I live in hope

I planted caladium under the American sycamore tree out front. We shall see if it grows.  After so many gardening failures I no longer have strong expectations for things I plant.  However, I continue to live in hope.  Why?  Because it is always a visceral thrill when something I planted begins to grow.  In that moment, I feel joy.

As I age I find I have lowered my expectations considerably in nearly every aspect of my life.  I am no longer as excitable or exuberant as I once was.  That's a relief, considering what a big nut I can be.  I am not complaining, I actually think this "adjustment" is a reasonable and welcome change in my life.  I am more able to accept life for what it is instead of what I want it to be.  Who knew I had it in me to be reasonable?

It was fun being young and having unlimited expectations.  I enjoyed the excitement of thinking wonderful things were in store for me at every turn.  So often that turned out to be true. Youth was a great gig.  I think I made the most of it.  I have no regrets. But you have to kiss that joy as it flies. 

For those of us who are lucky enough to survive into our 50's, 60's, 70's, 80's and beyond, one occasionally has to look in the mirror and face facts. There is more of life behind us than there is ahead of us. That is not a tragedy, by the way.  I am not trying to freak you out. Youth and beauty are great, but they fade; they simply do not last. Joy is also momentary and temporary, but it continues.

Maypop, aka purple passionflower, aka Passiflora incarnata - a wild flower in Central Florida

Years and Years

The first year I could NOT wipe the smile off my face. Retirement was bliss. I never really thought about the job I left, except with immense relief for having escaped it. Year one was about selling our house, downsizing our possessions, packing, moving, buying a new house, and learning, learning, learning about new roles, climate, and environment. That first year I was busy organizing and controlling change.

The second year I had to figure out how to fill each unstructured, sun-filled, relentlessly available day on my own initiative. We bought bikes. After 37 years of working like a son-of-a-gun for others on an institutional schedule, that "personal initiative" thing was much harder than you might think! The second year I was preoccupied with figuring out how to live my new life.

I am half way through my third year of retirement and once again I am finding it quite different than the first two years. This year seems to be more personal, more about redefining myself. So far, so good. 

I wonder if this is just going to go on and on, dividing retirement into distinct years of adjustment. You know, "Year 5 was about finally learning how to use the remote control," "Year 10 was about learning to keep my mouth shut when certain family members talked politics" or "Year 25 was about learning how to get the aide's attention so she'd push my wheelchair down to the dining hall?"   

T at the overlook, Oakland Wildlife Preserve, Lake Apopka, Central Florida

Geraldine Page as Mrs. Ritter

I am always surprised when people assume I am a sweet old lady. No one ever mistook me for a sweet and unassuming teenager or a sweet middle aged woman.  I may look like a chubby, gray haired, little old woman now, but I am no lady. I have written about my distaste for "ladies" before.  You really cannot make assumptions about old folks.  We are just like we were when we were young, except slower and more wrinkled.  OK, maybe we have gained some weight, too.  Oh well!

Some older women are sweet and kind.  Others are a bit like Geraldine Page's character, Mrs. Ritter, in The Pope of Greenwich Village.  You never know who we are until you take the time to get to know us.

Here's a clip from that movie with the great Ms. Page. I really love this character and this scene.  In 1984, when this movie came out, I was 33 years old.  At the time I was an employee union organizer trying to bring collective bargaining to Cornell University in order to demand some respect for women in traditionally female jobs.  I was pretty tough and sure of myself.  That is how I wanted to stay. 

You know how it is when you are young.  The thought of aging horrified me.  Not only did I not want my youth to fade, I did not want to become a vulnerable and sweet old lady.  That seemed to be the only older woman role model when I looked around back then.  The character of Mrs. Ritter was something of a revelation to me because, even though she was older, alone, and grieving the loss of her son, she remained a badass woman.  I love Geraldine's interpretation of this character.  A lesser actress might have made a joke out of her.  She's no joke.

