Letting Go

. . . of some magazine subscriptions. I've subscribed to Southern Living and Better Homes and Gardens for years, but I'm letting my subscriptions expire. Now that I'm elderly, these magazines no longer have much to offer me. Warning: A rant follows:

Check out these covers. Do you notice a common theme here? Food! Particulary food that I—as a gluten-sensitive diabetic—can't eat.  Lots of cakes and pies, etc. Lots of goodies to send my blood sugar soaring.

The covers that don't feature food, feature other things that don't pertain to me. A recent issue of Southern Living features food, but does slip in a nod to something southern—Savannah.

Classic Desserts? Uh, no. Too diabetic. Ditto for the Red Beans and Rice. Those 20 Weeknight Suppers? All laden with carbs. The Savannah Getaway? Can't do that anymore, but my husband and I visited Savannah when we lived in Charleston, SC, back in 1969. Too far to go for us now. Plus who'd look after the critters?

A lot of the magazines—including these—features make-up ads. I'm not sure what they have to do with having  better home, a nice garden, or a life in the south. But those ads must make the magazines  fortune.

Aside from an occasional bit of lipstick if I'm going out, I don't do make-up any more. In fact, I regret ever wearing make-up. All those years of foreign stuff sseeping into my skin couldn't have been good for me.

Trust me, the "style makers" pictured below (on a fold-out cover, no less!) are about as far from my style as you can get.  Looks like none of those folks on the cover do yard-work or farm-work. And the shoes—what the heck can you do while wearing spike-heel sandals except look useless (and maybe fall down)?

I haven't worn high-heeled shoes since I was young and stupid. Two bouts of plantar fasciitis and a heel spur episode have put me in sensible shoes with orthotic insoles for the rest of my life. I also wouldn't think of wearing clothes like that (although I did wear a miniskirt or two in 1969 when I actually had the figure for it, and I did wear wide-legged pants in the late 60s-early 70s). Around the house, I wear sweat pants and T-shirts or sweatshirts.  I do have a skirt or two in the back of my closet that I might have worn in the last decade. Or at least in the last millennium. 

Better Homes and Gardens seems to be trying to bribe me to stay a subscriber. The last time, they threw in a complimentary subscription to Family Circle. Notice it also has the emphasis on food I can't eat, and it seems to be geared to a younger reader: a stressed-out woman with kids and not enough time, a woman who just isn't "good enough" so the magazine will show her how.

The "Five Ways to Reinvent Your Life," for instance, aren't really about reinventing your life.  They're about discovering your passion via asking yourself five questions. (Only I don't think they have much to do with "passion" either.) Here are the questions (with my answers): 

• What was I like when I was a child? (I was very shy, I wanted a horse, and I liked cats. I got over the shyness, finally bought a horse when I was 32, and now have a gang of cats. What does this have do do wih passion?)
• Which topic can I talk about for hours on end? (Nothing, but I'm good for about a half-hour on a lot of things. Why would anyone want to hear me talk for hours on end?)
• If you asked my best friend what I'm awesome at, she would say. . . ? ("Ask somebody else"? I can't think of any friends that are "awesome" at something, even though they have a lot of talents and interests, so I'm glad no one has asked me that question. Why put a best friend on the spot like that, anyhow?)
• What hobbies do I squeeze in—even when there's no time? (I don't "squeeze in" anything. I usually read every night. I spend time writing—if an idea hits me. Oh, wait!—I squeeze in emergency calls to the vet if one of my critters is sick, but that's not exactly a hobby. Notice how this article assumes that someone has "no time"?)
• Is there something you always say you'll do one day? (Not anymore. I've let go of a lot of things I'd like to do because I've gotten too old and infirm. I tell myself that I'll make my final burial arrangements, and I've done part of that—buying my own tombstone, and then buying another because the first one was stolen. And again—what does this have to do with passion? Or even re-inventing?)

