Ageism and Aging

Let's talk about aging and ageism.  About getting older and not keeping up with the times.  Gaining more wrinkles and grey hair and maybe wisdom, but not being hip to all that the Millennial and GenX generations know as second nature.  I joke that I was on the edge of being a hippie, was too old to be a hipster, and now just need a hip replacement.  Not really, but you get the gist.  

Many times, when I gather with friends and family, (and I use gather metaphorically because it is usually a phone call in these pandemic times) the subject of health happens along.  People love to casually chat about their medications and ailments.  I am regaled with how many trips to how many doctors.  I get to hear all about diagnosis, prognosis, and everything in between.  If per chance we are in person, there can sometimes be a competitive spirit to the modern-day version of our childhood game Operation.  Whoever takes the most drugs or has the most disorders wins.  We talk about health care plans and deductibles.  Premiums and prescription drug plans.  I kind of miss bragging about my toddlers...

Have you gone to the grocery store lately?  There are QR codes on the sale items that one can scan, that takes you to the store's app, then you can virtually clip the coupon and get the best deal.  Personally, I don't care to shop with my phone in one hand while pushing the cart with the other.  Don't they know that people my age need to hold on to the buggy with both hands to prevent a slip and fall in aisle six?  Recently I was staying in a nice condo down the shore* and there was a laundry room in the basement.  I asked my brother to get me a couple of rolls of quarters at the bank because I erroneously thought I would need them to lather my lingerie.  Nope!  All I had to do was download an app, put money in my account, bring my cell phone to the laundry room, make sure I was on Wi-Fi, load my granny panties in the machine, put in the soap, close the door and scan the QR code on the top of the washer.  Whew.  I was sweating after all that.  And my brother?  He returned the two rolls of Washingtons to the bank and then ended up needing them himself during an unexpected trip to upstate New York.  The hotel laundry where he was staying, while his son convalesced in a nearby hospital wasn't high tech.  That is probably a good thing.

Making a connection between doctors and apps, when I go to my health care facility, I can check in from my car, because as soon as I hit the parking lot I am sent a text with instructions to do so.  I always wonder if I check in first, then exit my car, walk to the entrance, hit the loo, (because it was a five-minute drive from home!) will they call my name and think I changed my mind?  I need a good ten minutes to collect my purse, take the walk and take care of my personal needs.  So far, this hasn't presented any problems.  I can also order my meds, talk to my doctor, check an EOB**, make appointments and so much more, right in the palm of my hand.

In some ways, I know I am ahead of the game in both of these realms.  Before I exited my fourth decade of life, I was diagnosed with an auto-immune disease.  I had to go through the three A's at an age where I had more mental capacity than I do now.  I became aware of the situation.  Then after some tears of denial and disbelief, I came to accept that this would be a life-changing disease for me.  Then I was able to think out what kind of action I would need to take to live with this diagnosis.  Now when I hear some negative medical news, I remember these steps, as well as knowing that excessive worry or avoidance is not going to improve anything.  Then I get to work.  Internal work, if you will.  I often consult Dr. Google, but I don't take everything I read as fact. I ask too many questions of my doctor.  (I was a former EMT and EFDA***, so a little knowledge goes a long way to being a nudge.)  I look into what is good and what is bad to eat.  I maintain my movement and meditation practices.  And if all else fails, I have a good cry and move on.

Recently a friend phoned me to talk about how I came to just obediently take my meds and not obsess about the side-effects.  I confessed that it was an arduous journey.  When I first started taking methotrexate (MTX) orally, eight tabs every week, I thought I might be poisoning myself.  This is a low-dose chemotherapy drug used to quell an overactive immune system.  I had spent years in the realm of eastern medicinal/herbal philosophies.  I went to mid-wives.  I was addicted to Celestial Seasonings Tea.  (I am a loyal ABC'er****)  I stocked up on vitamin C and echinacea.  I used the rock under my arms.  Now I was being asked to eschew all those core beliefs and take a drug that causes hair loss, soft nails, and other less vain but more serious perils and pitfalls.  Like liver disease and lymphoma.  But I had to put that all aside to make this med effective, not only in my body, but in my mind.  Recalling my own experience not only gave my friend some hope, but it also reminded me that I have come a long way in the process.  These days I inject MTX weekly, and a biologic monthly.  Do I like being on these heavy-duty therapies?  No.  But I do like being able to walk and dance and swim.  And I enjoy diminished pain.  

Cell phones became popular when my three millennial children came of age, so to speak.  I realized early on that if I didn't learn to text, I would always be in the dark.  I don't love all this technology, but I embrace it as best I can.  If I don't know how to do something, like how to post on Insta, or unfriend on Facebook, I ask a kid.  In retrospect, I didn't give birth to three kids, I guaranteed myself a few social media advisors.  I've downloaded some games, like backgammon and Words with Friends, but mostly I use my phone judiciously for things that matter.  Like Wordle.  I take advantage of GPS because I can use it on the go, in my car.  Just like how I figured out how to cast my exercise videos and livestreams to the bigger screen of my television, I know how to make the little voice that tells me to go right, or left come through my car speakers.  I also am having an affair with my Google Mini, who has proven itself to be a better listener than my ex-spouse.  