Old Friends

We had friends visiting from NYS this week; old friends.  Not that THEY are old, but two of the three have been my friends for a very long time, since the late 1970's and early 1980's.  The third has been a good friend since about 1990.  Well, perhaps we are old by some standards, but we certainly do not feel old. We all feel young.  I still feel like I am about 12 years old. 

They are work-related friends, people I met either working alongside them or in some other work-related capacity back in the day.  These friendships created deep ties.  We have been through so much together, with friendships waxing and waning over the years but always retaining a connection.  We were young together once, we all worked hard to build, establish, and excel in our careers, and now we are all retired.  Time marches on.  It is heartwarming to see that we still connect and can pick up where we left off regardless of how much time has passed.  It is fun to catch up on their lives and remember other friends (and enemies) from the same time period.   OK, OK, especially the enemies. 

A couple of days of girl talk is just what a doctor should have ordered for me.  It cheered me right up.  I love these women.  They are hardcore, no lightweights here.  They are women who lived their lives honestly, with great feeling, and on their own terms.  They are all comfortable in their own skins and revel in their individual personalities. We each married young, but they are older than me by 8-20 years.  So the men they married were pre-feminism husbands.  Rest assured these women have either retrained their men or divorced them by now.  It cracks me up to hear them talk about retraining tactics.  They are a joyous bunch.

Yesterday, sitting by the pool, we toasted a fallen comrade, Maggie, who died in 2006.  Oh how I wish she could have joined us.  She was what one might refer to as a ton of bricks.  I have never met a stronger personality.  She was older than us and alternately intimidated us and encouraged us to be our best selves.  She challenged our politics and our relationship choices at every turn.  This is a woman who refused to wear glasses because she thought they were a sign of weakness.  That is a direct quote, by the way.  She was single her whole life, and her listing in the telephone book was under the name Brandy Alexander.  If you were stupid enough to betray her  I am quite sure she could tear your heart out with her teeth.  We were all more than a little afraid of her. 

For many years this group of women (including myself) would meet Maggie at a yearly bazaar held at an elegant Victorian mansion turned restaurant over the long Thanksgiving weekend.  Let us call it a "Maggie mandated event."  The event was meant to kick off the holiday buying season and was called the Twelve Shops of Christmas.  We would eat a buffet lunch in the old carriage house on the property, staying long and talking loud.  She directed the flow of conversation and we all hung on her every word.  Then we would go into the mansion and shop in the twelve rooms where various upscale businesses set up shop.  It was fun. This annual event was often the only time I saw her.

In late August 2006, I received a call from another former co-worker and Maggie protégé, CA.  CA breathlessly and apologetically informed me that Maggie had been sick, was now comatose, was in the hospital on a respirator, and her family had made the decision to "pull the plug" that very afternoon.  CA has always been the one to inform us about former co-workers from that time period because she was the only one left at that particular workplace.  Her kindness is legion.  Unfortunately, she had only just realized she forgot to tell me when Maggie got sick.  For a while Maggie had been conscious and many of the old gang had gone to the hospital to see her and say goodbye.  Now she was not and the end was near.  This would be my last chance to see her before she was gone.  I was grateful to CA for taking the time to let me know. 

Leaving work immediately, I drove up to the hospital.  I walked into the Intensive Care Unit without anyone questioning why I was there and wandered from bed to bed until I found her.  Her eyes were closed, and her chest rose and fell mechanically.  From what I could tell, she was already gone.  It did not seem like a spirit inhabited that body.  I selfishly wondered why they had not turned off life support sooner.  What a cruel joke to pretend she was still alive.  She would have been angry for me to see her like that.  It was WAY beyond glasses.  In my mind I went on and on with my self-righteous indignation, as if I knew anything about anything.  In fact, I do realize how hard these decisions are for family; nobody wants to make a life or death decision for a loved one.  It takes great courage to do so, and such a decision requires a fearless nature and a clear conscience.  Not everyone can summon those qualities in the face of death.  It is just too hard.  Maggie could have made that decision for any one of us, though.  She was strong that way.

Maggie 1984