Extra, Extra! My Holiday Trip Back to the Future

This is an extra edition post because if I put it in my scheduler you'd be reading it on July 15th and who wants to read about a 4th of July trip two weeks later. Okay, it wasn’t a huge, all day 4th of July party/trip to my in-laws on a lake like I’ve gone to the same number of times as I have fingers and toes on my aging body. It wasn’t a camping trip like my husband and I loved doing where we’d set up a tent at a state park along Lake Michigan and wake up the morning of the fourth to the sound of waves slapping the sand. It wasn’t even a day trip like when we’d throw the dog in the back of our old Corvette and head for the highway that would take us along the western shore of Lake Michigan, the tee-tops off, the wind whipping through our hair, the air conditioner trying to compensate for the sun overhead. But this year I did take a mini trip that helped to put a little pep in my step, a little giddy-up in my go. 

Enough of the teaser, intro-to-the-subject sentences, time for me to spill the beans. (Jeez, it's going to be a clichés and idioms writing day, isn't it). On the spur-of-moment on the 4th of July I decided that the traffic would be light and it was good time to go down to check on the progress at the continuum care complex where I’ve got money down on an independent living unit. I hadn’t been there since the ground breaking that took place not long before the pandemic forced them to quit working for four months.

I got a bug in my undies---notice how I changed that cliché just enough to keep the writing police off my back? Anyway, I got the bug in bonnet---oops, bug in my undies that I wanted to find out what direction my unit’s windows will face and I heard on the grapevine that the footprint of the complex was far enough along to show its orientation. The house I’m living in gets a lot of light from all four directions and I'm worried that with all the unit’s windows facing the same way it will be like living in a cave where the sun never gets a chance to fill the depths of place. I had planned on taking a compass with me to help me judge the sun’s path outside my future windows.

I have three compasses. One is on the top of a ring, a cereal box top premium that is part of my childhood, secret agent collection. One is an antique pin-on brass compass, circa 1940s, made for deer hunters that hasn’t changed in style since Marbles, Michigan first started making them. Both my dad and husband had one...this compass just happened to be my husband's. It has no real value other than sentimental which is why I keep on my media cabinet to remind me that I'm grounded and never lost when I've got a compass to help me find my past, present and my future. The third compass I discovered while I was prepping my husband’s pocket watches to sell on e-Bay. I had saved what I thought was a U.S. Army, cavalry era pocket watch to sell last, thinking it was the most valuable of the collection. Imagine my surprise when I opened it and discovered it was a WWI military compass. It was made by a well known watch maker but they were made in such a large quantity that they’re only valuable if you consider $65-75 a lot of money. I'm keeping it.

If you've guessed by the bread crumbs I've been dropping---cliché #6---that I left all three of my compasses at home, you’d be right but as my mom was fond of saying, “There’s more than one way to skin a kitty.” (Idiom #2, the writing police are going to fine me for sure!) I lined up the back of my car with the front of my future unit and used the compass on the car’s dashboard to determine I’ll be a facing northeast. Just enough east to get morning sunshine across the planned wildflower garden which will be open maybe the length of a football field away to a tree line. And I'll be facing just north enough to get the perfect Artist’s North Light. My painting easel will feel right at home parked next to the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room.

While I was there taking pictures a couple of guys were walking on the road that goes though the new and older parts of the complex and they stopped to talk. They told me where all the walking trails are and not to take my dog on the one through the woods or he’ll give me poison ivy. (Duly noted and appreciated.) They told me about the hawks and owls that will be hunting right outside my windows and the swans down at the lake. I told them about the restaurants that will be in this new section that they’ll also be able to use and about the farmhouse table concept one of the restaurants will have and that led to a conversation about travel experiences.

They asked a lot of questions about the layout of the units and I asked them a lot of questions about the management of this non-profit CCC and they spoke very highly about everything they do. They live in the two bedroom condo part of the complex, one had a wife in the memory care building. When I told them it was going to be like moving in to a college dorm when we all move in at that same time and one of the guys said to the other one, “We’re going to have to watch this one” then to me he asked, “Are you going to be hanging a bra on your doorknob when there’s a little action going on inside? Remember the ties on the doorknobs back in our day?” I laughed and replied, “No way! Bras cost too much these days.” The other guy looked away like he was embarrassed that his walking partner brought up the topic of bras and ties on doorknobs while I tried to decide if these guys were twins or just dressed that way. Twins, I decided. We must have talked a half hour and on the way home I was happy I’d made my 2020 4th of July trip to my future.  

