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.  

Live Long and Prosper - by Gary Raham

       

    February 23, 2015 Time magazine declared that babies born today might live to be 142—not quite as long as a Vulcan, but I’m sure even otherStar Trek fans were impressed. The article emphasizes the advances in technology that might extend lives. I contend one would need to cultivate other skills to survive techno changes, multiple marriages, the deaths of friends and family, world news depression, and the mischief of great-great-great-great-grandchildren.

            Here’s my three-step formula for surviving the prospect of ultra aging: 1) Get smart (or at least educated). 2) Keep moving; stay connected. 3) Cultivate a deep passion for something.

Get educated

Education provides options. I earned degrees in biology but never became a field biologist, although one professor suggested I might find a nice snail endemic to a tropical island so that my daily research could be capped off with a Mai Tai and a dip in a quiet lagoon.

I initially chose to enter the honorable, if underpaid, profession of teaching, but because I was more interested in biology than biology students—and had a flare for art—I ultimately parlayed my education and obsessions into science writing.  My degrees gave me the credentials to do that.

Studies show that educated people tend to live longer, either because they can read medical journals if they have to, or because their education casts a stronger beam of light into the dark alleys of an increasingly complex world.

Keep Moving & Stay Connected

            Dick Van Dyke titled his recent book Keep Moving: And Other Tips and Truths About Aging. He knows. He’s a song and dance man graced with talent and good humor. Exercise reduces weight and keeps body parts in working order. Give your thumbs a rest and walk, run, play tennis (my favorite), bike, hike, climb stairs and play ball instead of fantasize about it.

            A younger me thought a writer just had to apply seat to chair and write, but if chair-bound writers don’t also apply feet to the ground often enough, words wither in a sluggish brain.

Despite what you hear on the news, we humans also display an outstanding ability to care for and help one another. We need the personal connections and passions that being with friends and family provides. People with strong ties to others live longer and happier lives.

Cultivate a passion

            Some of us are born with interests that last a lifetime; some need to cultivate them. Painters paint, writers write, and explorers search the world to find a place they can call home. Some live to serve a well-defined god; others find the divine woven into the very fabric of the cosmos. People with passions seem to drive their carriages farther and longer, fueled by wonders both real and imagined.

            Spock (and his alias, Leonard Nimoy) didn’t live long because he was a Vulcan. He lived long to contemplate a universe he found endlessly “faaascinating.”

A Senior Romance - by Richard and Jane Thompson

He: It all started at the Alamo in 1999 — where Rich proposed to Jane by drawing a line in the sand which she crossed to accept.

 She: Wait a minute. The romance really started in San Francisco when your younger son informed me that just before she died, his mom told you to marry me. That was a surprise even though we had been friends for 20 years. I had been a widow for seven years and needed to know if we could become more than friends.

He: I had not been a widower that long, but long enough to realize what so many of our age have experienced in losing a spouse. I also knew that since we had both been blessed by long, happy marriages — 32 years in your case and 42 in mine — we both knew what it means to cherish memories and love and yet move on to new lives.

She: We took enough time to explore our relationship before I crossed the line at the Alamo. I learned how generous you were both to me and my children and I think you learned that I could deal with adversity and we had similar senses of humor. That really was the beginning.

 He: Now in our 80’s we still make time for romance but it looks a little different. As people age and hair thins, bellies bulge, hearing goes and we keep losing our keys, we need to remember that love is patient and kind and forgiveness is more important than ever.

She: And loving involves being attentive to the little things. I really appreciate your doing the dishes after dinner so I can answer my email. There is nothing like playing and exercising and working together as a team.

He: And enduring love should be more than gazing adoringly into each other’s eyes. It also means directing our vision and efforts toward causes in the community beyond ourselves as an expression of our shared spirituality.

She: Definitely, but we need to spice up the romance too. I love that you often suggest sitting down in the living room by the fireplace with a glass of wine and a snack to talk about the day’s events or think of travel adventures we would both enjoy. Our weekly date nights with dinner out and a movie or a play give us another chance to celebrate life together

He: Romance certainly includes intimacy. We know that “making love” is more than sexual relations. Couples of any age need to remember that the best four letter definition of intercourse is talk. Communication, which also means truly listening, keeps relationships growing.