I feel for my 96-year-old uncle who will never access his bank statement online or ask an inanimate object for today's Dow close.  I don't think he has ever touched a keyboard, be it a typewriter (he had a secretary for that), or a computer.  Remarkably when I visited him five years ago and 'facetimed' with my kids, he wanted to know why the camera was in the back of the phone and the speaker was in the front.  He was a tech guy in his time, working for electronic companies that are long defunct.  And while I don't expect that I could teach this old uncle new tricks, his mind had muscle memory in the technology department.  However he cannot get the best price at Publix or publicly park where payment is made by an app or at a  kiosk.  That is ageism. 

What is aging, beside more birthdays and a graying hair?  It is hearing a relative or friend tell the same story twice.  Or three times.  It is joining AARP, not only for the discounts, but for the trunk organizer.  It is getting giddy to score a pill sorter and nightlight at a Rhubarb Festival.  I am not kidding! For me it was letting go of pants with zippers and bras with underwires.  It is losing my glasses or keys on an almost daily basis.  On the positive side it means more time in my retired day to write and read.  It is the joy of grandchildren.  It is also keeping current and up to date with whatever the ever-rotating world throws my way.  Getting older doesn't mean I have to miss out.  It just means I cannot be remiss.  I can still learn and grow.  My pant size proves the latter to be true!  All I need now is a tank top that says, "Aging Gracefully to Avoid Ageism".  If only I had the wherewithal to order one myself.  On Etsy, or Cafe Press, or Zazzle.  When is my kid coming over?  Did I eat lunch?  I think today might be Thursday...

And a poem, because?  Why not!

This is It

by Jane Hillson Aiello

Revised October 2019 

This is it

My body

It is not getting thinner

Less wrinkled

Or firmer

This is it

Rimpled thighs

Rolls of belly

Reminder of babies

Bad habits

This is it

Functional

Adequate.  Able

To hold my spirit

My soul

Time to Write, 

Jane

 * Down the Shore - colloquialism for the Jersey Shore

** EOB - Explanation of Benefits

*** EFDA - Expanded Function Dental Auxiliary

**** ABC- Always Buy Colorado

Sanity Over Vanity!

When I was young, in the sixties, straight hair was all the rage.  My mom would either have my hair cut short, or when it was longer, she'd put roll large curlers into my locks and secure them with big bobby pins.  I would go out to the street - we actually played in the road - and join a neighborhood round of baseball with curlers in place.  My hair was not of the Twiggy variety.  If it was cut short, it was not a cute bob, it was more of a modified 'fro.  If it was long, it didn't limply hang down.  It curled up and the humidity made it look like a frizzy mess. And of course, I wasn't blond.  That gave me two reasons to gripe about my hair - not straight and not blond.

My mom began to  straighten my hair when I hit that magical 13th year.  Then, instead of sending me outside with curlers and oftentimes a scarf to cover them up, I would endure sitting in the kitchen while she applied chemicals close to my brain, used her trusty rollers to 'set' the straightening, and sat me in a chair facing away from the table while a tabletop hair dryer completed the arduous process.  In between this homemade beauty parlor operation, I would take those giant curlers and put two or three at the crown of my head and wrap the rest of my hair around my head, using my cranium as a giant curler.  To even out the wave, I would wake up in the middle of the night to rewrap in the other direction.  All this for a cute class photo!  And the whole ordeal was moot if it began to drizzle.  Or frizzle as was affectionately called rain.

Sometime in the 70's a marketing genius came up with the "Curlers in your hair?  Shame on you!" ad campaign.  Nothing like a good drubbing to get women to buy your product!  Newly introduced electric curlers became popular.  Ladies with straight hair used the heated, spiky curlers to give them a wave, and curly girls endured them to calm their strands down a bit.  Either way, I wasn't a fan.  Especially when I got one of these barbaric cylinders caught in my hair (curly hair and barbed rollers can act like Velcro) and spent more time than I care to recall uncoiling my faux pas with mom's help.  She wanted to grab the scissors and cut it out, and I wanted to save myself from a homestyle 'do' by an angry mother wielding clippers.  Hey mom - it wasn't my fault that these hot rollers weren't really made for kinky hair.

I also started to shave my legs and underarms around the teenage milestone.  This came with a bit more instruction than how to deal with unruly locks.  There was shave cream, and sharp objects and a warning to not leave any evidence in the tub when I was done conforming to a ridiculous societal standard.  I was told to never share my razor or use dad's because it would cause cuts on his face if I had used it on my legs.  If I didn't want to risk cutting myself I could use Nair and then, if I was daring, don short shorts.  If I wanted a more safe shave a nifty five blade doohickey was introduced, and this razor was popular among the new to shaving crowd.

I started to not worry so much about my hair when I moved out west.  The drier climate actually helped my tresses improve.  If I took the time and trouble to blow-dry my hair, I didn't sweat as I went, and that shortened the process substantially.  I grew my hair long at the same time I decided that shaving was ridiculous.  There were a few years in my early twenties when I just want au natural.  This included many aspects of my life.  I visited a Nurse Practitioner for my girly needs instead of an OB/GYN.  I started shopping at Vitamin Cottage in Cherry Creek North. (It wasn't called that then)  I put Celestial Seasoning tea bags in a gallon sized pitcher and made copious amounts of sun-tea.

