Greetings from the PAFC Graceful Aging Blog Team

We hope this season finds you busily preparing for the upcoming holiday festivities, planning to be among friends and family, and successfully wending your way through the maze of shopping, wrapping and packaging. Christmas is a time for traditions; we all have some special ones to observe or remember. Our team hopes that your traditions enrich and comfort you.

But a new year is on the horizon, and we wish to keep our Graceful Aging blog going strong in 2018. Even if you have submitted a piece before, we invite you to share with our readers your personal experiences with aging, be they fulfilling or otherwise.  These stories help connect us with each other and ease our way through the aging process. You do not need to be a polished writer to submit an article; you only need to be willing to share your story with others. Check the blog archive for examples of previous submissions. 

If you are interested in writing for this blog, please contact Barbara Fleming, fcwriter@frii.com, to get the details. We look forward to hearing from you.

The Last Letter - by Libby James

When Adam, my first grandchild, arrived in March 1989, I began a tradition. Every year on or about his birthday, I wrote him a letter, usually four or five pages, describing a little about what was going on in his immediate family, his extended family, and in the state, nation and world. When he turned one, I wrote him another letter. I did this because I’d always been curious to know first hand what had been happening in my family and in the world as I grew up. I tried to include details and small incidents that were at risk for being lost to time.

Fifteen months later, when Adam’s sister, Amy, arrived, I wrote a letter for her. And as the years went by and the grandkid kid count climbed to eleven a decade later, I did the same for each of them on or around their birthdays every year. 

When Brenna, number twelve, the final arrival, showed up, of course she began getting annual letters as well.

I did not share these letters with my grandchildren. Instead I put each letter into a folder and stored it away on my bookshelf. I don’t remember just when I decided that when each child turned twelve, I would give them the folder and the flow of letters would end for that grandchild. There are now eleven folders in the hands of my grandchildren. Maybe they read their letters, and maybe they didn’t. Perhaps some of them ended up in the trash. I’ve never asked, so I don’t know their fate. Perhaps some of the folders hung around until the kids got old enough and decided it might be fun to read the letters. It doesn’t really matter.

Brenna turned twelve a week ago and I’m about to write the final letter to go in her folder. I remember wondering, somewhere along the way, whether I’d even be around to complete her letter collection. Looks like I made it so here goes.

A few words from Brenna’s final letter.

Dear Brenna,

On July 2, 2017, you turned 12 years old which means that this will be the last of the letters I’ve been writing to you every year since you were born. I will give them all to you when you come this summer. You have been living in Tokyo since you were two, so I worried a bit about how you might fit in surrounded by all those cousins, ages 17 to 27, who gathered for a big party in Fort Collins. I didn’t need to worry. It took you about two minutes to join in the fun and games. You loved hanging out with your five girl cousins and they thought you were something special, which you are.

Your visit was short, but you managed to pack lots into a few days and you went home knowing a whole lot of relatives you’d only seen in photos. You stopped in Hawaii with your mom to attend a tennis camp. You are athletic, love to act, play the violin, and your dad says you don’t have a shy bone in your body. He predicts that you will be an entertainer.

The letter goes on to describe what her immediate and extended family is up to these days, a bit about the political situation in the U.S. and my hope that she will return this summer for some more tennis coaching. These letters are easy to write and hopefully will have some meaning for the recipients at some time in the future. 

 Libby James is a local author of several children’s books. She writes for the North Forty News and is an award-winning runner. 

It's All in How You Define It - by Nancy Reed

I don’t believe in kowtowing to the years I’ve accumulated in my life, and I refuse to estimate or be fearful of the number of years remaining. Whether or not those attitudes fit with the common use of the term “aging gracefully” I don’t know. I believe too many folks are concerned with how they appear to others to be aging rather than how they personally feel about the process and its effects on their health and life activities. 

For years, I worked with a woman who dealt with life so gracefully it depressed me to be around her. I felt sadness at my own lack of the quality until I observed her more closely. She never attempted anything new, refused to recall or relate any negative experiences in her life, didn’t take personal or professional risks, and reacted to stressful situations by pretending they didn’t exist. I never saw her revel in Eureka! moments. At that point, in my forties, I experienced an epiphany. Gracefulness with life, if that’s what she was displaying, was not for me.

I’m a bumbler. I trip over life, smack face-first into it, and get bruised by it. Occasionally, it slaps me down. But, since that revelation, I have endeavored not to be embarrassed or discouraged by my pratfalls along the way. Instead, I strive to learn new things, meet new people, and challenge my own attitudes and opinions. I don’t always succeed, but I have learned that my critics have to carry the weight of their negativity – I don’t have to. Aging gracefully? Depends on the definition. What comprises aging? What denotes graceful?

As the years of my life have increased, so have the opportunities and joys I’ve garnered. I adopted my adult daughter, my only child, as a single woman at the age of sixty-nine, and we’re greatly blessed to share our lives. At seventy-one, I became a grandmother for the first time and have been awed to see my wee imp grow in body, mind, and spirit. At age seventy-four, in addition to my short fiction and poetry in local anthologies, I published my first book and now have six to my credit with more to come. 

The inevitable culmination of aging is, of course, dying. Will I do that gracefully? I declare – people think I’m joking, but I’m not – that I don’t believe in dying; it’s a waste of time. It had better catch me by surprise between one step and the next, because I still have so much living to do that I’ll fight it if I can. In my mind, I add days to my life for all the things I still look forward to – a fantastical grace period I gift myself. It works much better than ruing time’s passage and counting down to The End.

Nancy L. (Nan) Reed's love of words inspired her to write from an early age: short stories, novels, memory snippets, scripts, and poetry. Her latest 

book is Conversations Between Two Great Friends, 2017. She calls Colorado the perfect place to live and is Musing at nancylreed.com about writing, designing a tiny house specifically for a wordsmith, and other subjects bizarre and intriguing. She encourages everyone with words to share to put pen to paper.

