Tag: Memoir

It’s Not OK to Be Old

Lately I’ve been observing the TV commercials that are running now for enrollment in Medicare Advantage Plans, as well as various pharmaceutical ads than run around the nightly network news (only watched by dinosaurs, presumably).  I’ve only seen a few brave advertisers who dare to show real people in their late 60’s or 70’s.  Most of them are like that United Healthcare commercial, where the handsome white-haired guy teaches his granddaughter how to play “Born to Be Wild.”  “You’re more rock and roll than rocking chair,” it says.

I have some respect for this viewpoint, since aging has changed enormously with the advent of the baby boomers.  However, I’m really tired of the premise that aging is just another phase of life, and you’ll be hot/handsome/Viagra loaded until the day you die.

Let’s face it, aging stinks.  Even the relatively minor problems I’ve faced so far remind me that I’d rather be 30 than 50.  But, you know what?  We don’t have a choice.  We either get older or we die.  I’ve never been one to die young and leave a beautiful corpse.  I intend to die old, beating young’uns with my cane if they offend me.

What bothers me is this pretense that we can stave it off with facelifts, healthy living, etc.  Granted, healthy living can make a huge difference.  But it can’t turn back the clock.  It just keeps ticking, no matter what we do.  I read an article in More magazine about women being shocked that they couldn’t get pregnant after age 40.  Hello?  Any legitimate fertility website will tell you the truth about that.  And no credit to Hollywood stars who lie about how they had their babies.  JLo, I’m talking to you.

Forgive the rant, please, gentle readers.  I just wish we could all age gracefully, be accepted as valuable and cherished members of society, make a living wage, and enjoy the life we have, while we have it.  That’s all.  Peace out.

Small Comforts, Part 2

Agatha Christie Plaque at Torre Abbey
Lately I’ve been burying myself in murder mysteries, and I’ve started to wonder why they are so appealing.  I don’t like police procedurals unless they are set in a place I find interesting, like Ian Rankin’s novels in Edinburgh, or some of the older P.D. James’ novels (although hers are much more than police procedurals).  I couldn’t put down the Stieg Larsson trilogy (“The Girl Who”) but have to admit I found it violent and overtly political.  I liked it at the time but won’t read it again.

I like a good “cozy,” but it needs to be either one of the British classics (Agatha Christie, Ngaio Marsh, Margery Allingham, the immortal Dorothy Sayers), Rex Stout or a well-plotted and character-driven recent addition.  I’m especially fond of Donna Leon’s series set in Venice, and the attention her Guido Brunetti pays to meals and to his former-radical wife.  There are a lot of bad mystery novels out there–anything involving a recipe, a quaint/creepy nonexistent village or someone with a peculiar name is instantly suspect to me.

The big question is, why are mystery novels a satisfying small comfort?  What do they do that romance novels, for example, do not?  What need do they fill?  I think mystery novels work for those of us who love them because they create a small world, people it with characters you can believe in,  ask a question (who killed Roger Ackroyd?) and answer it in a logical and emotionally satisfying way.  In most cases, the guilty are punished and the innocent released.

Some mystery novelists are able to make readers comfortable even when good does not prevail.  Donna Leon’s novels have an extra twist; sometimes the evil are not punished due to the depravities of the Italian government and its corruption.  The “Aurelio Zen” novels feature this as well.

Why is mystery more rewarding than romance?  I’m not sure if it’s because some of us need logic, and others just don’t believe in Prince Charming any more.  Maybe it’s just the pleasure of being lost in a complete, well-formed world with characters you care about, and mortal results.  Maybe it’s that these books have order, in a world of disorder.  What do you think?

Faster Than Sound: The Concorde

Photo by Henry Salome
A few months ago I made a list of things I’ve done that I never thought I would do.  No, I haven’t robbed a bank or sailed solo around the world.  Some of them were things I never wanted to do, however, like choosing the flowers for my boyfriend’s coffin.  Others were adventures that never crossed my mind as a child in Tennessee, like going to Australia and New Zealand.  My dreams were pretty small, really.  One big adventure (among many) that I was pushed into by that same boyfriend was flying in a Concorde.

