The Christmas Party and the Widow's Heart

We’ve been in a weather pattern that leaves our Michigan roads void of snow and ice and what a treat that is, says the lady who is thrilled to be able to report this. It improves my social life not to have to factor weather into my winter decisions to leave the house. Over the weekend, for example, there was a Christmas party for my neighborhood association where we can pay our dues, do a little business meeting, eat pizza and get to know each other. I’ve lived within the domain of the association for thirteen years and have never gone to their twice a year parties. When Don as alive, his wheelchair kept us from going---we’ve got the only wheelchair friendly house in the entire 100 house association. Whatever possesses someone to open up their home to 100 potential families for a party, is something I don’t possess and don’t understand, but this chit-chat is side-tracking me from the Christmas party.

I know a few people by sight from walking Levi around the neighborhood and, of course, the people on my short cul-de-sac but when I walked into the party not a single one of them was in attendance. I had a flash back to when I was in my twenties and walked into a party that didn’t take me long to figure out was a party full of gay couples. What a shock! I had no idea the girl who had invited me to meet her at that party was gay but she obviously thought I might me. I didn’t stay, of course---it was the 60s and I barely understood what being gay meant but I knew there wasn’t a chance of me meeting my future husband at that party. And then there was an ugly scene with the girl the next time I saw her. God, I’m getting side-tracked again but at least this one was a funny side-track. Back tracking to when I walked into the neighborhood party and I saw a living room with wall-to-wall women and a kitchen full of guys. After a few, “who are you” and “where do you live” questions in the living room I moved to the line in the kitchen to pick up some pizza. That’s where I met the only other person at the party over forty. He was my age, not bad looking, a smart dresser and he talked too much. That last observation is a strange criticism coming from a woman whose husband was affectionately called “motor mouth.”

He was talking to another man when I walked up, asking if the younger guy knew where the UAW union hall is moving to. He didn’t. I did and so I chimed in the information and after a while the younger guy backed off and let us old duffers entertain each other. I stayed a little longer than I did at the gay party decades ago and by the time I left I had a better understand of why phrase II people, where I live, don’t attend these parties. It was full of phrase I people who live on the lake and learning about how our dues money is spent made me feel like little orphan Annie. Phrase II people couldn’t even get an entrance sign put up on our section while phrase I gets docks, fire pits and boat storage racks built on the lake. And it’s not like we can quit paying our yearly dues. If we do, they double every month for six months then a lean gets put on our houses. In two years we get to vote on dissolving the association as per the by-laws of the builder who who set up the association and since phrase I people are in the majority, I can guess how it will go. Bottom line: A phrase I-er would never date a phrase II-er I’m quite sure. And even if they did, I’d find something wrong with the party guy---like he isn’t Don.

Changing topics: I finally finished reading the Hunger Games series and now I want to see the last two movies. I don’t know why, they’re far from my favorite genre of books or movies. The writing style in the books isn’t all that lyric and I didn't even have to look up a single word in the entire series. But, boy, can Suzanne Collins ever do chapter cliffhangers that leave you wanting more. I’m hoping against hope that my movie and lunch club, this month, will pick Mockingjay Part I. They won’t, but if it’s running at the same time as whatever they pick, I may go on my own. Anyway, this whole paragraph is just a lead-up to me sharing my favorite line from all three Hunger Games books and it came near the end of the trilogy: “What I need to survive is not Gale’s fire, kindled with rage and hatred, I have plenty of fire myself. What I need is the dandelion in the spring. The rebirth instead of destruction. The promise that life can go on, no matter how bad our losses. That it can be good again….”  That speaks to my widow’s heart. ©

Twerking and Other Things...

My Red Hat Society chapter, this week, packed holiday decorated bags full of goodies for 48 residents in the nursing home we adopted ten years ago. Hand cream, lip gloss, pads of paper, pens, chocolate, Kleenex, bookmarks, gripper socks, cookies, Christmas ornaments and candy canes along with  greeting cards. Just passing 48 cards around the table to sign took forever, but we talked as we work and we got our gift project done without needing our sleeping bags.