Boxed-in Because of Aging?-by Grace D. Napier

Imagine that you are surrounded by a tall fence and a locked gate. You can look through the fence and gate and recognize familiar activities and interests that you once had. Consider this boxed-in perception as a concept of aging for some persons. What can you do to set yourself free from the box when you retire?

The solution is to push against the gate to discover that you can budge it. Keep pushing as a way to set yourself free. When you reach retirement age—whatever it is for each of us—do not focus on your age but on other options open to you. I knew a woman who whenever we met would say announce her age.  She restricted her life by focusing on her age. 

The word retirement is unfortunate when applied to the interval between ending a career and death. To some individuals it connotes an end, not a transition. We need to find another word to replace “retirement.” My entry is “the discovery years.”

Even without having dementia or Alzheimer’s disease, older people process mentally more slowly than they once did. “Where did I put my keys?” “Is that engagement today or tomorrow?” “I used to know his telephone number, but now I can’t remember.”

Despite a little slippage in recall, you can retrieve what you have forgotten by searching diligently, but this effort is both time-consuming and frustrating. Instead, consult the calendar or day-planner to find the notation of a date, or call your luncheon companion to ask, “Is our lunch today or tomorrow?” Enter phone numbers that you use frequently into your personal notebook. Note upcoming events on a calendar and consult it every morning. 

Consider the problem of misplaced keys. Putting the keys in a variety of places when returning home can cause the problem. By always placing the keys in the same location you solve the problem.

Use crossword puzzles in newspapers or books to stimulate your brain. When you feel frustrated set the puzzle aside for a short time. When you come back to it, the needed word may burst from your mind. You have regained what had seemed too hard or impossible to retrieve. 

Make an effort to play games with friends. Invite them for coffee and games, such as Scrabble or Monopoly. Compete to win. Stretch your mind. Strive to be a champion.

Try to reduce the amount of time you are alone at home. Being with others provides another channel to keep your mind involved. Try to be with optimists. 

Dancing, swimming, table tennis, exercise classes, and other physical activities are helpful. Walk near your home once or twice a day. Use a bus service if it is available. You are in charge of you. Make certain things happen rather than wait for someone else to suggest an activity. When you initiate an activity involving others, you are helping them as well as yourself.

Assemble a jigsaw puzzle. Although it may be painfully slow, think of the pride you have when you say, “I put this puzzle together myself even though it has five hundred pieces!”

Learn something new such as embroidery, knitting, crocheting or tatting. Learn computer skills or a new language. Try gardening. Paint, or learn to make pottery. Try a different book genre. 

Just because you are older does not mean you have to shy away from anything new. I heard of a man who baked his first pie after he retired. It takes courage to attempt something never tried before. The retirement years are a genuine part of life. Do not accept the idea that when your career ends, life also ends. Your retirement years will be many more than your ancestors had. Use these years to your advantage.

Another realm of life is volunteerism. If you still drive, Meals-on-Wheels needs drivers. Public libraries may need helpers to shelve books or read to children. Churches and schools may need volunteers. You could volunteer in a hospital, guiding patients and visitors. Many new adventures await you! Many agencies could not survive if all helpers were paid. Volunteers enable agencies to continue serving the community.

The way to keep youthful regardless of your chronological age is to dare to try something new. Have a reason to get up in the morning. Retirement years can be the time of discovery and excitement. I knew a woman who began piano lessons as a senior just for the fun of learning something new. If your career developed something special in you, share it with others--being a graphic artist, teaching photography, or whatever your talent is.  An accountant can help taxpayers with income taxes. Executives can help a new business grow. Share your hobby or  travel stories. 

Never say, “I am too old to do that!” If a toddler could express his feelings in words by saying, “I can’t walk very well. I’ll quit trying. Sitting is good enough for me,” we would regard that attitude as abnormal, lacking enthusiasm and optimism. Have a normal toddler’s zest for living..

Visit a senior center and request a list of the month’s activities and programs. The variety may surprise you by offering interesting programs. Visit museum, which offer culture, history, and information.

Consider writing your life for relatives and friends, not for publication but to create a meaningful memoir for your descendants to read. Describe a house from your past and your childhood toys and games. Describe your school. Did you have ride a bus? These details will be precious to your descendants. 

If you are near a college or university with courses in special education, you might enroll to learn sign language or transcribing braille. Volunteer to run errands or shop for groceries for the homebound.  Volunteer to transport patients to dialysis or cancer treatments. 

I wish you countless adventures with spectacular experiences as you travel through the years of discovery.

BON VOYAGE!

Dr. Grace D. Napier (emerita professor of Special Education, University of Northern Colorado) was born blind in 1922, enjoys reading and writing, has written five books and has used ten dog guides over seventy-five years. 

Miata Memories -by Fran Green

“Arrive home at EXACTLY 5:30” was the mandate from my husband, Bob, on October 29, 1990.   As I pulled into our driveway the garage door opened.  There sat a beautiful blue 1991 Mazda Miata with a big red bow tied on it.  Our son, Jay, Bob and my mother-in-law, Elsie, were belting out “Happy Birthday.”  

“What a great idea,” I thought.  “He arranged with the Mazda dealer to let him borrow it for the night to take me out to dinner for my 47^th birthday!”  

It took all three singers to convince me that it was mine.   

The next day I drove it to the Science Museum of Virginia where I worked.  I could not stop looking at it.  All day I peeped out a window overlooking the parking lot to make sure it was still there. I told everyone I was going to keep it forever.  

In 1991 our son Jay’s baseball team won the Virginia State Little League Championship.  The team was flown to Florida to compete in the Southeast Regional Tournament. Bob decided to take the Miata on its first long road trip.  Bob is six foot three inches tall; getting in and out of it was not easy.  Adding two tall, skinny preteen boys was even harder, but Jay and his friend Ethan found riding in it to be much more fun than losing their first game.