From a cursory reading of Family Circle, I've decided it has less to offer me than the other magazines. The "Chocolate Love/Reinvent Your Life" issue's 120 pages also had a lot of full-page (and more) ads for drugs: Tylenol, Opdivo, Imbrance, Pristique, Namzaric, Prilosec, Bydureon, Premarin, Prolaria, and Repatha. Plus a bunch of full page ads for foods and other stuff. Who needs that? And at 72, I don't need the story about IUDs either. So I'm letting go of Family Circle.

Women's magazines from years ago had in-depth articles and even short stories. I guess those days are gone now.

And my magazine subscriptions will soon be gone, too. I doubt I'll miss them.

~

Ads of Age

When you get old elderly, there's a big increase in certain kinds of mail you get—ads from retirement communities and funeral homes, for instance. Here are a couple I recently found in my mailbox.

So, I can "enjoy nature" at an upscale old folks' home? I've driven past the one in the above ad, and I didn't see much nature. I did see a very busy road going past it.

As for the funeral pre-planning, that's something I've been planning to do (my mother prepaid her burial arrangements and it worked very well). After all, I already have a tombstone* marking my spot in the family cemetery.

 I plan to opt for the "single cash payment"instead of the layaway plan "affordable monthly payments."

The strangest elderly-targeted mail that came recently was a card that unfolded. From the front, I thought it might be some sort of a humorous greeting card.

But it wasn't. I unfolded it to reveal this:

Was someone laughing at another's allergies, maybe? That's not funny. I opened another fold:

If you're having trouble reading that page (elderly with poor eyesight, perhaps), here's a closer look.

Carilion Clinic, our local health-related mega-business, is advertising for one of its, uh, services?!

I didn't find Carilion's attempt at humor laughable at all. In fact, it pissed me off.

~

*Actually, my second tombstone; the first one went missing.

Older Than Dirt

A friend sent me this Older Than Dirt Quiz in an email. I’ve already blogged about some of these (see Geezer Test entry on Nov. 16), but here goes! Count all the ones that you remember, not the ones you were told about. Ratings at the bottom.

1. Candy cigarettes
I remember these well. They didn’t taste very good—kind of like Necco Wafers (which I didn’t much like either), but it was fun to play “grown-up” and pretend to puff them. They were 5¢ a box. You can still get them online, but they’re more expensive now.

2. Coffee shops with tableside juke boxes
I remember some restaurants—the precursors to fast food joints—that had them. Gill’s on Williamson Road in Roanoke was one. I don’t remember any “coffee shops” when I was a kid, though. Coffee shops appeared when I was already an adult, unless you count “coffee houses” that appeared during my teens—but those usually featured live folk music.

3. Home milk delivery in glass bottles
When I was a kid, the milkman always left us a bottle or two of milk, but I can’t remember if ours came from Clover Creamery or Garst Brothers Dairy. I remember the cardboard tops that had to be removed and how real cream was at the top of the milk. To distribute the cream, you had to shake the bottle—before you messed with the cardboard top.

4. Party lines on the telephone
We had one, back in the day when we had five-digit phone numbers. All the phones had rotary dials, so we really did dial a number—after we’d waited for the other person to get off the line.

5. Newsreels before the movie
. . . and at least one cartoon with the movie and maybe a serial, too. I remember seeing President Truman in a newsreel at one of the theaters in downtown Roanoke.

6. TV test patterns that came on at night after the last show and were there until TV shows started again in the morning. (There were only 3 channels—if you were fortunate)
I mentioned this on the “Geezer Test” about entry. I can remember when we only had one channel—Channel 10, WSLS.

7. Peashooters
Yep. Every kid had a peashooter at one time or another. A wide paper straw could be used for one in a pinch. And spitballs were more readily available than peas. But kids also had slingshots. Most were homemade. Slingshots had a longer range than peashooters and could do more damage.

8. Howdy Doody
This is the first show I remember watching. Before we had a TV, I went two houses up the hill to watch what must have been the only TV on our section of Floraland Drive at the time. Soon we got our own set. I can remember discussing the show with friends in my class at Huff Lane School.

