Tag: Guest Blogger

 

For any of you mid-lifers out there who still have kids at home or in college, let me clue you in on a secret. They never come get their “stuff”. If it’s in your basement now, it will always be in your basement. If it’s stuffed in a closet, there it shall remain.

Our basement flooded last year. I frantically ran down the steps and toward a stand mixer box that was sitting in four inches of water. I ended up throwing it over my head and into the water behind me, not realizing the box was empty. Yes, my son had stored empty boxes that I thought were filled. There are also full cartons, bags and items sitting out in the open. A megaphone from my daughter’s high school cheerleading days sits in the corner. She is going to be 34 years old in June.  There’s a Big Wheel down there, along with a rusty tricycle. There are cartons and cartons of now obsolete college textbooks.

Last year I suggested to my husband that we have quite a bit of storage potential in the basement for seasonal things like pool supplies and deck furniture.  It was going to be his project to clean and organize the space. He got part of it done and then gave up. Where to go with it all?

I read a Dear Abby column in which a young woman told of her and her 5 siblings going home for Christmas. They were concerned that their retired parents had gone overboard on the obscene number of gifts under the tree. On Christmas morning they began unwrapping and howled with laughter when they realized their parents had gift-wrapped all of the things the kids had left behind as they moved into adulthood.

My kids don’t want me to throw things away, and I refuse to store them for another decade. Our solution is a yard sale. Cash is such a wonderful incentive. This morning as I was getting ready to start yet another day of pricing, a knock came to my door. It was a neighbor telling me that she and three other families on the next street are having yard sales this weekend, too. They are trying to unload their kid’s hoard.

 

When I was younger, I wondered why “old people” sometimes seem so resistant to change.

I have not been to my favorite beach town in 6 years. So much has happened in my life since the last time I was there. We lost 5 family members ranging in age from 2 to 85 years old. Two have struggled with and recovered from prolonged, life threatening illness. Two jobs were lost, one of which has been replaced and one of which has officially become “retirement”.  I’ve attended weddings and college graduations, a medical school graduation and watched as my now 5’10” tall grandson has entered middle school. Six years filled with much tragedy, much happiness, but most of all, tremendous change.

My husband surprised me with a trip to our favorite oceanfront bed and breakfast, in part to celebrate our 30^th wedding anniversary and in part because we so desperately need a reprieve. Aside from a few new bed linens and reupholstered antique chairs, it looks exactly like it did the last time we stayed there. The beach and boardwalk, however, are barely recognizable. “Updates”, have been made. “Improvements” to the quaint town have resulted in torn down iconic buildings and a dune that protects from erosion while totally obscuring the view of the beach from the boardwalk. Even the bridge which spans the inlet to the north of the town, that landmark that used to induce squeals of “We’re here!” from the back seat of the car, has been replaced with a new and improved suspension bridge.

They can’t change the ocean herself. The ocean is such a wonderful, comforting constant. When John Addy built the lovely Addy Sea back in 1902, as a summer home for his Pittsburgh family, the ocean looked the same. The Addy Sea looked much the same as she does now, as well. She’s been lovingly restored and updates have been made, but her soul remains the same, a grand Victorian lady. As I enjoyed afternoon tea by the marble fireplace, the sound of the waves breaking on the shore, I finally understood why “old people” are sometimes resistant to change.

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Not too long ago, I read an interview with Betty White. She was telling a story about a recent lunch with her Hot in Cleveland costars. Miss White had ordered her favorite, a bacon cheeseburger, fries with gravy and a vodka martini. Her much younger friends had ordered things like salads and fruit plates. Staging what was an intervention of sorts, they told her they were concerned for her health, and that perhaps she should consider healthier options. Her response? “Who at this table is 90?”

Just this past week, my 80-year-old father had one of his regular medical checkups. Mom told me that he has gained 25 pounds since his last surgery. That’s quite a bit of weight on his rather small frame. “What did the doctor say?” was my first question. The answer? “Nothing.” About three years ago, Dad was in a coma for a month, resulting in his inability to swallow for months after. He had a nasal feeding tube, followed by a PEG, and was finally able to eat normally after many sessions with a speech therapist. A few more years of digestive issues and surgeries had left him looking rather thin and worn. Now, his appetite is not only back, it’s back with a vengeance. He loves fast food, he loves chocolate and he loves potato chips. My advice? Buy him some bigger pants and let him eat what he wants.