A few years of that hippie phase and I settled down a bit and caved in to conformity. I kept my hair presentable.  I shaved parts seen and unseen.  I bought the requisite products associated with beauty and gave it a try.  Makeup?  Not a fan.  A morning hair routine?  No thanks, a ponytail can tame it all in.  Shaving?  Well, as a young woman I had more hair than I do now, so I at least shaved seasonally or for special occasions.

After a few years of dying my hair, at first for fun and fashion, and then for keeping up appearances, I decided to stop.  My daughter-in-law was pregnant with my first grandchild, and I figured this gave me a free pass to not color my tresses anymore.  The growing out time is arduous.  A clear line in the sand of my hair so to speak.  So, as my natural color gradually color grew in, I also attacked from the bottom up, by having my daughter cut the unnatural parts away.  Honestly, had I known my grey would be of the salt and pepper variety, I wouldn't have tried to hide it in the first place.

A little personal information here.  I am on some serious medications to stave off the crippling effects of rheumatoid arthritis.  I inject myself five times per month with two different drugs to help maintain an ambulatory status.  My weekly jab is a low dose chemotherapy drug that has side effects.  Thinning hair and outright hair loss are at the top of the list.  Dry skin and brittle nails follow that.  I have had all of these happen to me.  My hair was literally see-through at my shoulders.  I had to vigorously wipe the tub out after every shower, from shampooing, not shaving!  I've spent money on biotin, pre-natal vitamins (At my age!) and expensive shampoo and conditioner.  It is hard to assess if it worked or not.  

An unintended bonus of aging and medications has been the lack of hair growth on my legs, my pits and nether regions.  I began shaving and grooming less and less.  I stopped shaving altogether between Labor Day and Memorial Day.  Why bother?  There was hardly a whisker to be had and I thought it was more irritating to my skin than the outcome was worth.  I bought a unitard bathing suit for my indoor wintry laps, so no one was the wiser.  The last time I took a razor to skin was December of 2019.  I had a trip planned to see my sister in Florida and thought if there was anyone that would comment on my (not-so) hairy status, it would be my sibling.  I remember being in the shower and doing the deed and thinking maybe this will be it.  There was no reason to even wipe the tub, the result was so scant.  I didn't bother to pack a razor.  That didn't do much to lighten my load, but it did brighten my outlook.

When the pandemic hit in spring of 2020, I started to reassess having shoulder length locks.  On a hot day in July, when it seemed safe to socialize with other human beings, I headed to my daughter's house and asked her to give me a short, new 'do'.  She did due diligence by interrogating me; Are you sure?  If you don't like it, it'll take a while to grow back.  I stood my ground and she clipped away.  I didn't cry at the result.  In fact, I was elated.

I've given up many things as I have entered my sixth decade of living.  Pants with zippers, bras with underwires, toxic friendships.  I don't regret any of it.  In fact, I love my short hair and only have to occasionally pluck a rogue underarm strand.  

And this my friends, is my true confession of how I traded vanity for sanity!

 

                                                          All that hair back in the seventies!

                                                           Short and Sassy in my Sixties!

Aldi's Well That Ends Well

There are no Aldi’s in Colorado, where I live.  That doesn’t stop FB friends from extolling the virtues of this quirky little grocery store.  Some claim an association with Trader Joe’s.  I am not so sure.  My handheld encyclopedia has some dubious information.  What else is new? 

I’d mentioned to a random person (I am famously, unabashedly friendly to strangers) that my next stop for the day was Aldi’s.  Without missing a beat or even taking a breath, she said “Do you have a quarter?”, in the same easy way people ask if I remembered to bring sunscreen to the beach or feed the baby.  Which nowadays is quite the challenge for new parents, but I’m getting off topic here.  I thought – I’ll play along - and began to look in the change purse pocket of my wallet.  I might have had a quarter or two, but I said no just to see what happens next.  She reached in the till and handed me two bits.  With a serious look and a teaching tone of voice she told me I’ll need this circular George Washington to get a shopping cart.  As an afterthought she told me I would get my money back.  Her money really, but who’s keeping score.

The trek to Aldi’s was a short drive in Ruby.  Ruby is an ‘extra’ car that Harry and Dori* have inherited and are allowing me to use down the shore for short excursions.  My ride to Aldi’s was filled with wonder; is there a cart attendant?  How does it work?  What if I lose my quarter?  No worries there because I had more than one.  Wink-wink.  I parked and saw the buggies lined up like soldiers next to the building.  There were no cart corrals in the parking lot.  I walked slowly up to the store, not only because I am an awkward ambler, but because I wanted to spy a fellow shopper doing the shopping cart cha-cha.  It would save me from staring at the wagons in bewilderment.  I figured out that there is a little slot that holds the quarter tightly in place while freeing the wagon from the one directly behind it.  I remembered my bags (NJ is bagless), had commandeered a cart, donned my mask and just like that I was in like Flynnn.