That night, though, was scary. With so many public fireworks displays canceled, way too many of my neighbors were setting them off. On all four sides of my house and as far in the distance as I could see. It felt and sounded like a war zone. And it was like I had strobe lights inside my house---yellow, green, blue and red pulsating on the walls with the loud booming and hissing that also vibrated my floors and windowpanes. Levi, in the past, has not been afraid of fireworks but this year he made his displeasure heard and for awhile I pretended to be one of those thunder-shirts while I wedged him between me and the arm of the sofa. I thought they'd set the house or woods behind me on fire so turned on my wrinkling system just in case sparks fell in my yard and I was grateful I'd gotten my eaves-troughs cleaned out recently. The icky icing on the cake was my house filled up with the eye-watering smell of gun powder smoke. Happy 4th of July from Pandemic Park. I hope I never have have to end another one end like this one did. ©

 It was hard to get any pictures with the chain length fence covered in black plastic, but this photo shows the end of my building in relationship to the lake which is closer than it looks here.

This photo was taken from a different vantage point and you can see the "L" shape of the complex taking form. Those two structures in the distance, right of center are two elevator and stairway towers and I'll be right next to the one at the far end.

 

The photo at the top shows one side of the lake, this one shows the other. All those buildings are part of this CCC's independent living condos, and there is a paved path the entire distance around the lake, a one mile walk. (I was standing on it to take this photo.) I got to see the swans and their babies but they were too far to photograph. I'm going to treat myself to a new camera just before I move in.

Bones, Books and Bad Jokes

I don’t know where to start writing this blog entry. Do I talk about my second Reclast infusion which was a ho-hum experience of sitting in a La-Z-Boy in a large room with twenty other people of all ages getting infusions? Or do I search for something more interesting to write about? I’ll just start and see where I end up. My I-V infusion was to make my bones into better receptacles for laying down calcium and it does its best work in the first two weeks thus the need to eat as much calcium rich foods as humanly possible then and to also forego caffeine. I intend to eat so much spinach and sardines over that time frame that my complexion---or is it my pee---will turn green from the spinach and my skin will get shiny from the olive oil that comes with the sardines.

If you want the technical explanation for what the infusion does, this is what the American College of Rheumatology says about Reclast, aka Zoledronic Acid.  “Zoledronic acid is a bisphosphonate prescribed to prevent or treat osteoporosis or Paget's disease. Unlike other common bisphosphonates that are taken by mouth, Reclast bypasses the stomach because it is an infusion into the bloodstream. Bone is a living tissue constantly being remodeled. Bisphosphonates specifically act on bone cells (osteoclasts) to inhibit bone resorption and turnover activity and reduce progressive bone loss and risk for fracture.”

While I was there I worked on my book club homework---a set of questions we were supposed to discuss the following day. It was a hard book for me to finish because I didn’t just dislike it, I hated it. The author of The Language of Flowers, Vanessa Diffenbaugh, must have been raised in a mass transit city because who else would repeatedly use the words ‘car’ and ‘truck’ interchangeably? “We got in the truck and when we got to the flower market we parked the car.” Drove me crazy! I can overlook that sort of thing in fiction by chalking it up to something a good editor should have caught but I couldn’t overlook not researching basic flower shop operations and servicing weddings when it took up half of the book. I was in the floral industry for twenty years and did flowers for over 4,000 weddings so I was curious to see if others in the book club noticed the amateur hour stuff that I did. But I wasn’t sure I wanted to reveal my history with weddings in that group out of fear that someone would try to recruit me for center’s decorations committee. I know myself when it comes to doing artsy-fartsy stuff by committee. I don’t plan to jump into that fire again.

When I got to the senior center on book club day the members from our two book clubs were standing on the sidewalk. The person who was supposed to unlock the door couldn’t find her key and everyone else on the board of directors who had keys were out of town on a color tour. (I’m going next week.) We couldn’t even find the building maintenance man and after twenty-five minutes of standing out in the cold, we all left. I think the gods of control freaks was looking out for me because they knew I wasn’t fond of the idea of discussing that book and coming off sounding like a flower shop Nazi. 

The next morning I was back to the senior center. This time to catch a bus for an afternoon sponsored by a senior living community who gave us a free lunch as a bribe for us touring the place. I actually liked the place better than the other, similar communities I’ve toured. The artwork alone would make me happy to live there---all donated by a wealthy person in town; but the main thing that made this place stand out from the others is when you “graduate” from independent living to assisted living they don’t move you to another building. You get to stay in the same apartment. 

After lunch our sponsor took us over to the Garden and Sculpture Park, paid for our tickets to get in and for a tram ride around the 158 acre park. It was a nice afternoon except for something the bus driver said as he was helping people get off the bus: “I don’t know if I should offer you ladies a hand getting down. I don’t want to be accused of sexual assault like they are trying to do to Trump.”

