moon!

My Greatest Fear (this week)

The book: Still Alice by Lisa Genova. A novel about early-onset Alzheimer's.

The back story: Last Saturday, I left the lights on in the CRV and it was dead when I got out of the grocery store. I had left my cell phone on top of the piano. At 9:00 AM, I felt fragile, tired, foggy. Because of store policy about liability, and my own fragile timidity, and the very strange circumstance of not knowing a single person in the store, I used the store phone to call roadside assistance ($3/ month well-spent). I had to wait an hour, and bought a book to pass the time. What attracted me to this novel? The subject: I teach about aging. I read and wept the rest of the weekend.

At my age, there are three, maybe four, reasons to lose a thought: age, multi-tasking, menopause, and, of course, Alzheimer's. The book -- with a rich resource file in the back pages -- makes it clear that only one of three genetic mutations may result in early-onset Alzheimer's. Since I have no blood relatives with Alzheimer's, statistically I am very unlikely to get the disease until I am really old. Comforting!

Yet, I wonder.... I am fascinated by aging, and determined to age gracefully and inspirationally! But there was that mis-spent youth.... How many times do I forgive myself for forgetting something? How frightened should I be when I spend a few moments not sure what day it is or to what school I should be driving? There is a sense -- today anyway, as I prepare for the first class of one, and the start of two next week -- that there is just simply no room in my brain for any other thoughts. I work. I keep the house standing. I eat and rest and take my vitamins. I take the dog out and generally have a few thoughts while outside about spring garden plans. But, the blog is put-off; re-organizing the bathroom is delayed; the ironing basket fills; a date with my husband just doesn't fit in the calendar. Friends? I have to make dates and mentally categorize them with "work" so I can find no reason to cancel a walk or a cuppa meeting. Is everyone's life like this?

The picture: my babies. They are all grown-up now: beautiful, successful, happy. I have to look at pictures to remind myself of what they looked like! That oldest child look of disdain, the lovely halo of hair that morphed into a Hawk, and the bald round girl who looks now like a California babe. The years fly by! Family dynamics change. I'll keep the pictures handy to look at, and crane my neck around the corner a new day -- and save some brain room for new memories.

Maps and Journeys

I am reading a book called The Island of Lost Maps about cartographic crime. The author does a wonderful job of interweaving the metaphor "Maps" into a story about the histories of certain maps and about one certain map-thief. Maps are the portrait of, the reason for, and the story of journeys of both the soul and the body. Add in this quotation from a recent email from my brother, who is establishing a foundation "for good works" in our mother's name: "I have a variety of personal reactions when I read such stories as these. I think, "Oh, everything I want to do is already being done." I also think, "If a 14 year old girl can raise that much money, and a pastor plunks down everything he has, how can I set my sights any lower?" And then I worry, too, that I won't achieve what these ordinary folks have achieved with such apparent aplomb. I suppose the only thing to do is just keep at it."

I am busy these days living on several types of time. The healthcare debate promises either little change (the version that passed last night won't change lives for many people) or huge change (assassination and revolution): I fear for my country and weep for the fading of optimistic belief in the mirage called "American Dream." My inheritance from my mother will be used to buy my house from the bank -- that's telescoping about 15 years of my life into the minutes it takes to sign the check and seal the envelope. I have (finally!) set a teaching schedule for the spring, still a few months away, one that promises both periodic flurries of never-home busyness and new challenges relating to pedogogy. Spring will also bring the execution of those plans made in the days of waning summer and of frigid winter.... And, today, on a day when I have to look at a calendar to find out what the date is, and when the sunshine is saying through the window "Come quickly! I'll be gone soon," I am making a list of what must be done before bedtime.

I have been working on my lectures about the various stages of "adulthood" (as set out by our textbook). I think I'm in, or due for, a mid-life crisis. Perhaps I had one and didn't notice. I am aware that my clock is ticking. I am aware that I think about dying more often than I used to (eg., the mortgage will mature in 2024 and my first thought is that I might not be here to see it -- math is not one of my skills). Because of my experience with my mother's passing, I see the files of banking and insurances and children's college funds in a whole new light ("Oh, I should organize those!"). But, to my own confusion and fascination, I am at the same time eager to see what the next corner brings. If this is what age 50 feels like, what will it be like to be 65? Can I really eat & exercise enough to forestall disintegration? I ask my young-adult students, "What is old?" Am I a grown-up yet? One assignment in this class will be to write an obituary for yourself. What do I want on my headstone? In the end, at the end, what will I turn out to be? This is a journey that doesn't allow maps.

Autumn is just the end of the chapter

The anniversary of Mom's death was September 22nd, and her house was sold a week later. We have lived through the many firsts of new grief, and the house is -- gone, no more Christmas gatherings there, few reasons to ever return to that city -- that is the end of a chapter.