9. 45 RPM records
Heck, I remember 78 RPM records. 45s came along about the time I was in the 6th or 7th grade. I remember having to get those little plastic thingies to put in the 45s so they’d fit the record player’s spindle.

10. Hi-fi's
High fidelity. That’s what you wanted in your high-end record playing system. I can remember during the 70s that a hi-fi was a major piece of living room furniture.

11. Metal ice trays with lever
I still have some. Haven’t used them for years, though.

12. Blue flashbulbs
Yep. Used some of those—in the second camera I had when I was a kid. Finally could take pictures indoors! What a technological milestone! The blue was an improvement over the plain ones.

13. Cork popguns
I remember them, but didn’t have one. I had some fancy cap pistols though.

14. Studebakers
Not only can I remember Studebakers, I've actually ridden in one. They looked so sporty—at least compared to a lot of other cars in the early 50s.

15. Wash tub wringers
This was how Mama did our laundry ever since I can remember—all through my childhood and college years she used the same wringer washing machine. In the 70s, though, she switched to an automatic washer.

If you remembered 0-3=You're still young.
If you remembered 3-6=You are getting older.
If you remembered 7-10=Don't tell your age.
If you remembered 11-15=You're older than dirt!

Looks like I’m older than dirt.

~

Growing

The flowers in my flower beds are growing and blooming.


The passion flower vines are growing. Today one bloomed.


My little garden plot is growing, too. I've already made a couple of zucchini harvests.


My work-in-progress, a middle reader novel, has grown to 25,000 words (18 chapters). Only about 15,000 words and two major plot turns to go.

My left hand is growing stronger. The swelling actually makes it feel better and look younger (no wrinkles!).

And I'm growing older. Which certainly beats the alternative.

~

Counting my Blessings

Last Wednesday was a strange and wonderful day.


I woke up with an odd feeling: no part of me hurt. No foot pain. The back pain from the yard work-related pulled muscle that had sidelined me for over two weeks was gone. I’d almost forgotten how good it feels to feel good.

As soon as I got out of bed, I could stand up straight. I could walk without limping.

Things got even better. When I checked my email, I found a message from a student I’d taught thirty years ago.

“I'm not sure you would remember me,” he began, and later added, “I'm not vain enough to think that you would remember me, but I did take your drama class in the 8th grade.” He went on to describe the play he remembered appearing in when I taught drama at what was then Madison Junior High.

But I did remember him—he was a nice kid who had beautiful curls. He was one of several memorable students in a very good class.

“I was inspired to look you up on the internet and amazingly after nearly 30 years—I discover that you are real. It's funny how such a length of time can pass and you wonder if your childhood really existed,” he wrote. Then he told me about his life—the degrees he’d earned, the business he owned, and his wife and sons.

Because he’d recently watched the movie Chalk, he started thinking of teachers who’d influenced him. The next part of his email made my day:

I made myself think of the one teacher in my life who made an impact on me—it was you—whether you remember me or not—I remember you.

His parents now own a place on Smith Mountain Lake; he and his family visit a few times during the summers. “If you are up for it, I could visit you the next time we are down. I'll bring a bottle of wine and cat toys and you can pretend that you remember me.”

I don’t have to pretend. I do remember him. And I look forward to seeing a former student who has done so well.

Wednesday stayed good: The Pen Women luncheon was delightful. A talented and creative quilter was our guest speaker, and Gene Marrano interviewed a few of us for an up-coming Studio Virginia broadcast on the local public radio station, WVTF. Our Pen Women branch is sponsoring a scholarship for women over thirty who have returned to college, and we want to get the word out. Since Gene also edits the Cave Spring Connection and the Vinton Messenger, he’ll give us print coverage, too.

Oh, and I cashed my check from Leisure Publishing for a photo I didn’t know they were going to use in the 2008 Smith Mountain Lake Newcomer’s Guide. They’d paid me months ago for the article I wrote; an additional payment for the photo was a pleasant surprise.