After retirement we spent seven years living on the Outer Banks but continued visiting our Richmond friends.  Of course I went back and forth in the Miata.  During one visit I was driving my friend Kathy home.  When I saw a “No Left Turn” sign I decided to ignore it. Only when I bumped over a curb and ended up in an empty parking lot did I realize that the road was at a 45-degree angle. We got to her house although I knew something major was wrong, and Kathy’s glasses had flown off her face and disappeared.  The right front wheel was badly damaged.  Bob had to drive four hours from the beach to rescue me the next day.  Two years later, as I was lowering the convertible top, I noticed a glint of something metal.  Under the hinge on the driver’s side I discovered the missing eyeglasses, intact.

I refused to give up my 23-tear-old Miata when we moved to Colorado.  I was confident it was healthy enough to come along.  Our strategy, since Bob was not sure it would make it that far, was for me to leave one hour earlier than he and Barley.  By lunchtime he had caught up with me; by dinnertime he had caught up with me again.  We did this for three days until we arrived safely at our new home in Fort Collins.  

After the move the odometer rolled over to 200,000 miles.  The Miata was invited to spend winters in a neighbor’s garage in exchange for my looking after their house while they were away.  When I retrieved car in April I noticed a fluid leak.  It turned out to be brake fluid,  leading to an expensive repair.  A week later I noticed more leaks.  Mechanics found three more leaks plus seepage plus torn parts.  Repairs could range from $2,000 to as much as $12,000 for a total restoration.  

Time to lay my Miata to rest. 

OBITUARY FOR A BLUE MIATA

The 1991 model blue Mazda Miata was born in 1990.  It was a surprise gift to Fran Green from her husband, Bob, for her 47^th Birthday on October 29, 1991.  

It died at the age of 27 with 204,000 miles, having traveled as far south as Florida and as far north as Vermont.  In 2013 after living in Richmond, Virginia, and Corolla, North Carolina, it relocated to Fort Collins, Colorado.  

During its lifetime it survived a paint job, three convertible tops, and a few minor scrapes and bruises.  In its old age, it could be said that it “shakes, rattles, but it still rolls.”   On May 31, 2017, it rolled into Dellenbach Motors.  Death was caused by a series of leaks, worn out parts, and the need for intensive medical care.  Its life was sacrificed, along with a 2006 green Subaru Forester, for a 2017 blue Forester.  A 2015 Subaru Forester survives it.  Fran and Bob Green and Barley also survive.  No service is planned at this time.  May it rest in peace.

It is destined for an afterlife with a Dellenbach employee who had previously owned a red 1991 relative.  

The Greens have welcomed a copper-red 2010 Miata into their family.  

Moving makes you wiser - by Judy Werner

Moving makes you wiser.  Now that the last box has been emptied, we have a few minutes to reflect on the moving experience and all it entails for the aging population.
An enormous amount of emotions have been encountered by both of us. 

Oh, the good-byes were painful.   I planned on going back to the independent living facility after a month or two.  However, it has only been  a few days and I decided to make a quick phone call to tell a dear friend how much I already missed her and her husband. 

Within few moments, she let me know how much things have deteriorated since our move.  The dreaded rent increase letter has been received with rates increasing 3.5% monthly.  Also,  the hot water has been sporadic in working dependably.  They have had to heat their water or wait for their much desired showers.  So their feelings of frustration and unimportance have heightened. 

As far as our new apartment, it has been a source of joy and frustration.  I can't figure out who designs these places or what they were thinking at the time.  The ceilings are 9 ft. high.  I surmise to make them more soundproof.  However, this means the cabinets are hung very high.  They don't seem to believe in shelves in lower cabinets or under cabinet lights over the sink either.  The shower head  is  so high, it could easily water the jolly green giant.   Yet, there are times when we honestly feel like it is
a wonderful gift with new appliances, granite countertops, and even a nifty, electric fireplace which creates heat and/or sets a mood.

I see the relief on my husband's face now that we can save some portion of our retirement income instead of tremendously straining our funds.  I wonder if this is how teenagers feel  as they leave the safety and comfort of their family's home to venture out on their own.  I will never regret our decision to go into Independent living,  we've learned so much about an age group we knew little about.  I think we also learned so much about each other. 

May 2017: What Our Minds Let Us Be - by Pat Stoltey

Old age is a relative thing. Some might consider me old at 75 (that’s three-quarters of a century, you know), but my mother made it to 97, almost to 98.

At any age, we are what our minds let us be and we do what our bodies allow. My mom still played golf in her 70s. Her art projects were a favorite hobby until she was almost 90, when  her hands would no longer hold a paintbrush. She worked hard to stay engaged and socialize with her neighbors in assisted living and later with her roommate and the caregivers in the skilled nursing facility. 

Determination and perseverance played a huge role in her life. Coming from a broken home with very little money, my mom graduated from high school at 16 and after waiting a year to meet the requirements, moved to Chicago on her own and entered nursing school.

During World War II, while my dad was in the Army, Mom worked as a civilian nurse in an Army hospital.

For most of the years my brother and I were kids, Mom and Dad farmed. My mother could handle a tractor just as easily as she could whip together the huge noon-time meal for my dad and the field hands.

She endured hip and knee replacements. At the end of 2012, when she was 94, Mom had a tiny stroke and was put on hospice. She didn’t like it when the nurses stopped her blood pressure medicine and the caregivers wouldn’t let her get up and walk, so she willed herself to get better.

In April 2013, I moved my mom from her apartment into assisted living. She became a social butterfly until February 2015 when she fell in the bathroom and fractured her good hip.

We used to consider a hip fracture the end of the road for the elderly. But even with the limitations put on her by the orthopedic surgeon Mom got better and returned to assisted living. A motorized wheelchair kept her independent.

Mom paid attention to every bit of those never-boring 2016 election shenanigans, made her choice in November, and voted. Even though she didn’t watch each game of the Cubs’ march to win the World Series, she kept with the team. Current events and the latest world crisis were always on her mind and made for energetic conversations.