I had gotten sick when traveling in Guatemala and Jamaica on business, and was ill for several weeks after I got home.  Somehow this translated into panic and a fear of flying, which I’d never suffered from before.  Ron was panic-stricken at the thought that I didn’t want to travel.  Travel was life’s blood to him.  He was happiest when setting off to somewhere he hadn’t been before, preferably with a luxury hotel in an exotic setting at the other end, or at least Paris, his favorite city.  He often traveled without me on business, but was insistent that I come along as often as time permitted and I could afford it.

He had a trip coming up to France to visit a client and discovered that Air France was running a special:  buy a round trip business class ticket, and the New York-to-Paris leg was on the Concorde.  “You have to do this,” he said.  “We may never get this chance again.  And the client will pay!”  I was scared, but I agreed.

The plane was actually kind of claustrophobic.  It was narrow and the ceiling was low.  I took deep breaths and drank some wine.  Then the plane took off, and I felt–nothing.  You literally could not feel the acceleration.  After that, it was like being in a very luxurious subway car, only much smoother.  Then after a while I noticed the speed indicator; we were approaching Mach 2.  And I looked out the window.  I could see the curve of the Earth.  Wow!

I still felt a bit scared and shaky, but after that flight I didn’t panic again.  It really was magical.  The Concorde made absolutely no economic sense for the airlines, and I understand why the supersonic plane no longer flies.  But it’s a little bit of magic that’s gone from the world.

Remembering Steve Jobs

Photo by Matt Buchanan, Steve Jobs, Jan. 2010
The outpouring of emotion, eulogy and analysis sparked by Steve Jobs’ death has  been overwhelming.  Like much of the world, I found out he had died on one of his devices (an iPod Touch).  I’ve been reflecting since on why his insight into what people needed was so profound, especially since he despised consumer research and relied on his intuition.

Why are these products so appealing?  It’s not just that everyone wants the latest toy, although that is part of it.  To me, it’s that each machine lets you do things you didn’t even know you wanted to do.  The Touch lets me play music, check emails, play games, keep my contact list, look at videos, carry photos around with me, chat with friends–in a small package that fits in my pocket or purse.  With an iPhone I could take photos and call people as well.  And do a million other things it never occurred to me were fun to do.

Ten years ago those possibilities did not exist.  But other devices have come along.  Why are Apple products the ones people want?  I think it’s because they are stylish, sleek, simple and cool.  And also because they were FIRST, in perception if not in fact.

Will Apple go forward without its guru?  It’s hard to imagine, but life, and companies, do go on.  No one else will have the passion, taste and inability to suffer fools that Steve Jobs did, the intolerance for anything but the best.  May he rest in peace.  May he inspire some other brilliant perfectionist to create the next best thing.

 

Recipe: Mother’s Cornbread

My  mother’s favorite cornbread recipe was not the traditional one she grew up with.  That one used only cornmeal, probably like a johnny cake, with bacon grease, salt and boiling water.  It was the cheapest type of food.  Mama, Mother’s mother, would make this kind of cornbread to feed the hounds when there weren’t enough table scraps.  When times were better the recipe incorporated an egg.  Here is a recipe for that type, credited to Alison Krauss, from the Martha White website: http://marthawhite.com/Recipes/Detail.aspx?recipeID=2564&mealtype=26

What follows is the recipe written in Mother’s handwriting, labeled “one I use.”  It’s my favorite too, if not for purists, or for us lazy slobs who use cornbread mix (Martha White might quarrel with me there).

Mother’s Cornbread

1 cup sifted flour

1 cup cornmeal (yellow preferred, but white is ok)

1 to 2 tablespoons sugar (your preference)

3 teaspoons baking powder

1 teaspoon salt

2 eggs well beaten

1 cup milk

1/4 cup corn oil (or canola would work)

Sift dry ingredients together.  Add egg, milk and corn oil.  Bake in an iron skillet in a 425 degree oven for about 30 minutes.

Tribulations of a Black Cat

Nemo, last Halloween

My current cat, Nemo, is the second black tomcat I have had in my life.  He leads a fairly pampered existence and is unconscionably self-satisfied, as well as fat.  I fostered him for Forgotten Felines after he was abandoned in an apartment.  Needless to say I ended up keeping him (or he condescended to stay with me).  He’s lucky, because I have heard that black male cats are the last ones to be adopted from shelters.