Thursday, I still felt great! I submitted a story to a literary magazine that has bought a couple of stories from me in the past. Maybe they’ll buy this one, too. In the afternoon, I went to Roanoke and hung out with ’Nita at MMC&T. Then I went to Valley Writers where the discussions and critiques were pretty good.

Friday, we got much needed rain. The hayfields are turning green. I felt so good I cleaned several rooms. I received a call from a cousin who wants to come out and explore family cemeteries and family land. I sent a CD of family photos to another distant cousin, whom I’d met for the first time a few weeks ago when she was in the area. That cousin lives in California. And I’ve been exchanging pictures and emails with another cousin whom I’ve never met; she lives in Chesterfield. Lately, I’ve discovered relatives I never knew I had.

Saturday was delightful! My Lake Writer buddy Marion and I went to Hollins University for the annual Hollins Literary Festival. Three of the writers-in-residence read from their works. All were great (this wasn’t the case last year when only one was great). I think it’s important for writer wanna-bes like myself to hear professionals read from their work and to network with professionals. We ran into Jeff Reid, an excellent writer who used report for the Smith Mountain Eagle but who is now a student (on full scholarship!) at Randolph College in Lynchburg. At lunch, Marion and I shared a table and good conversation with a Botetourt librarian and the arts & culture writer for The Roanoke Times.

The price of gas had dropped by several cents ($2.91 at the Crossroads Kroger), so I tanked up.

Today— Sunday—I felt good enough to walk two dogs (Maggie and Emma), clean the dog pen, run the shedding blade over the mares, and work in the yard a bit.

And even though spring is still ten days away, the signs of it are here.

~

Leftover Posting

Last Monday, I was going to post about the previous day's walk in the woods on the new trails so, faithful readers, bear with me that today's info and pictures are a week late:

Last Sunday morning, John and Maggie and I walked the Polecat Creek Farm. John had finished bush-hogging a few days earlier, so more trails were open.




The problem with the walking trails is that I don’t walk well. The heel spur is improving (more about that later) but it still makes its presence known. I need to walk, not only for better diabetes control, but also to lose some weight that will help the diabetes, etc. Nature, however, is not often handicap accessible.

One of the things that help are the “farm use” chairs that John has placed in the woods for me. When an outdoor chair becomes too badly worn out for home use, it gets another incarnation as a “farm use” chair. (No, I don’t have little tags on them. Yet.) It’s nice to know, especially during tick season, that I don’t have to sit on the ground when I need to rest.

But the “new” trails we walked Sunday didn’t have any resting places—except for the porch on the old home site. Maggie, of course, ran big circles around me while I, limping along, marveled at the fall color:





When John and I were much younger—when our move to the country was a distant plan—it didn't occur to us that we wouldn’t be able to get around as well when we finally made our move.

Did we think that we’d always be young?

In spring, do the leaves think they’ll always be green?

Looking back, I wish I’d thought about what I was doing to my feet when I wore high heels in my 20s. Now I notice lots of women of, ahem, a certain age limping along like I do. (Didn’t I notice limping women years ago? If so, didn’t I wonder why they limped?) Two bouts of plantar fasciitis, the fibromyalgia I was diagnosed with in the mid-90s, and the current heel spur are sometimes painful reminders that I’ll never move the way I used to.

Therapy has helped. Currently, Ruth Mitchell—a myofascial release specialist who's also done great things for my elderly horses—is doing wonders for me. Sometimes I can make it through most of the day without hurting. In fact, I felt so good Monday afternoon after she worked her magic on me that I was going to sing her praises on this blog and post the pictures of the previous day’s fall color.

But when I walked into the house, John told me about my stolen tombstone. Minutes later, the deputy arrived to investigate, and I put off my feel-good post.

Until now.

Time is fleeting. Next year we will not be so young. Or so green.

~

The Twilight Years Start Now

I turn 62 today. This is a milestone birthday: I’m now eligible for Social Security. I’ll get the first check in another two months. (I don’t know why SS makes people wait. Do they put us off in hopes we’re gonna croak soon so they won’t have to pay?)