All that contributes to the biggest lesson I’ve learned from my mom--we can find joy every moment of our lives, even during the hard times. I hope to follow Mom’s example as I grow older, taking pleasure in the things I can still do and letting those other things go.

I often said, “Mom’s a trooper.” I’d like that legacy for myself as well.

Pat Stoltey is a local writer of crime fiction. Her fourth novel, a historical mystery titled Wishing Caswell Dead, will be released from Five Star/Cengage in November 2017. She lives in Fort Collins with her husband, Bill, Katie Cat, and Sassy Dog. 

Thoughtful Aging - by Janice Whitaker

     In 1992, after raising children, teaching in public schools, and moving fifteen times because of my husband Bill’s 30 years of military service, we settled in a large Texas city and began second careers thinking we would never move again.  We spent most vacations visiting our parents and our children and grandchildren in other states.  We saw the difficulties our parents had as they aged and thought about how their last years might have been better in other circumstances.

     When I retired in 2005, I thought about how I wanted to spend my remaining years.  Gardening was my main interest; I spent many hours pursuing that interest until the Texas heat and my body told me that it was time to quit.  

     About that same time, our daughter’s family moved to Fort Collins.  After we visited them, I talked my reluctant husband into giving up his Texas activities and friends to move close to our daughter, convinced her that her family wouldn’t be our main source of entertainment, and convinced my outdoorsman husband that Colorado had many opportunities for adventure. We became permanent Fort Collins residents in 2010.

     We were welcomed at our new church and encouraged to join Fort Collins Newcomers Club.  We volunteered at The Food Bank for Larimer County and joined book groups.  Bill hiked, led hikes, and volunteered with The Nature Conservancy and Poudre Wilderness Volunteers.  I volunteered with Poudre River Friends of the Library.  

     Still thinking long-term, I searched for activities I could enjoy throughout my elder years.  I joined a group of women who meet twice monthly to share knitting projects.  Now one of my favorite hobbies is knitting baby beanies for newborns.  

     I learned to play Scrabble, joining Northern Colorado Scrabble Club where I met many interesting people and learned the protocols for tournament Scrabble.  No longer confident driving after dark but wanting to play several times each week, I formed daytime Scrabble groups.  We now play on the first and fourth Fridays of each month for fun, and a dozen of us play in a Scrabble marathon tournament where records are kept and prizes are awarded every six months.

     Perhaps the biggest challenge in the move we made was finding a home where Bill and I could age in place.  We had some definite ideas about what we wanted, and our realtor pointed us to a patio home community where we could have a home built to our specifications.  Because our parents found stairs and narrow doorways an obstacle to their decreased mobility, we wanted all the activities of daily living to be on one floor with wide hallways and doors.  We also wanted an open floorplan with space to entertain along with yard maintenance and snow removal available and good walking trails.  

     We feel blessed that this challenge is now a reality and hope that we have many years ahead to enjoy our home, family, friends of all ages and the greater community.

  

More, Not Less - by Norma Glad

When I swim, I often counted how many of each of my four strokes I accomplish, so I could do the same number of each.  Ice skating was another opportunity to count and even up the number of glides in each direction. I began balance therapy exercises, and counting each repetition seemed to come naturally.

One day I said to myself:  “No one besides you is keeping track of your exertions. Think of something else to say as you perform…” Almost immediately, these words came into my mind:  Love in My Life!  Love in My Life!  Love in My Life! No, I’m not lacking love in my life.  I’m very sure there are family and friends who love me.  My new phrase brings to mind the many people and passions in my life who comprise my love life.

I have been using the phrase delightedly since then while constantly asking myself what it means to me. I love the warmth it implies, gatherings of friends and family, including the warmth that comes over telephone wires and into my computer.  I’m so glad I have been able to develop inner capacities to take in and give out love of several kinds. It implies to me recognition of the important place that love has had in my life, an assertion that I’ve carried on the values I was taught, and an acceptance of the love from others which has enriched my life.

These four words encourage me to keep on wanting to give tangibles and intangibles to those around me who are needful. The phrase seems to crowd out many habitual  negatives which have haunted me most of my life: I’ll never make it, I should have done something else, I’m sure to get it wrong……LOVE IN MY LIFE is a great substitute for all of these. 

“Love in my life!” is a great accompaniment as I walk to the mailbox, or anywhere else. The phrase has sometimes taken new forms in my daily rounds.  When I’m out in nature I find myself repeating “Beauty in my life!  So much beauty in my life!”  It’s especially meaningful when the sun is shining.

One day a friend used the word ‘joy.’  It was a natural: “Love in my life – and joy!” Now the phrase accompanies me as I swim, skate,  exercise and live with love in my heart. It helps me be in this very moment rather than wonder what I’m going to wear, whom I should call first when I get home, what will they say.

Here’s the latest version:  This morning my mood is down but I’m not, because there is Love in My Life! Deep breaths are a great accompaniment to Love in my Life. I encourage everyone, young and old, to find a phrase that works to enrich daily life.

When to Stop Driving -by Renate G. Justin

“Arthur, we think it is time for you to stop driving.”

“Why? I am a fine driver.”

“We observed you driving in the wrong lane yesterday, putting yourself and others in danger.”

“Poppy cock.”

So it went until we finally took my husband’s car keys from his night table while he was asleep.  Promptly he used a spare set and took out his Oldsmobile.  His family had to drive the car away and not tell him where it was to stop his driving.  He was furious--a scenario often repeated, as I knew from my family medical practice where I was consulted about the driving ability of older patients. 

In order to save my son and daughter from a similar scene, I gave my car away when I started to forget names and at times familiar words.  I decided to use the Fort Collins Transfort system to get around, a challenge at times.       

Surrendering car keys is a life-changing moment. In Fort Collins, giving up driving means no more evening entertainment, no plays, concerts or late night movies, no quick run to the grocery store. No Sunday outings except on foot or with friends.  