The last of the tomatoes were eaten or canned, and we had a meal of peas; the fishing started to get difficult, plus windy and cold; the wood ricks were brought up from the basement and EA cleaned the chimney. I put straw thickly on top of the new strawberries and asparagus (-gi?) and spent some time getting the new potting room organized (the table is not yet in, and that space is taken up with drying dahlia & canna tubers). Fall is coming (it's at least 50 degrees today with sunshine!) -- and that is an end of a chapter.

I spent (too) much time these last few months realizing that my LIFE book has only a few chapters left: each body system did an old-age hiccup and then settled into a new "normal." In impulsive rebellion, I picked out new plastic eyeglass frames: sort of like Elvis Costello's, and not so impulsively, I really am going to buy the zipper hightops: it's BOGO month. I read alot, so I naturally begin to see life and its myriad adventures (and those misadventures!) as being set between covers, with chapter breaks intermittently providing a false sense of resolution. Many chapters ended this fall and I feel grief in different degrees, yet -- like those #$&%* squirrels -- I feel at the very same a sense of excitement, about what takes up the space in my head, the hours on my calendar, or this blog spot. I'm waiting for confirmation of my spring teaching schedule; the garden catalogs have been arriving in the mail (another compost bin, I think, and I will try planting potatoes under the little-used clothesline); my gynecologist and I have made a pact to get out with our friends twice as often as we do now (that will equal two times: social networking does not come easily to workaholics with odd artistic and political perspectives). I discovered that I actually waiting to see how well I fare this winter, depression-wise, and if the new tricks I've been reading about will really work (Item 1: abundant plastic plants in my windowless office -done). A chapter has ended. OK, lots of chapters have ended. And every one is followed by a new page.

Did you see Maureen Dowd's column this weekend? Check it out: http://www.nytimes.com/2009/09/20/opinion/20dowd.html. It's about happiness, or lack thereof, in women over the age of "mid-life." Men get happier, and women get less happy (not to say "sad"). Dowd quotes a few studies, and concurs with their speculation that unhappiness is due to the huge number of options that women have today. The options collection creates a whirlpool of "What If's" and women are exhausted from trying to do everything. I wonder, in addition to the options, if it's The Potent Spell. According to that book, scientists and doctors have been telling women for a very long time that their efforts outside of the home, beyond the hearth, are futile and mis-guided, and -- at the same time -- that their role as mothers is the absolutely most important thing they can do for society, and it is so very easy to screw it up.

Now, with two out of the nest and the other one flying soon, it appears that my re-defined mothering job is to dole out money, send little love-packages, and worry when appropriate (I don't have time to worry any more about kids getting mugged in big cities, and anyway, all the worry in the world didn't stop it from happening). So, now what, for me? If I can claim any success at all at mothering, it may be that my children do not live at home AND still communicate with me regularly. They seem to be able to find friends, make a social life, clean their own bathrooms, feed themselves using kitchen appliances, and earn positive remarks from important people in their new lives (daughter got a promotion, son made the Dean's List). My "potent spell" may be mitigated by my success, but I can't fill my days considering that success or checking up those successful children. I think that if I were left bereft of a purpose in life, I would get very unhappy. So, I'm flopping around emotionally a little bit, trying to see the path that goes on into my older-age. There are a lot of options in existence these days -- but I'm thinking that there are several I can't see yet.

I seek answers from friends, I look eagerly for comments to this blog, I collect various articles about "successful aging." Sometimes I find a clue in what I'm reading. Dear Mr. Jefferson: Letters from a Nantucket Gardener includes this declaration: "Gardening is an undiluted pleasure for me. I enjoy every phase of it from pawing through seed catalogs to harvesting the fruit.... I like feeling the sun in my bones and clean air in my lungs, I like feeling my muscles stretch till they ache.... The act of gardening repays its labors...."

Children may not do that. Wage-Work often doesn't have a recognizable return on your investment. Marriage may have its moments, but it does not have a day-by-day guarantee. If my 101-year old paternal grandmother and her 93-year old maternal counterpart were any indication, living longer just to be "old" is not worth the candles on the cake: it's lonely and frustrating on many levels. So, even growing old "successfully" may not have a return on the labor involved (is our societal obsession with youth a new "potent spell"?). The Nantucket Gardener writes to Jefferson, who said at age 68 "Though an old man, I am but a young gardener," that we are all young gardeners: "Gardeners are ageless and the gardens we create go on forever." I have to figure out, I think, how to be the Best Of Myself, regardless of age, children, marital happiness, or any known measure of success. I want to be like humus: ever bettering and entertaining more worms, and contributing to the rampant growth in those who come in contact with me. The new potting room in the basement now has shelves of canned vegs, a cupboard of seeds, and lots of potential. The piccalilli jars all sealed yesterday, I got the rainbow tulips planted, and I ate a handful of raspberries. What's next?