First up?  Produce.  Nice selection and decent prices.  I only bought red grapes at $1.29 per pound, and some button mushrooms because I still had what I thought was enough produce back at the rented condo.  Folks had told me there were plenty of off brands at Aldi’s, but I think they are private labeled goods.  It was kind of like Esh’s** but with valid expiries.  That might be an inside joke betwixt me and my kids.  Many of these offerings looked good and I managed to part from a Grant.  That’s $50 for all you cashless, card tapping shoppers.  There were yummy looking prepackaged salads, but only a few that were veggie friendly.  I put tea bags, snack mix and bagel skinnies (for my sister) in the cart, along with some other goodies.                                                                                                                 

Time to pay the piper.  There were two check out lanes open; one had a single shopper unloading her cart, and another had a line that snaked back into the aisle. I thought it odd and got in the line behind the single shopper.  It was then I spied toilet paper in her cart and thought - I need that, I always need that.  No shit.  I asked her where she had found the six-pack of fluffy (I hope) rolls, and she told me to head down the aisle where the line of Aldi aficionados stood.  I did, and it was like a daylight supermarket walk of shame!  No one, not one person directly said a word to me, but the hens were clucking, and the roosters were ranting.  Doesn’t she know it is one line that goes to two registers?  No cutting ahead.  These people were not so passively aggressive.  I could have pretended I was only inquiring about a bathroom essential.  I could have groveled and pled ignorance.  But I just did what I usually do; I ignored the lot of them, kept my head up high and got my non-alcoholic six-pack, just a few short steps away from the mavens of Aldi’s market.  Then I dutifully went to the back of the line.  Life has taught me that there are crazy people in supermarkets, and I didn’t need anyone gunning for me. 

As I stood there, the caboose of the queue, I earwitnessed the vocal admonishment aimed at an older woman (Who am I kidding – she was probably my age), who also didn’t know the unwritten, no signage, no stanchions rules of this little hole in the Wall, NJ market.  Hey!  There is one line feeding two lanes they yelled.  Hey!  Didn’t you see us all waiting over here?  I was tempted to answer their heckles because I had seen them all in a row, and had almost chosen the shorter line just a few moments ago, because I thought they all were – dare I say it?  Stupid!

The line moved up, folks still mumbling and grumbling, me the tranquil tail.  Now I noticed busy shoppers at a long shelf that ran the length of the window at the front of the store.  It looked as if everyone was rearranging their grocery bags, and I figured that Aldi cashiers were egg crushing scoundrels.  I knew enough to pop my bags open in the cart as I approached the register.  This would certainly make the bagging part of my check out experience proceed quickly.  But I quickly learned items are scanned and placed back in the cart, unbagged.  What?  That’s what all those people were doing?  Sheesh.  Pay for a cart, mangle the mojo of waiting, sack my own cereal!  This store is a lot of work.  I organize my essentials into a few bags, paying special attention to the dozen eggs I was sure were going to be scrambled by the clerk.

Whew!  Am I ready to negotiate the coin for a cart conundrum?  I try to put my cart back as soon as I exit, then realize I will need to put my purchases in the car before figuring out the routine in reverse,  Over the puddles and through the pavement, and I am back at the front of the store wanting my gifted quarter back.  Again, I covertly spied an Aldi’er to see what to do, but I was pretty sure I knew how to navigate these waters.  I nestled the cart into one already in place and was about to put the quarter pusher into the slot when a woman asked me if she could give me twenty-five cents worth of coins for my cart because she didn’t have a quarter.  Now I could have ignored her (my go-to, remember?), because I really wanted to finish my job.  I could have just given her the damn cart and fled the scene sooner.  But I said sure, albeit a bit reluctantly, and waited and watched as she rooted around in her purse for the correct exchange of change.  I could have told her forget it and just called it a day.  In the end I agreed to accept twenty cents for my cart.  After all, somebody had to pay for this adventure, and it wasn’t going to be me!

 

*Harry and Dori are my brother and sister-in-law

**Esh's is a funky little market with locations in NoCo

Time to Write,

Jane

 

I TrY

In December of 2006, I took the leap of fitness and joined the YMCA in Colorado Springs.  I had been a guest a few times in the previous months; trying a yoga class and enjoying the pool.  I was unhealthy both emotionally and physically.  In the latter half of my forties, I knew I had to try something.

I began my exercise journey with the aforementioned activities.  I bought a mat and went to yoga classes.  This was an eye-opening lesson in not knowing what I did not know.  I attempted the poses, picked-up on the Sanskrit and became a dedicated practitioner.  I had three kids at home, was in an unhappy marriage and had a stressful job.  The one hour increments several times per week of relaxing, breathing and contorting were good for my psyche and soul.  The yoga teachers seemed so wise with their sayings and mantras and end of class life lessons.  The light in me honors the light in you.  The only constant is change.  The teacher keeps coming until the student learns.  Savasana was the most calming and uplifting asana, and I needed it more than I even knew.

The other godsend was the pool.  I had been a little mermaid as a kid.  A good swimmer, fearless really, in the five-acre sand bottom pool at Idlewild Swim Club.  I dove off the 10 ft. board as if it were the most natural thing in the world.  In 2006, I could swim about three laps before I thought my heart would fail.  Now I swim 2/3 of a mile twice per week at the Recreation Center right up the road.  