Bus service is, on most lines, hourly, with long waits if you have to take more than one bus to reach your destination.  In winter sidewalks are covered with snow, and there is no service evenings or Sundays.  From my personal experience, as long as you can walk to the bus, it is possible to plan daytime outings. Errands take longer but can be accomplished.  A real plus is that the bus drivers in Fort Collins are uniformly helpful, cheerful and always ready with a friendly greeting.

How can we tell when the time has come to make the drastic change from private to public transportation?  There are no easy tests to evaluate mental or physical ability.  Most people become more forgetful as they get older, and their reaction times are prolonged.  At what point those factors represent a danger to driving ability is difficult to determine.  Many older adults limit their driving, -- not at night, not in bad weather, not in Denver traffic -- but does that make them safer on the road in Fort Collins?

Drivers over 75 have more non-fatal crashes than younger drivers, most frequently because of failure to yield right of way or obey traffic signals.  Men have more accidents than woman.  Older drivers have more fatalities than younger drivers because they are frail and therefore sustain serious injuries more frequently.  Predictors of accidents are:

1. Falls in the past two years
2. Visual and cognitive deficits
3. A history of previous car crashes
4. Effects of medication 

Getting lost and near misses, often only witnessed by the driver and not reported, also are predictors of future problems.

Family members, family physicians, even license bureau personnel are reluctant to mandate the difficult change in lifestyle ‘no driving’ represents in spite of the fact that 14% of 75-84 year-old drivers and 20% over 85 have some cognitive impairment, not taking into account visual, hearing and mobility impairment.  The complexity of evaluating an elderly person for adequate functioning becomes clear if you consider that the act of braking a moving car involves:

1. Motor skills, muscle strength
2. Balance and normal reaction time
3. Adequate cognition

Both AAA and AARP have classes for older drivers; most driver-education agencies give road tests to evaluate driving skills.

In all honesty, just as we know when it is time to retire, we also know when it is time to stop driving.  Each individual knows how often he or she forgets words, can’t remember names, makes errors in typing or falls asleep in front of the television.  It does not take superior intelligence to translate those failings to the steering wheel of a car.  Which one of us elders has not made excuses when we ran a red light or ignored a stop sign: “It happens to everyone sometimes,” or “I was thinking of something else.”  We don’t really need our family members, our physician or the police to tell us that our skills have deteriorated and that we might hurt someone by insisting that we are safe drivers.  In the long run, it is up to each individual driver, as he or she ages, to hand over the car keys to the young grandchild and say: “The time has come for you to take over.”

Perhaps, once we have driver-less cars, the transportation problems of the elderly will be solved.  We will be relieved of having to make the difficult decision at what age to give up our mobility and independence, to surrender our car keys.

New Beginnings -by Dale Hein

  New beginnings can be merely restarting again on a familiar path.  A truer new beginning offers an unfamiliar route.  When I retired from Colorado State University 15 years ago, I had future options. 

 I observed many faculty colleagues retire.  Some continued part-time or as a consultant in their profession.   Many retired colleagues indulged in travel or hobbies.  Volunteerism satisfied others. 

   

Teaching and learning were my passions.  Why not continue in a new venue?  Also, I wanted to explore new intellectual areas outside of my professional life in applied sciences for wildlife conservation. 

 During graduate school, I read C.P. Snow's classic 1959 lecture The Two Cultures, in which he lamented the gulf between scientists and "literary intellectuals.”  When I was immersed in sciences, 

there was never enough time for literature, history, philosophy, or fine arts.  Retirement allowed me to catch up in non-sciences – a new beginning for scholarship.  I wanted to understand my own life beyond my knowledge from sciences and my own experiences.  Humanities could help.  

 Fortunately, I live in a college city with opportunities for adult learning.  CSU offers choices for continuing education in many subjects.  The Osher program at CSU offers courses especially for older non-CSU students.  Front Range Community College is another option. 

 I joined Front Range Forum, an adult education program at Fort Collins Senior Center.  Courses are as diverse as the interests of several hundred FRF members.  In FRF I take or lead many courses in literature, history, philosophy, and even a few in sciences.  What, for example, have I learned in a few of my courses?     

 For 8 weeks I explored the West with Lewis and Clark and then investigated the roles of women in the westward expansion of America.  In Great Ideas of Philosophy, I learned that Plato emanated and explained Socrates' didactic learning.  In classic literature courses, I discovered that Poe innovated the short story format, but that Chekhov and then Munro perfected the genre.  One course, Literature Meets Art, taught me that art reflects and reveals history.  In a course on Walden, Thoreau was not a hermit but a transcendental philosopher and a naturalist.  I learned that science and humanities interact and have common features.  Both build upon earlier scholarship.           

I learned that humanities expand the possible explanations for human behaviors and experiences.    Sciences describe living systems and processes of life.  However, knowledge from the humanities helps me understand my own life.  I learned that themes of human experience reoccur in time and place, e.g., coming-of-age, love, family strife, injustice, cultural conflicts, virtue, etc.

 In retirement, I am thrilled to have found fascinating new beginnings for learning.  Once again, as in childhood, the first day of school is the best day of all, a fresh start into joyful learning. 

On Aging Gracefully -by Barbara Fleming

A recent issue of AARP Magazine features all kinds of ways for people over 50 to avoid aging, to get, as one article puts it, “younger every year.”  Perhaps staving off aging works for some people, at least until it catches up with them (which it will), but in my experience, embracing aging, reaping its benefits, is infinitely more rewarding. I choose to age as gracefully as I can. 

I cannot claim that I have consistently aged gracefully. I have learned through considerable experience, though, that for me resisting the course of nature is not worth the effort it takes. So graceful aging means learning to accept the inevitable and to live around it, being grateful for life’s blessings, and finding productive ways to use my skills to enrich my own life and perhaps to benefit others.

Graceful aging means being able to step away when the time comes. One day a person is in the thick of things, making decisions, carrying responsibilities, doing tasks that seem important, interacting with other busy people. Life has structure and purpose. But then we pass the torch, leaving the decisions and the tasks to others, even knowing they will be done differently. Grace needs to rise to the fore then, allowing that different is not wrong, just different, and that a life stage has passed.