I’ve gotten used to being a senior citizen: I get a discount at Kroger every Tuesday, a discount at Peebles the first Tuesday of every month, and another discount at Roses. Plus, discount coffee at McDonald’s and free coffee at Wendy’s. Now I’m eligible for a discount at the vet’s. I’ll have to find which days are senior citizen days and schedule my numerous pets (some of whom are also senior citizens) accordingly.

Turning 62, however, means I’m officially old. Not that I haven’t noticed. The crooks in my fingers that have made my handwriting illegible (Thank goodness for computers!), the aches and pains I never used to have, and the sags and bags and wrinkles have been pretty good tip-offs. Plus, that recent night at the hospital was a wake-up call.

One of my goals is to become more eccentric as I age. I think I’m achieving that nicely, thank you very much.

Another is to become more outspoken. Some who know me probably think I’m pretty well outspoken so as it is. Well, you ain’t seen nothing yet! The older I get, the lower my tolerance for stupidity and/or injustice. I can't rid the world of those two evils, but I can at least call attention to problems whenever I find them.

What were some of the best things I’ve achieved that made my life substantially better?

• Going away to a large urban college (VCU back when it was still RPI) and getting a degree. Everyone should go away to college and live in a dorm. That in itself is a learning experience. Plus there’s all that good stuff in the classroom. . . .
• Getting a master’s degree. Not only does having that degree in English give me more credibility in my writing, it earned me a pile more money when I was teaching. That degree paid for itself about twenty times over. A good investment!
• Buying a horse. That changed my life in more positive ways than I can count. I’ve spent a pile of money on horses through the years, but I don’t regret a penny of it. (One of my childhood dreams was to have a horse. Took me 32 years to get the first one. My other childhood dream was to have a houseful of cats. Achieved that one, too.)
• Buying land. They’re not making any more of it. Walking over my land is pure joy. Riding a horse over it, with a border collie running out front, is even better.
• Being adopted by a border collie. Once you’ve owned a border collie, you can’t go back to regular dogs. I’m on my second one now.
• Becoming computer literate. Wow! What a world computers opened!
• And some other stuff.

Turning 62 means I know I won’t live forever. I already have my tombstone in the family cemetery. (Rhonda down at Add-A-Touch was running a special a couple of years ago, and getting a bargain was hard to resist. I knew I’d need one eventually. . . . The stone was set on December 14, 2005—the same day I bought Maggie.)

Turning 62 makes me realize that I won’t accomplish some things. I’m know I’m not going to be a best-selling author. I might not even have a book of my own commercially published. Odds are excellent that I’m not going to even make enough money at writing to challenge my social security payment. But I want to be a good writer. To that end, I’m still learning, still going to conferences, still taking an occasional workshop, still reading. . . .

And, I want to give back. I’ve been very lucky that people have helped me along the way, and I want to pay it forward. Using my English-teacher skills, I’ll continue to help up-and-coming writers. I usually mentor a few younger writers and will continue to do so. If I can also save a few writers from the numerous writing scams that exist, I’ll have done something worthwhile. I’ll still probably do a few “off-road adoptions”—the main way I’ve acquired my pets (other than Maggie and Dylan). I can’t save them all, but I’ve saved a dozen or so pets during the last few decades.

We’ll see what the future holds. Meanwhile, I’ll stick with Davy Crockett’s motto I learned (via Disney) when I was a kid: “Be sure you’re right, then go ahead.”

So far, I'm still going.

Award-Winning Retiree

The other day I received an impressive looking envelope. When I opened it, the first thing I noticed was the proclamation, "Notice of Award."

Wow! I'm a winner.

Except I'm not. The "award," from the Social Security Administration, informed me how much I'd get each month in my retirement check.

For over three decades, I've been paying into Social Security. I'm getting my own investment back. If I'm the one responsible for earning it, it's not exactly "an award," is it?

I guess this means when the first check arrives in November, there won't be balloons, flowers, and press coverage.

I probably won't even get a chintzy certificate to hang on the wall next to the rather impressive certificate I got for passing my concealed handgun class.