When I tried living in Fort Collins in 2014, after the fire, after I sold my house, after the kids flew my nest, I joined a posh fitness club.  There were no Y's up in FoCo and exercise had become an almost daily habit in those ensuing years.  Over the years I had added mat Pilates and Nia (dance) to my repertoire.  I would lift weights or go on a treadmill or bike if there were no classes at the time I was able to be at the club.  I guess I could call myself a regular gym rat.  Sure, I had lost weight, but that wasn't the best benefit.  I grew into a more emotionally regulated human being.  I lost my anger button, gained compassion and felt better all around.  But there was something about the everydayness of the YMCA that I missed.  But I will never complain about having a year-round outdoor pool at that fancy place!

When I settled into the south suburbs of Denver, I was happy to learn that the Y was less than three miles to the west.  I resumed my membership and also treated myself to a punch card at the Goodson Recreation Center.  Now I was really committed!  Two gyms equidistant from my place with myriad offering and walking trails that were accessible from their car parks!

For five years this arrangement worked well.  If I visited Colorado Springs, I could go to my former favorite Y downtown.  I had spent many a Friday night during my divorce swimming laps in that pool, and it felt like home to me.  I had choices for my fitness regimen and rarely missed a day.  Then the world changed in spring of 2020.  I maintained my Y membership but couldn't justify the monthly expense and not be allowed to attend.  They offered a virtual alternative, and I happily took this option.

I began in earnest to construct a home regimen.  I figured out how to cast my computer screen to my TV.  I joined NiaTV and kept my dance practice going.  A few years back when Nia offered this virtual service I poo-pooed the idea.  Who would want to dance in their lonely living room, solo to the telly.  Things change and the correct answer became - ME!  The online Y offered yoga several times per week, and I knew the teacher from days of yore, so it felt familiar.  Like so many of us in the early days of the pandemic, I thought, surely this cannot last too long.

Fast forward to June 2022.  I have not rejoined the YMCA as a full-fledged in-person member.  They recently upped the online fee from $9.95 to $12.95, but to their credit boosted their offerings as well.  I try to get to the Rec Center pool twice weekly.  I like that this facility has a dedicated locker room for the swimmers.  That means less folks to mingle with while doing what one does in a locker room.  I still get to yoga, albeit in my living room, or wherever I may be, a few times per month.  With the warmer weather and traveling, walking is also a great activity.  Even if my bone on bone knees disagree. 

Back in 2006 when I was a fledgling yogi, when I heard those sage saying over and over: The light in me honors the light in you.  The only constant is change.  The teacher keeps coming until the student learns... I had no idea how much I would come to embrace those mantras during these tough times.  I cannot control the world, the pandemic, gun violence.  But I do know this.  Even if the world is not OK - I can still be OK.  Or at least I can trY.

Time to Write,

Jane

 

  

 

Shore Life is Good!

Like many of my friends, I have enjoyed a few beach vacations over the years.  My family vacationed in Florida when I was in fourth grade.  We stayed on Collins Avenue in Miami Beach at the Sans Souci Hotel.  There are impressionable moments that I carry with me - this is one.  Santa stood on a corner, under a palm tree, wearing red velvet shorts.  Even though we are Jewish, I never forgot that incongruent vision; no sleigh, no snow, just ho-ho-ho!  At twelve we wound our way from Mexico City to Acapulco.  As in Florida beach days were requisite - now I had seen both the Atlantic and the Pacific Oceans.  And though we lived close to The Rockaways on Long Island Sound and Asbury Park, New Jersey, I don't recall any forays to shorelines beside the two aforementioned family trips.

I honeymooned in Italy one year past the actual wedding day.  My wusband and I swam at the Isle of Capri and Taormina in Sicily.  Warm, calm Mediterranean waters.  Of course, when one is young and lovestruck a bottle of Aquafina seems idyllic.  Nonetheless I am grateful for this European vacation celebrating what was supposed to be a lifetime of bliss.  I also had no idea that the next 40 years would not afford a return visit.  

I've been to Jamaica where it rained most of the time.  The Bahamas where I conceived my second child.  We flew there in a Volkswagen with wings, piloted by a friend who barely had a license to fly.  While it was great to spy fish from the air, because of how low we flew over the waters from Palm Beach, it was also a bit terrifying.   In my ex's and my epic adventure of 1987, we saw much of the Pacific coastline from Seattle to San Francisco and the Atlantic from Florida to Maine.  We also drove out to the Keys, and that was a most memorable leg of our year-long road trip.

What I am saying is this; every ocean vacation I have ever had involved rainy days and day trips inland, and basically little time at the actual beach!  This year, I decided to do something about that.  My brother lives in a laid back beach enclave called Avon by the Sea.  I put it upon him to put feelers out for a reasonably priced beach rental.  I had looked on Airbnb and every inquiry was answered with "That's not the price".  So why was it on the website?  I don't know, and all I need to remind myself of is that is what led me to find a private party to rent from.  So, Harry asked around and found me a pretty sweet rental for the month of June.