Graceful aging means accepting the exigencies of aging—which can, admittedly, be frustrating to say the least—with courage and adaptability. For me, it means selecting only commitments which I am sure I can fulfill without undue stress or fatigue. It means adjusting my schedule to leave space in my days to rest and relax.

Graceful aging means living day by day but planning and hoping for more days to come. Grace does not have space for fretting about what lies ahead. Practicality is important, of course; I have done the legal paperwork. And then, as aging makes possible, I have let it go and kept going. I still have living to do.

Graceful aging means knowing what brings pleasure and how to find it. It can be, for me, as simple as an afternoon of friendly bridge with compatible people who know it’s just a game. We all have different ways of seeking pleasure, even though they might not be the same when we age as they were in youth. Pleasure could be physical activity, travel, social gatherings and more.  Whatever brings pleasure in the aging years, however, requires adaptation to attendant limitations. Paul Newman was still racing cars well into his seventies, but I’m pretty sure he adjusted for age-related changes in his reactions and vision. Graceful aging takes the body’s changing needs into account, deals with them, and “leans in,” if you will, to enjoy the moment.

No one can suppose that it is simple or easy to age gracefully, or that it happens without an investment of emotional energy, but I believe it is worth the reward—a degree of serenity, opportunities to learn and grow, a lifetime of good memories, the flexibility to choose what to do and how to do it, and the satisfaction of living each day as richly as possible. For me, that is enough. 

Holy Smoke! -by Libby James

 I feel lucky. My four children are now AARP eligible, ranging in age from 52 to 57, and all of them have arrived at incredibly interesting intersections in their lives and careers. I feel so fortunate to be able to watch as the action unfolds. 

All are married.  Each family has produced three offspring, now between the ages of 27 and 11. Their parents currently have satisfying, exciting jobs that are keeping them challenged and engaged.

But, as the song says, “The times, they are a changing.” And before very long, it’s a reasonable gamble to say that all or most of my children will be doing something different. It will happen because of outside forces, such as company buyouts and changes or it will happen because they decide to make a change.

My kids worked hard and have been successful enough that they are now in a position to make some life decisions based on factors beyond simply generating income. All but the very youngest of their children will be out of high school by this time next year. Five are already college graduates and another will be in 2017. Three are in or contemplating college, numbers 10 and 11 will graduate from high school in 2017 and the “caboose” will be a middle-schooler next fall.

I believe these parents of my grandchildren are in enviable positions. Yet they are at a time in their lives that while invigorating, are complicated and possibly terrifying. They have spent decades in their careers but are at least another decade away from retirement. Three of them have years of experience in the business world. In varying degrees, because it is impossible to generalize about any of them, they are ready to broaden their horizons, to do something different, to put to use their hard-earned skills and expertise in new ways.

They have the luxury of making their own choices. But before they do, they will have some nitty-gritty decisions to make about how and where they want to live and work. Big house? Small house? One house? Two houses? Big city? Small town? Travel frequently? Stay close to home?  Based in the U.S? Based overseas? Work for someone else? Start a business? Become a consultant? Get involved with volunteer work? That’s only the beginning of a list I think they are going to need to make.

When I turned 50, I remember thinking, “Oh. I guess I’m getting old.” But now 50 seems young to me and I chuckle as I hear my kids talk about aging. It seemed strange to me when Jamie Lee Curtis, age 57, was congratulated by a radio interviewer who praised her for the way she was handling “the aging thing.”

My children all have a zest for life and—to a greater or lesser degree--a gambler gene that will influence what they decide to do with the rest of their lives. The rocking chair isn’t even close for this crew.

I’m staying tuned.

Living With Hope - by Carole Crane

The call came from my internist when I was in a business meeting.  My internist told me I had breast cancer.  She said, “We will work it out together.”  I knew I had someone beside me.

All my life I religiously had annual mammograms, including a few false alarms. Given that no one on my mother’s side had cancer, I wasn’t supposed to get it.  At 67, I expected another false alarm. But it was cancer and an uncommon type at that – triple negative.  Driving home, I seemed to be on automatic pilot, trying to convince myself that the diagnosis was a mistake.  

My much-loved husband, Myles, was a wonderful support.  He was with me all the way, from the first meeting with the oncologist and the other physicians (I did need him at the doctors’ appointments to help me remember what they said), through all the tests, the lumpectomy, the radiation treatments and the aftermath of that, the support group, the hospital Navigator program, and the emotions of my cancer journey. I was busy— going from one appointment to another, working, and getting tired from radiation, although Myles and I had good times at my radiation appointments five days a week.  We did jigsaw puzzles, talked to the other patients and heard their stories, ate snacks and laughed.  It was good to laugh.

I discovered a lot of support in Fort Collins for women with breast cancer—support groups, neighbors, friends, relatives, and service providers.  The caring from physicians, nurses and other hospital staff was wonderful.  Everyone I encountered taught me about hope, positive attitude and maintaining a sense of humor. So many kind people walked with me through this time in my life. I was overwhelmed by the generosity, graciousness, and good wishes.

Inside I was somewhat of a different Me than the one on the outside.  I cried, didn’t sleep at times, wondered what all this meant, and questioned my future.  With all that, I also knew I would fight, and fight I did.  Myles made sure I ate the right foods; I went back to exercising as soon as I was able; I continued working every day; I prayed; I had loads of hope; I found inner strength.  And by the time all the treatments had concluded I had gotten back my confidence and spirit until…

December, 2014, just three years later, when I participated in genetic testing and learned I had a defective gene, BRCA1.  A mammogram revealed another, but different, cancer in the same breast as before.  This time I was a different Me inside and out.  Myles and I made some tough decisions about treatment.  I chose to have a mastectomy and hysterectomy and decided not to have reconstruction nor take the customary five years of pills.  