They say the turnover of residents at the home is so great that only a few have been there as long as we’ve been doing our ‘do-good’ project. Looking around the table as we worked, I couldn’t help wondering which lady will be the first in our group to live there---getting rather than packing our goodie bags. One Red Hatter has breast cancer, another carries an oxygen tank and a few others have major health issues I can’t name. We’re not much younger than the people in the nursing home and as much as I hate this ‘do good’ reminder of the future that could be mine, I’m happy there are a few in our group who gleefully keep it going. If I was in a nursing home I’d like to get one of those holiday bags on Christmas, Valentine’s Day, Easter and Halloween. I’d probably be “that one” who tries to steal a second bag and gets caught every time. Maybe I should start practicing how to be sneaky so I can perfect my technique before I need it?

I read a comment on another blog, As Time Goes By, saying that attitudes about aging falls in two categories: Denial and Fear and I thought, it’s easy to figure out where I stand. I’m certainly not in denial about growing older. But fear? I can’t exactly say I fear it so much as I regret it has to happen. If anything I fear it happening before I’ve made my mark on the world. People with children have something important to leave behind. People who were educators, inventors, gifted entertainers or artists have a body of work to leave behind. But if I’m going to leave anything important behind I’d better start creating it. Hey, I’ll bet I’ve already set a world record for starting the most sentences with “and” and “but.” That used to be such a big no-no when I was first learning how to write. Maybe it still is but I can’t seem to get through a blog without doing it. I tell myself it’s because a personal blog should be more like we talk than when we write formal articles or fiction. So I excuse myself and isn’t it clever how I managed to divert this paragraph from the topic of fearing the aging process to talking about writing styles? Damn, I’m good. (Please insert a laugh tract in here if my wildest dream comes true and this blog entry goes viral.)

Another frequent commenter on the same blog mentioned above asks: “Is there a store that specializes in stereotypical clothes for the elderly?” And he goes on to make an excellent point about how we people of a certain age stereotype ourselves by the way we dress. He’s right, of course, but after so many years of trying to keep up with the fashion trends coming out of Paris (or K-mart) I think we get to a point where we realize that we are more than our wardrobes. Not to mention keeping up gets too darn expensive and for what purpose? I don't wear out clothes like I used to do when I worked. And can you image an eighty year old with declining agility and shaky legs having a skirt so short that you’d think she’s twerking every time she picks something off the floor or bends over to tie her shoes?

I, for one, also don’t want to show off my varicose veins and cellulite in the name of keeping up with fashion trends. Ya, I know, young people would probably have that stuff surgically removed but aren’t we old duffers more cerebral than that? That’s my excuse for my lumpy, “colorful” thighs and I’m sticking to it. It’s also laughable to think we could even keep dressing in the current fashion trends. I don’t have the boobs or butt anymore to look like Kim Kardashian or the Pirelli calendar girls who were obviously dressed some place where there's a fabric shortage. And I don’t know any woman in my peer group who hasn’t seen her boobs and butt drop like a bird with an arrow in its heart. (Jeez, that's the kind of simile that comes from reading The Hunger Games trilogy back-to-back. Where is my book of Robert Frost poetry when I need it for inspiration?” Boobs and butts that drop like lead balloons makes more sense.)