When I saw the pics and the address (Ocean Avenue) I knew I was about as close to the sand as one can get.  That didn't stop my cousin from commenting how it would be nice if I were closer, and there are some places right on the beach.  I don't respond to these comments because I know that 100 steps to the strand is much closer than anywhere in Colorado is to an ocean.  About 1,000 miles to the Pacific and almost twice that to the Atlantic to be imprecise.  So really, how limiting is a car park and a beach road before I can touch my toes to the sand?

                                                         The view from my balcony

The place is lovely.  Well appointed, comfy bed, a balcony with a bird's eye view of the surf.  To the north is Bradley Beach and a scenic walkway called the Promenade.  Nice paver stones on the path above the sand.  There are vintage photos attached to the railings that allow my imagination to wander backwards.  North of that is Asbury Park, and in past years my brother and I have walked there.  I'm only four days into my stay - give me time!  Just mere steps to the south is the boardwalk that goes the entire stretch of Avon.  There are many benches to sit on and watch the water and wonder.  There are a few pavilions to take a break from the sun.  There is a playground on the beach for kiddos.  There is even an outdoor town pool that I can walk to from my condo. The boardwalk ends at a drawbridge that spans the Shark River.  I hope that name is just for dramatic effect, and not that it is actually shark infested.  Which just reminded me as I typed, that I have been to the Rockaways.  It was shortly after the movie Jaws came out and I wasn't keen on going in the water.  No worries about that here yet - the ocean temp is just sixty-five not so balmy degrees.

I am walking distance from a few shops and a snack bar.  I can stroll up a westward facing street and visit my brother and his wife.  Dori graciously picked me up at the northernmost rest stop of the Garden State Parkway.  I chuckled when I saw the sign "James Gandolfini Rest Area".  The man (rest his soul) played a mafioso on The Sopranos, so to me a rest stop was a great play on words.  Dori said the name literally just changed in the week since she had made this trip for other reasons.  None as joyful as picking up her sister-in-law, that's me, and delivering me to the beach!

Today is a 5K Walk/Run that benefits the Avon First Aid & Safety Squad.  This is old hat for Harry who used to be a jogger; he even ran the New York City Marathon in 1987.  I have only participated in two official walks to raise money for worthy causes.  Both were in Colorado Springs - one at the Air Force Academy and the other through Garden of the Gods.  Two not so shabby views!  Today's route is unbeknownst to me - I only know that the starting point is right outside the condo.  Harry and I picked up our shirts and number bibs on Thursday night in a light drizzle at the rescue station.  (Since Dori was cooking dinner, we got hers as well!)  I had to google bib placement as I only know how to attach bibs to infants.  It seems like the front is protocol.  I debated about wearing the souvenir T-shirt and decided that to act like a local, I needed to don that today.  Harry and Dori both said it was the nicest T-shirt ever, so I am feeling pretty lucky.

Today is a beautiful June day.  The sun is shining, and I as close to the action as one can get.  And by action I mean the beach and the starting line.  I will probably venture out onto the sand today after my walk.  I am sun screened and have a hat for the 5K.  I am with my older brother and his lovely wife who has been my sister-in-law for many years.  I hear there is a giveaway at the end.  My fingers are crossed for two reasons; I will finish the 3.2 miles with no pain, and I will win something.  I am lucky like that.  In truth, I am just lucky to be at the beach right now and for the next 26 days.  Ah, life is good.

Can't get any closer than this!

                                                             Me and my bro!

  

PS - I have walked the race.  Slow and steady is my mantra!  I ogled beautiful homes, was cheered on by strangers and made it to the finish line.  Alas, I didn't win any prizes.  But there were complimentary bananas and bagels.  IMO?  A great after walk snack to enjoy while watching beachgoers schelp their umbrellas and chairs and coolers onto the beach.  That is my next activity - after Aleve and ice for my knees!  Life is still good if a bit creaky!

Water, water, everywhere...

Water, water, everywhere.  That could be the slogan of the Finger Lakes Region of New York state.  There are eleven lakes that roughly run north to south - five of which resembling the fingers of an outstretched hand.  These lakes are fed by a plethora of waterfalls.  This is gorge country and the tourist office slogan says it best:  Ithaca is Gorges.  Though I'd rather have a hat that said Hello Gorges.  Maybe I will still luck out and find one.  This is the Allegheny Plateau, the Gorges ecoregion, the Finger Lake Uplands and the Great Lake lowlands.  That's enough science for today.

I am visiting my childhood friend, Pamela Barbara.  She and her partner live on a blissful ten-acre tract of forested land a few miles south of Ithaca.  Their land is roughly a five-acre by two-acre trapezoid with well-built trails, bushwhacked by Pamela and Bob.  Bob is an artisan, woodworker, sculptor, painter and all-around mountain man.  Pamela is a depth psychologist who has travelled the world and lived in other countries.  One can see their love of the land in every path and amenity.  I have the good fortune to be staying in the house with a comfy bed, my own bathroom, and a view of the woods from the bedroom window. 

                                              Sanctuary in the Woods - Pam and Bob's place

They have a private campsite up the hill, where folks can stay and enjoy a lean-to, see-saw, swing, fire pit, tepee and other niceties in natural surroundings.  Bob also built a caravan that one can rent and stay a night or two.   There are campers on the property right now - two families with three kids and one dog. There is also a bear in the vicinity.  And in the week I have been here the caravan was also in use a couple of times.  Who even knew that Hipcamp was a thing?