Unlike the first time, I started this second journey with confidence, hope, spirit and fight.  I discovered that hope is a powerful weapon against fear and sadness.  I will never let go of it. 

Banish dull moments, but not reflective ones - by R. Gary Raham

Seventy-year-old male introverts confined to book- encrusted basements rarely succeed in quests for health and happiness. As a writer, I also spend lots of time wallowing in the mangrove swamp of my own mind, hoping to be ambushed by clever ideas. But I’ve learned to take off my hip boots now and then to explore some of the many real-world options available to seniors in Northern Colorado. Regular bouts of pseudo extroversion lead to serious dividends: exposure to new ideas, new human contacts, and a chance to enjoy Colorado’s great outdoors, to name just three. And that last option often leads to reflective moments that make my personal swamp more sublime.

For example…

If you are male and fifty plus, you may enjoy playing tennis to start your day. Youngsters (50-59), geezers (60-69), and super geezers (70 and above) meet at either Rolland Moore Park or CSU tennis courts (depending on the season) every day of the year. (Contact Richard Aust at rlaust@q.com for more information.)

My wife joins other women and men who like to run, jump, and throw things—like javelins and shot puts. They meet on a semi-regular basis to practice, often at CSU’s outdoor track on College, and participate in Senior Olympics and Masters Track and Field. They build strong friendships along with rigid muscles. (See www.coloradomasterstrackandfield.club) Colorado State, through their Adult Fitness program, also provides access to their track and weight room facilities for a modest monthly fee (http://www.hes.chhs.colostate.edu/outreach/adultfitness/) 

If you possess itchy teacher genes, you may enjoy volunteering for the City of Fort Collins Master Naturalist Program. After a six-week training program, you will qualify to lead nature programs to entertain and educate adults and children in the town’s natural areas. (https://naturetracker.fcgov.com/) Larimer County also has a similar program (http://www.larimer.org/naturalresources/volunteer/).

Rock, mineral, and gem enthusiasts can join the Fort Collins Rockhounds’ Club (www.fortcollinsrockhounds.org). During the summer they take many field trips, usually in Colorado and Wyoming, and they hold a gem and mineral show every March. The Western Interior Paleontological Society (www.westernpaleo.org) based in Denver provides those interested in fossils many opportunities for programs and field trips.

If you’re the artsy type, look into volunteer opportunities with the Fort Collins Museum of Art (http://www.ftcma.org/) or the Loveland Museum (http://www.lovelandmuseumgallery.org/volunteer/). Writers might want to consider The Northern Colorado Writers (NCW) and the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators (SCBWI). See www.rmcscbwi.org and www.northerncoloradowriters.com. Published authors may join the Colorado Authors league (www.coloradoauthors.org/)

So, after a day hunting fossil ammonites or discussing Paleo-Indian discoveries at the Lindenmeier site north of Wellington, I return to my basement and wade back into my mangrove swamp. But now I see the glitter of ideas on every rain-soaked bush with new clarity. The air smells fresher. Even the mosquitoes of daily life buzz with a certain perverse charm. I love to see potentially dull moments burnished to shiny, if sometimes imperfect, gems of reflection.

A Focus on What I can Do -by Marty Marsh

O.k., I confess.  I disliked P.E. in high school.  The only sport for girls was basketball, and I wasn’t interested.  At age 28 my husband challenged me to run to the end of the block, and I couldn’t do it.  That was a wakeup call, and I enjoyed recreational running a few miles a week for the next 30 years.  I felt good and had more energy to work in the classroom with teenagers every day. For me, the key to aging is focusing on what I can do and enjoy, not regretting what I can no longer do.

As I neared 60, I suddenly started feeling some pain in one of my knees.  My choice was to keep running, which I loved, or stop and try something else.  It was difficult at first to change, but I began walking briskly instead.  The point was to be moving, and I was doing that.  I am now 71, and walking is a regular part of my exercise routine.  I also have two new knees, which means I have to modify exercise a bit more. I use walking sticks to hike, and my yoga instructor has helped me modify the routine so I don’t put weight on my knees. I also have a wonderful gardening seat for weeding and deadheading in the garden, so I’m not on my knees. The biggest change in exercise as I’m aging is in my mind—allowing myself to do something that isn’t as strenuous, but keeping up my routines.

I know how important exercise is as I age.  Scientists have found that staying physically active and exercising regularly can help prevent or delay many diseases and disabilities.  People with arthritis, heart disease, diabetes, or depression benefit from regular exercise.  It also helps people with high blood pressure, balance issues, or difficulty walking.

I have learned from my elders.  My father-in-law quit playing chess as he aged because he couldn’t play at a championship level anymore. What a loss! Another friend quit skiing when he wasn’t comfortable on black diamond runs, and years later friends from the senior center convinced him to join their group for a ski trip.  He fell in love with the sport all over again at a vastly different level.

Each morning, when I get up, I look forward to some kind of physical activity.  I plan to continue to keep active and am thankful for what I can do today.  I don’t waste time thinking about what I used to do. 

My Life in History -by Barbara Sharrod

After 9/11 I started recording historical events of my lifetime as I experienced them.  I’d grown up in New York and had recently visited the Twin Towers with husband and children.  We’d sat at a table at Windows on the World, overlooking the Statue of Liberty.  I’d told my daughters that our soda pops cost more than our ancestors possessed when they landed at Ellis Island.

   

Then I kept going, researching and writing about my birth date, known for the collapse of Galloping Gertie, the third largest suspension bridge in the world.  Next I described the stand- out event:  the assassination of President Kennedy.  One of my students told me the news and my first response was denial.  Along with the country, and perhaps the world, I rushed to my TV set to get the real story.  As I watched, I lived the events:  Walter Cronkite wiping a tear as he reported the time of Kennedy’s death.  The apprehension, jailing and murder of Lee Harvey Oswald by Jack Ruby.  These killings not only changed history; they changed my world view.  Suddenly I knew that evil is real, random, unfair and powerful.  My spiritual life became an effort to grasp evil without denying it, explaining it away or living in dread.