At what point in life are we finally allowed a free pass? If we take pains to preserve our health so that we can live into old age, and our efforts actually pay off, THEN may we have seconds on dessert? THEN may we have that vodka martini with lunch and/or that after dinner smoke? Then is it OK to ask, “Who at this table is 90?”

 

A murder trial is happening in my hometown. It happened one beautiful summer Sunday morning, when a neighbor shot and killed another neighbor in the middle of the street not more than two miles from where I live.  There was a history of them arguing about woodpiles, barking dogs and unkempt yards. Emails the deceased had sent to friends describing how he was going to bully the shooter into submission. The deceased had made it his mission to make sure all of the yards and homes in the neighborhood were maintained to his standards, sometimes to the extent of mowing lawns he felt were overgrown. Imagine his rage at the person who belligerently refused to comply. Imagine the rage of the shooter, constantly being badgered and publicly taunted.

Anger can be a natural, healthy emotion. It is a response to actual or perceived emotional or physical pain. It can be used to express frustration and vent pent up feelings. But it can easily become destructive. Anger temporarily distracts us from the pain that is behind it. It makes us feel less vulnerable to be angry, because anger shows aggression. Someone has wronged us, and by God they should be held accountable. The greater the underlying pain or feeling of having been wronged, the more explosive the anger can become.

We can’t control the behavior of those around us. We can, however, control how we respond. The more controlling we try to be, the more we set ourselves up for anger. Sometimes being in control means not being controlling. There will always be jerks in this world. There will always be people who drive too fast, cut ahead of us in line, don’t care about their property as much as we care about ours, dress in ways we find silly or inappropriate. There will always be those who disagree with our religious or political views, who cheer for an opposing team, who like to listen to loud music or behave in ways that are rude or insulting. Sometimes it helps to realize that they most likely are not behaving that way just to irritate us, personally. If we depersonalize their behavior, it’s easier to walk away. Always, always we need to ask ourselves, “Is this really worth it?”

 

Old habits are hard to break. Even when you think you’ve banished them, they tend to make a return appearance on occasion. They will eagerly slip back into our life if we open the door and ask them to join us.

For some reason, stray cats love me. Every so often, I will look out and there will be one or more, looking in the window as if there is some neon sign beckoning them: Food, Water and Kind Words; All Stray Cats Welcome; Inquire Within.

A few weeks ago The Brothers came to visit. They are two lovely gray males, surely displaced or dumped by their owners. I’ve posted their photos, hoping to find someone who would be willing to adopt them.

Winter in this part of Pennsylvania has been mercifully mild this year. March is here, and so the days will naturally become warmer and the nights less frigid. Still, there is the possibility of some wintry weather. In fact one of the biggest blizzards in memory came to us one March. And so one night last week, as I struggled to get to sleep, my own two cats (former strays, of course) snuggled into bed between my husband and me, I worried about The Brothers. Sleet pelted the windows and I could hear the wind slamming the branches of our magnolia tree into the side of the house. I came downstairs and looked out into the empty shelter. I scanned the yard for possible places where a cat or two could find a dry spot to spend the night. I didn’t sleep well, worrying the cats were wet and cold. The next morning I sat over my coffee, wondering where they were, anxious to make eye contact. Soon the strays appeared on the deck, knowing that breakfast would be served. I warmed their food, thinking it would take the chill off. Wind blew through their fur as they gratefully gobbled down two cans of the warmed cat food. At about eleven AM the sun came out, thawing the ice on our pool cover and turning it into a giant puddle. The water level beneath was so high that it was coming up through the mesh.

I showered and got ready to run errands. When I looked into the back yard, I saw them; The Brothers, those furry, sweet boys I had lost sleep over, were sitting in the puddle of icy water. How cold must it be? Yet they played in it all day, till just before sunset. They stepped on the cover and then jumped in the puddles as they formed around their paws. Once again, the old habit of worry had knocked on my door and I had more than willingly allowed it to enter. I sat puffy eyed and in need of a nap, watching those cats run and play in the icy water.