                                                    Lower Camp - Sanctuary in the Woods

                                                      The Caravan at Sanctuary in the Woods

The three of us ventured to Lucifer Falls in Tremen State Park on a hot, humid Sunday.  We parked high and climbed down - which instinctually seems backward to me.  The reward of this hike was well worth the effort.  On the return trip we ventured up 222 steps built in the days of the Civilian Conservation Corps, commonly known as the CCC*.  222 is usually my lucky number, but I didn't feel lucky lumbering up those stone steps to the Upper Rim Trail.  Then the skies opened up (my mother used this expression) and the tepid rain was a welcome relief to the expended effort.  

                                                         Lucifer Falls - Tremen State Park

Bob took off from work on Wednesday and we visited what might be called the granddaddy of them all - Watkins Glen State Park.  This was an uphill climb, with many CCC built paths and steps to gain access to the waterfall at the almost top of the trail. What?  More steps to the upper car park, where the signage promised a shuttle that was not running on the day of our trek.  We rested up while Pam and I debated about letting Bob descend solo and be our chauffeur for the final leg. But then we mustered a second wind and headed down.  It was pretty cool to see and hear a train on the trestle at the top of the gorge.  We crossed a beautiful stone bridge to gain access to the Upper Rim Trail.   Accessed by...  Steps!  I am learning to avoid any paths with that name.  But we did it and the remaining hike, utilizing a shortcut back to the car, was relatively flat until the final push.

                                                                        Watkins Glen

Pamela and I also ventured to Taughannock Falls.  These are the highest falls east of the Mississippi.  This was an easy walk on a treed path.  But after Watkins Glen, my legs doth protest!  I was happy to be back in the car, and happier still when we simply went to the warm water therapy pool on Friday.

                                                               Taughannock State Park

But let's get back to water.  I have been enjoying this life force in myriad ways on this visit to my home state.  In addition to hiking to magnificent waterfalls and cascades, there are others spied from the car - every trip into town pulls my eye to the right where Buttermilk Falls is visible.  And the rain!  Last night the thunderous pounding of rain on the roof was music to my arid ears.  I cannot remember when I experienced such a deluge that did not turn into hail or a mudslide.  What?  It can rain, just for rains sake?  Pelting, magical music.

After our vigorous hike at Watkins Glen on Wednesday a hearty lunch was in order.  The Finger Lakes is wine country, and many wineries have restaurants or delis.  We went to Tabora Farm and Winery in the town of Dundee.  Upon entering the building, I was awed by the baked goods.  All made in house, and everything looked amazing.  I even saw a Chinese cookie that had swirls of chocolate pinwheeled throughout instead of the usual dollop of ganache in the middle on top. This was my childhood favorite, and I had it in my mind to buy myself that treat after lunch.  I ordered a grilled panini sandwich called the Veggie Inquisitor - it was decent.  And like so many places here, one orders at one counter and pays at another.  I grabbed some gluten free parmesan cheese curls to accompany my sandwich and also to share with Pam and Bob.  At the pay station I figured out that they wanted to upsell a glass of wine to enjoy with the meal.  That would be great if I drank wine, but I don't.

I also eschew beverages sold in single serve bottles.  There are enough plastics in the waste stream, maybe even clogging the landfills.  I often wonder what really happens to recyclables.  A few years back King Soopers was scandalized when it was discovered all the bottles and cans people brought to the store, thinking they were being recycled, actually ended up in the landfill.  This was in the eighties, before curbside service made it more convenient to be environmentally conscience.  (You may detect sarcasm here) I live in a state that has a perpetual water shortage.  People carry Nalgenes and Yetis everywhere.  Many of our water fountains in public spaces have those nifty new contactless water refill stations.  Servers in restaurants don't blink an eye when I carry in my bright orange Sigg bottle  and ask for a refill.  I wish I could say it is an anomaly in Colorado to see the uninformed with an Aquafina or a Nestle water bottle.  I chalk it up to greenhorns.

When I asked where I could get a refill for my trusty water bottle, nestled all day in my fanny pack with a holder built in just for that purpose.  I bought that Zcreation pack 40 years ago in Boulder, so the idea of bringing one's own water bottle is certainly not a new concept.  Three gals huddled around the wine bar, and each looked at me blankly.  Finally one replied that I could use the sink in the bathroom.  What?  Don't they know what an unsanitary endeavor that would be?  Spigots are full of feces and other pathogens.  Look up the studies - I promised not to have any more science in this blog!  No, I said, where can I cleanly fill my bottle.  You can't was the reply.

In a world of shifting blame, I was not surprised to hear this was an edict from the owner, and these young gals were hesitant to shy away from a ridiculous policy.  To their credit no one piped in to suggest I turn around to a reach-in cooler full of single serve beverages in plastic bottles and pick one - any one - though I can surmise that was the intention of the inhospitable policy.  Honestly I was speechless.  But only for a moment.  I said things like really?  You have got to be kidding!  I might have to write a bad review over water?  The list goes on, but my library voice tirade was pretty short.  And the truth is - I don't write bad reviews, I write blogs and then email links to the powers that be.  In this case the water police of Tabora Farm and Winery.  It is after all their winery, their farm and their rules.  I cannot change the world or even one unenlightened person on the shore of Seneca Lake.  A lake brimming with water  - the volume is 1/2 of all the water in the combined Finger Lakes.  I had just witnessed a miracle of nature - Watkins Glen and rushing water that feeds the lake this winery is stone's throw from.  Literally, water, water everywhere.  But apparently not a drop to share.