The bottom line: Many/most elderly people have learned how to not take ourselves so seriously. We’ve finally figured out that we can, indeed, follow the beat of a different drummer and the sky doesn’t fall---and that includes our fashion (or lack of fashion) choices. On the other hand, if we want to follow Mr. Normal and Mrs. Average down the street, we old people know that's perfectly okay too. But please, no twerking should be allowed for anyone over the age of---heck!---if I were King of the world I would ban it completely! ©

The Ramblings of a soon-to-be Crazy Widow

There is something about my life right now that makes it feel unmoored or anchorless. Perhaps having my physical world capped in ice so shortly after a record setting snow storm has made me feel this way. When you have no choice but to stay at home it feels so different than staying home by choice. Perhaps it’s the coming holidays which accents my lack of family living near-by to share them with that is painting my world in a blue, transparent haze---the language of a would-be artist. Yup, I can be overly dramatic when I ramble-write. Perhaps it’s the fact that this will be my third holiday season without my husband; that’s a long time to go without the intimacy of being with someone who knows you better than you know yourself. Or perhaps I’m looking for reasons to feel sorry for myself. But really, what do I have to complain about? My life is stable and secure and in between the end of the snow storm and the beginning of ice storm I was able to run some errands. So what if the most meaningful conversation I had that day was, “I would like a cup of chili and a grilled cheese sandwich” and the drive-through speaker answered back, “That will be $5.28.”

I dreamed about fried chicken and chocolate malts a few nights ago. Oh, boy, you know what that means. It means I’ve been dieting too long. Not only that, I was reading The Hunger Games and the first few chapters of that book talks a lot about food. Decadent food of all descriptions. The chili and sandwich was a splurge directly brought on by my food dream and that book. I’m just glad it wasn’t a sex dream or I might have been arrested for molesting the drive-through speaker pole and that would not have been a pretty sight. Okay, that sounds desperate. The cold, hard fact is lust at my age goes down the Ice Cream Road more often than anywhere else.  Speaking of lust, right now the 12 Men of Christmas movie is playing in the background. It’s about these guys who get badgered into doing a naked calendar to raise money for their rescue squad. Let me tell you, the casting director had a good eye for eye candy but as Christmas movies go it’s a far cry from It’s a Wonderful Life with Jimmy Steward. “Clarence! Clarence! Help me, Clarence! Save me from stupid Christmas movies that air on an endless loop designed to get us in the mood for Black Friday shopping."

I’ve planned my Thanksgiving dinner. I bought a package of frozen turkey legs, a can of cranberry sauce, a small package of King’s Hawaiian sweet rolls---I would kill to eat those rolls before the 27^th---a squash and a frozen pumpkin pie. When I got the pie home I was bummed out that I have to actually bake it. I had it all planned out how I’d cut it into ten slices and defrost one sliver every three days. I’m afraid if the house fills up with pumpkin pie scents it will kick start some binge eating and I’ve come too far with my current diet to want that to happen. When I was growing up, my mom baked a lot of holiday pies. Her mincemeat pie filling marinated in a basement crock for weeks and was like no other you can buy today. Me? My only claim to culinary fame around the holidays was I could make a great pecan pie. Jeez, I can feel a roll of fat stalking and circling my waist just thinking about holidays gone by. But traditions are traditions and I will enjoy my drumstick and I might even make a green bean casserole with mushroom soup. I will Martha Steward it up by using fresh green bean---assuming I can get back out to the store.

Can you believe it, I’ve never once in my entire life hosted or cooked a Thanksgiving or Christmas dinner? I’m actually looking forward to doing it this year, however abbreviated and filled with cooking shortcuts it will be. In the early decades of Don’s and my relationship we’d always go to my parent’s house but after Mom passed away no one felt like celebrating. She was our holiday anchor. Then one of Don’s sister-in-laws started included us in with her large family. Both places were warm gatherings and at mom’s house we’d go snowmobiling or sledding with my nephew and nieces after dinner. With Don’s family, board or card games followed dinner and he talked so much he had a reputation for never knowing when it was his turn to play his hand. People would fight over sitting or not sitting next to him---depending on the game being played---so they could use that quirk to their advantage. Big sigh here. To paraphrase an ancient Ann Landers quote, “Old people reminisce about the past because they have no futures and young people dream about the future because they have no pasts.” How true that is in my crazy, widowhood world where I don't even know what I'm going to be doing tomorrow. I need an anchor, a place to moor my scattered thoughts so I don't turn into a forgotten marshmallow, harden by time. ©