Of all my living history, the Civil Rights Movement had the most profound impact. I grew up in a New York neighborhood that was considered “integrated,” a melting pot of ethnic backgrounds and religions.  But there were no people of color, and later I realized that that was intentional.  It was unspoken but understood that homes weren’t sold to non-whites.  Later, black kids from the new project were bused into my school.  Finally one of my favorite TV entertainers-- Nat King Cole--was driven off the air by racism.  

In college I signed a petition in support of a Civil Rights demonstration.  When I told my parents, they went ballistic.  They’d seen the Red Scare years.  They’d guided me through the McCarthy hearings.    Together we’d celebrated the courage of Attorney Joseph Welch and broadcast journalist Edward R. Murrow.  They’d helped bring McCarthyism to its well-deserved and long-overdue end, but not before it caused neighbors and friends to lose reputations, jobs, incomes and personal safety because they’d signed a petition.  Hence my parents’ fear that my signature could come back to haunt me.  When I read years later of the dossiers kept on Martin Luther King by the head of the FBI and by Attorney General Robert Kennedy, I knew my parents’ fears were not unfounded.

My handwritten record also includes inventions (The Pill, computer, cell phone), Supreme Court decisions, wars, having babies in the 1970’s, and the expansion of civil rights to women and gays.  Someday it will let my grandchildren read a personal view of a time they will only know from a distance.

Memory - by Dale Hein

 Susan arrived at my faculty office for her appointment.  She had been my advisee for three years and was enrolled in two of my courses.  I knew Susan well, but when I greeted her I could not remember her name.  Finally it came floating up in my memory.  A few days later the same thing happened with David.  I was 57 years old.  

Over the next decade, my ability to rapidly recall names and some words gradually faded. I had previously recalled names easily, usually knowing all students by name in my courses, even 50 or more, within a few weeks.  But then, even in small classes, I began having to point at students whom I knew well but could not call by name for class discussion.  I no longer was the smartest person in the room, and I retired from CSU at age 66.  

I learned to say, “Having a senior moment.”  Lately, I admit to “memory lapses.”  I fear perhaps progressing to “pre-dementia” that my doctor once mentioned.  “Early senility” sounds like inoperable cancer of the memory.  Few of my senior friends will mention the dreaded a-word.  

My doctor advised crossword puzzles, acquiring new knowledge, physical activity, and good nutrition.  He knows there is no cure for the a-word.  

I write copious post-it notes to myself.  I say my name when meeting a casual friend, hoping s/he will reciprocate.  I keep note cards with lists of words I may want to recall. 

I work NY Times crossword puzzles.  I take Front Range Forum adult courses at the Senior Center.  I walk and exercise rigorously for an octogenarian.  I do not buy mail order cures for memory loss!

There are advantages to memory lapses.  I enjoy rereading classics from my youth long after I have forgotten why I loved them.  Many memories from long ago remain vivid and precious.  Recent memories are more often ephemeral.

My greatest concern is end-of-life options.  Final relief from extreme pain may be available but not relief from a living death of the a-word.  Emerging choices for death-with-dignity require conscious informed consent near the end.  What if I cannot remember where I hid my final option?  

If you know me casually, will you say your name when we meet?  Do not ask whether I remember my own name!  I hope I can remember to send this item to my editor.  I could tie a string around my finger.  Would I remember why it is there?  We all live in the now.

Zella, My Favorite Retirement Project -by Scott Marsh

Almost ten years ago, my mother called saying that the sister of a good friend of hers had a farm covered with old cars and trucks, and she needed some help.  I called Zella, 84 at the time, met her a few days later at her farm near Pierce, and found her mourning her husband and totally overwhelmed by the massive number of vehicles and implements on the farm.

Zella smells of mice.  Her home, shop, cars, clothes, and farm smell of mice.  I am sure that at least a million mice call her shop building home and many more her old two-story house.  Early in our relationship, I asked her if she had considered using mouse poison.  Her reply was, "I could never kill one of God's creatures."  Her face is lined and rugged with 93 years of hard times, good times, and farming.  Zella's hands are gnarled into fists by arthritis, but she smiles and laughs quickly and often.  Her long gray hair blows around her face as we sit on her stoop and talk.  I probably only get out to see her about once a month, and it is nice to see how excited she is to have some company.  Born in 1918 and growing to adulthood very poor during the Great Depression, she brings that experience into every conversation.  Zella is convinced that another depression is imminent, and she said recently that such an experience would be good for the current generation of "throw it away" young people.

Her gray- green eyes show great sadness, and every time we talk she mentions how much she misses Leo, her husband of 61 years.  Although he died a year before I met Zella, I have gotten to know him by working on his treasures and hearing Zella's stories about him.  He was a photographer, musician, piano tuner, mechanic, welder, and whatever else he needed to be on the farm.  His five old tractors each had a different implement so he wouldn't have to change them for different jobs, and I think he really liked keeping the old machines running.  Everywhere I look on the farm, there is a testimonial to making do with little or nothing.  Unfortunately, when he died after a five-year illness he left the farm covered with unfinished projects - cars, trucks, tractors, and farm equipment, some dating back a century.  I have sold ten cars, five trucks, five tractors, and two motorcycles, the newest of which was a 1975 Cadillac and the oldest a 1936 John Deere tractor.  

I have had great fun hauling Zella's vehicles and implements home, getting them working, and finding someone who wants to buy them— the ultimate in recycling, since nearly all of this equipment would probably have been hauled off as junk.  Zella gets a little money and buyers are happy.  In the process, I have the fun of getting to know Zella, working on her old equipment, and seeing her happiness in receiving cash for the items that meant a lot to her husband but were a burden to her.  She appreciates what I do for her and loves my company, but also I think she sees some of Leo in me.

This story was written in 2012.  Recently Zella’s niece called to inform me that Zella had passed away behind the wheel of her van after feeding and spending time with her cats, whom she loved.  I miss her.