Lucky for me I am from Colorado and never leave home (or my friend's home) without an adequate supply of what the human body is comprised of.  The liquid that makes this part of the country lush and green.  What the east hordes and the west covets. What Tabora Wine and Farms thinks I can do without.  Water.  I went to the car and got my quart sized back up Nalgene in an insulated sleeve.  Cool and ready for me to sip. And even though I wanted that big cookie, I decided not to support them further by buying anything else.  I showed them, didn't I?

                                                             Tabora Winery and Farms

 

Time to Write,

Jane

*CCC

Superhero

Yesterday was Mother's Day. First celebrated in 1907, when a member of Andrews Methodist Episcopal Church in Grafton, Virgina had the idea of a special day to honor moms.  My first Mother's Day - as a mom - was May of 1990.  I'd given birth to my son in November of 1989 and most likely was honored by my then husband on this momentous inaugural day.  Honestly, I don't remember much from those early years of motherhood, what with nursing and diapers, and the oh so famous buzzwords of work / life balance.

In the next four and half years, I'd become a mother twice more.  I'd cherish the little pre-school tchotchkes and construction paper cards that my children presented with wide-eyed expectation.  Many years and many moves later these ephemeral keepsakes have been relegated to the trash bin.  A few years into this practice of kids making me French Toast to feast upon in bed, it occurred to me that Father's Day should come before Mother's Day.  It could serve as a preview of gift giving and remembering.  

The spring of 1998 was the saddest Mother's Day for me.  My own mom had passed away the previous summer and I was finishing that agonizing year of firsts.  Her birthday, Hanukkah, my birthday, and so on.  Mother's Day hit hard.  While I was a mom to three amazing littles, I missed my own mother in a palpable and painful way.  All I wanted to do on that second Sunday in May and for many years to come, was hide in bed, under a pillow.  But as moms we muster!  Pull up our postpartum panties and smile through the sorrow.  

As years progressed, I craved alone time on Mother's Day.  I wanted my emotionally unavailable husband to father up on Mother's Day and take the children out on an adventure so I could wallow a bit in the sadness of losing my own mother.  As a kindergartener our teacher taught us how to make a flower bouquet using tissues and pipe cleaners.  I declined having Mrs. Hoffman spray perfume on the posy I would present to my beloved mom.  Even as a six-year-old I was aware of my mother's allergies, quirks and idiosyncrasies.  Why wasn't anyone paying attention to my needs?

I had suggestions for my future ex, like getting me a massage on this day or letting me take a walk by myself; anything to remove me from the heartache of facing life without my touchstone.  I am sure there was a bit of 'me time' carved out, but I also began to harbor resentments.  I resented having to beg for a moment.  I resented my ex-husband having both of his parents when I had none.  I resented my friends for complaining about how difficult their mothers are - I ached to be mad at my mom just one more time.

The combination of depression and grief I was experiencing did not set the perfect scene for my children regarding Mother's Day.  Did I teach them that a day where I was supposed to be thrilled about being a mom - their mom- brought more dread than delight?  I got better as they got older, allowing my children to show me how much they care about me and love me with small gifts and gatherings.  

Yesterday two of my kids and all of my grands met in a park for playing, eating and a walk on the trail.  I had my granddaughter for the weekend.  Her mom was in the last weekend of college and needed homework time.  I get it.  Every time I watch this three-year-old I remember how as young moms our time is not our own.  For my daughter as a single mom?  More so than for someone with a partner. And for the first time in her motherhood years, my daughter's birthday coincided with the holiday ideated all those years ago by Anna Jarvis.

My daughter did not want to meet her siblings, me and nephews for the festivities.  She craved a morning to herself.  I could go down the road of flexibility, and scheduling conflicts but I won't.  Recently my therapist suggested I institute a new family tradition, like a monthly gathering with my kids and grands.  After the hubbub of trying to schedule one day this past weekend, I abandon all thought of that undertaking.  I actually was not insulted that my youngest wanted a moment to herself.  I also reflected that she might have learned the behavior I unwittingly modeled all those years ago.  After all, she grew up with a mom who wanted a moment on Mother's Day!

Superhero

by Jane Hillson Aiello

Diapers and nursing and working.  Trying to keep

my husband happy and my children from dying.  Cook,

homework helper, project manager.  Housekeeper,

chauffeur, medical monitor, social director, volunteer.

Spiritual advisor to the babies I birthed.  Mental illness,

drug addiction, divorce, autoimmunity.  Waldo Canon Fire.

Children left, came back, left again. Holding grudges and

Resentments. Holding their own. Holding me up.  Holding on.

Holding guns.  Holding knives.  Holding scissors.

They made it to adulthood.  I am a fucking superhero.