She: We know that healthy people even in their later years can enjoy happy, fun, intimate relationships. He and She: Both of us, in the lyrics from Funny Girl, want to always be able to say, “Make each day Valentine’s Day!”

Published..at Last! - by Nancy Phillips

Books. Was there anything more wonderful? Barely 6 years-old, clutching my very first library card, a passport to an entire building full of books, I could scarcely breathe. I have had many library cards since then and never gotten over my love of books. I never dreamed I would write one.

As an elementary school child, I wrote “poetry,” doggerel really. In high school, I tried my hand at short stories. Sentimental stuff. Embarrassing. I don’t even like short stories. After college, it was a job, marriage and children. Only after the children had become adults and moved on to their own lives did I rekindle my desire to put things into words. I learned about a writer’s group and hesitatingly asked if I could take part.

As a counselor in a shelter for battered women, I wrote about social workers, clients and children. I cranked out hundreds of pages. A novel? My fellow critiquers thought so. They were just being kind. I made a clean copy, put it in a box and hid it in a closet.

 Over the next 20 years, I produced about 20 manuscripts. I printed each novel and consigned it to the closet. Only once did I get up my nerve to send sample pages to a publisher. They came back with such dizzying speed I knew my writing wasn’t good enough.

The real publishers wanted blockbusters from known authors, or something by a celebrity. “We should start our own publishing company,” somebody said. “Vanity press,” warned another. “Not anymore,” a third chimed in.

Small regional publishers were springing up around the country, offering work by local writers in unique settings, and it was selling.

One of the group knew how to prepare print-ready manuscripts for companies that could turn them into an actual book, with a cover and pages. “Nancy, your Leadville book would be perfect. It’s finished, it’s local, it’s historic. People besides us would love it.”

Gulp. Did I dare? Already in my 70s, I wouldn’t do it any younger.

Thus began a period where every member of our group pored over the manuscript, stalking typos, inconsistencies, errors. Photos were gathered to recreate1880 Leadville on the cover. Our publishing company, now named Penstemon Publications, bought a block of ISBN numbers, as others were eager to see their work touched by the magic of print. A local published author wrote a blurb for the back cover.

Chin up. “Ship it,” I said, and we did. In less than two weeks, the print copy was in my hands. I could scarcely breathe as I held it in my hands. I read it from cover to cover and ordered a hundred copies. Ten days later, three huge boxes with the word heavy stamped on them arrived at my house. There they were, as perfect as we could make them. Books. And people wanted to buy them.

Now, a year later, it just might be time to take another look in that closet

Calendar Traditions - by Rich and Jane Thompson

Both of us had been widowed and were in our mid-60s when we married in 1999. Seven adult children and three grandchildren were part of the equation when we spoke our vows. Since then the number of “gkids”has grown to eleven.

It became apparent to us that we had a challenge — and opportunity — to become the glue binding the disparate family members and generations together. A practical, even artistic means of accomplishing that purpose presented itself at the first end-of-year holiday season. We began our family calendar tradition modestly, cutting and pasting photos from the previous year of family gatherings and adding handwritten captions. We then had our “masterpiece” photo-copied and bound for each family at a local print store.

From the beginning, we inserted the most recent contact information of our extended family, so that each person would know how to be in touch with the  others throughout the changes over the following years.

Much has changed since that first effort. We learned to use Mac Pages to insert and modify the digital photos, and add captions and titles for each month. We don’t use the templates for calendars available online or at the photo store because  we like to have more options for text, sizes of pictures and varieties of  layout.

The family calendar has proved to be an aesthetic experience as we collaborate on what pictures to include and how to arrange the photos we have taken, as well as those family members have sent us. Over the years, we have come to include scanned images from previous generations as an appendix to the 12-month calendar. This genealogical component has inadvertently turned the calendars into legacy pieces. And the old pictures in boxes in the basement are being used and displayed for the next generation.

But we aren’t perfect. Some of the women in the family have complained that the pictures we chose to include didn’t flatter them. Also we have learned to be careful that all the cute little kids get equal coverage. Nevertheless, the calendar has become an anticipated event in the family; it is used and treasured. One son has even archived every edition.

We have recently wondered who might carry on the calendar tradition when we no longer can do it. Perhaps the family creativity will take another direction. But in the meantime, producing the calendar is a delightful activity in our lives, and wrapping and giving the copies is a highlight of the season.