My temper flared up so quickly I scared myself and I spit angry words out of my mouth, “If you put your hand where Trump brags about putting his hand you can bet I’LL accuse you of sexual assault!” I don’t know what made me madder---that he assumes Trump is an angel and would never do what he bragged about doing that was caught on tape (I can “grab pussy” and get away with it because "I'm a star."); or that those of us getting off the bus wouldn’t know the difference between sexual assault and a hand offered to help us off the bus; or if I was mad about something larger involving the Feminist Movement and having to fight the same battles all over again. But I was mad! Thankfully, I got over it quick enough because the Gardens were beautiful with hundreds of mum plants and pumpkins lining the tram trails. The sun was shining and no matter how many times I’ve been to the park, I always see something new and beautiful. ©

If it’s Thursday This Must be Book Club

Tuesday I got up, showered and dressed in my finest Red Hat Society clothing. Our new meeting place was throwing us a complimentary welcome luncheon and I didn’t want to be late. It’s a brand new place for senior citizens---one of those progressive places that starts you out with an independent living apartment then they move you along to enhanced living, assisted living and ending with memory care as we age our way down the rabbit hole on the way to the grave. We were supposed to sit down for lunch at 12:00 and at 12:05 the young chef came out to the pub where I sat all alone, wondering if the other fifteen ladies had shown up yet. Long story short, we figured out that his events planner had written down, Tuesday the 7^th instead of Wednesday the 7^th and I just showed up on the wrong day---I thought it was Wednesday! That earned me another punch in my Old Person Card; twenty punches and they'll haul me off to a memory care unit. At least I didn’t prepare and set up the entire luncheon a day too early. I told the chef, “I won’t tell if you won’t tell.” He laughed and replied. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” I didn’t keep my word though because I never miss an opportunity to laugh at myself and I thought our sister in charge of reservations should confirm the dates for our future meetings there.

Following our lunch and meeting we were given a tour of the place. They have many amenities and services for hire including a pet wrangler, fitness club, beauty shop, shuttle service, happy hour music, a pub and restaurant. The cheapest one bedroom independent living apartment was tiny---the kitchen and living room would fit into my current bedroom---and its monthly rent was $2,700 to $3,000 depending on if it had a patio, balcony or neither one. Even though the rent includes one chef cooked meal a day, linen service and a twice a month cleaning service that’s more than I could afford and even if I could, I wouldn’t want to live there. I hated the long halls and the only apartments that had decent views were the ones reserved for memory care residents at the back of the building that overlooks a woods. The rest overlook an expressway exchange and the kinds of businesses that grow up around them.

This was my second tour of a senior place that steps up in care levels, if needed. The other place I called Stepfordville because all the residents looked so perfect in their little tennis and golf outfits, like gray-haired models hired to walk around. Their public rooms had walnut paneled walls that reminded me of lawyers and old-time bankers. With that place, you had to buy in for a nonrefundable fee of $300,000 and still pay a monthly fee of nearly $3,000 and then you die (or move) your family doesn’t have the right to sell your unit. I’m going on a third senior living tour next month. It seems to be a popular marketing tool to offer free lunch and a cultural event to groups willing to do a tour. Stepfordville paid for my senior hall group to go to the zoo and next month’s senior living place is paying for our tickets at the sculpture garden. Between the free meals from places like this and from the investment/estate planning people who fill up your mailbox with dinner seminar invitations, old people could eat well at least once a week. File that tidbit away in your brain in case you get to the point where you can’t stretch your grocery budget far enough.

Rounding out my social calendar this week was a meeting of my new book club where we discussed Brown Girl Dreaming. The inside cover sums up the book like this: “In vivid free verse, award-winning author Jacqueline Woodson shares what it was like to grow up in the 1960s and 1970s in both the North and South.” I was impressed that someone could write an entire memoir in free verse and we had a lively discussion about growing up in an ordinary black family. We're all white, so what the heck do we know about that topic! Still, we had a lot to say about a book we all enjoyed. Near the end of the novel Ms. Woodson wrote the following words about the Civil Rights Movement and it's the passage from Brown Girl Dreaming that chose I save to savor. 

“When I hear the word

revolution

I think of the carousel with

all those beautiful horses

going around as though they’ll never stop and me

choosing the purple one each time, climbing up onto it

and reaching for the golden ring, as soft music plays.

The revolution is always going to be happening.

I want to write this down, that the revolution is like

a merry-go-round, history always being made

somewhere. And maybe for a short time,

we’re a part of that history. And then the ride stops

and our turn is over.”

I love the line about history always being made somewhere and that we’re all a part of it. I wrote something similar back last May but Ms. Woodson did it with a rich efficiency of language that I'll never achieve.  ©