He’s also luckier in many ways than the black tomcat I had on the farm as a teenager.  Someone had dropped him at the small grocery store and gas station miles from our house.  I had been sent to get some milk, and came home with the cat, much to Mother’s disapproval.  I named him Firecat, after the Cat Stevens album, but that lasted about two hours.  Mother said, “You can’t name him something I’m embarrassed to call out the back door,” and changed his name to Tom.

Tom, like most farm cats, got minimal care other than feeding and watering.  He lived outside summer and winter, spending cold nights in the barn.  I petted him, but he was not a cuddler.

Tom’s life was pretty good for a farm cat until I brought home another stray when I was in college, a tiny German shepherd mix puppy I named Chico.  Tom smacked the puppy with impunity and generally lorded over him.  But puppies grow, and before long Chico was even bigger than the average German shepherd.

Chico came up with a new game.  He closed his jaws around Tom’s head and carried him around the yard, the cat’s body hanging out of his mouth.  You could hear the cat’s muffled “meows.”  He never left a mark on Tom, but the poor cat must have been terrified.  I yelled at the dog until he dropped the cat, but I’m sure he did this a lot when I wasn’t there to intervene.  Tom started disappearing between mealtimes and staying well out of the dog’s reach.  Then he became very nervous–Mother thought he got hold of a mouse poisoned by strychnine, for he was high-strung and panicked at any sudden noise.

Tom finally moved to the woods and the barn, and would not come back even to eat.  I called him and called him.  At first he would answer me from the woods, but he wouldn’t come.  Then he didn’t answer.  He showed up at Aunt Lou’s house a few times, half a mile away.  Then he was gone for good.  He didn’t even come home to die, for Chico was still there.

You Can’t Go Home Again

 

On the farm in better days, with Chico

“All things on earth point home in old October; sailors to sea, travelers to walls and fences, hunters to field and hollow and the long voice of the hounds, the lover to the love he has forsaken”–Thomas Wolfe

Some years ago I went back with my sister Sherrie to see our old farm.  I expected change.  Mother had sold the farm after Daddy died to her brother and his adopted son, then sold the house and acre-and-a-half yard around it to “a nice family”  when she felt she couldn’t keep it up any more.  Mother had moved to an apartment in town, then eventually to Ohio, where my sister Glenda took care of her until she died.

So I knew the place would be different.  I remembered rolling pastures, good for grazing cows but not for planting; wooded hills; a neat red brick farmhouse with a big oak tree in the front yard; a smokehouse and a shed in the back yard.  I also remembered the doghouse Daddy built for my dog Chico, painted white like the other outbuildings.

Sherrie drove us there in her pickup truck.  The long country road was lined with houses, some old ones, a lot of new ones.  There were very few farms left.  The old country store was still there at Stringtown, with new gas pumps.  As we got closer to our farm every house held memories of aunts and uncles now gone, cousins moved to town or other cities.

Sherrie pulled into the driveway to the farm.  “Look at that!” I said.  There was an elaborate sign that looked as if it were carved, saying something like “Full Gospel Holiness Church” and the name of the preacher.  “I heard he built a church in the yard,” Sherrie said.

The pasture in front of the house was grown up with brambles, weeds, and small trees.  The yard was cluttered with ragged bushes and children’s toys.  In the back yard, the smokehouse and shed were gone.  In their place was a tiny church with a minuscule steeple.  It had white vinyl siding and looked like it was built from a prefab kit.  The church couldn’t have held more than 10 people.

“Cousin Sandy says he got the call to preach and built this church,” Sherrie said.  “He gets his wife and a few other people on Sundays.”

You can’t go home again, as Thomas Wolfe wrote.  “Let’s go,” I said, and we drove away.

Recipe: Aunt Geneva’s Coconut Pie

Aunt Geneva was my mother’s youngest sister.  She was feisty and funny.  In her young days, she pushed the boundaries of behavior in their country community before World War II.  Aunt Geneva smoked, and drank when she got the chance.  She and their brother, Uncle Jesse (known as Fatty because he was so thin), played harmonica and guitar and sang at parties, which was expressly forbidden by their hard-core Baptist church.   Mother told me it was permissible to sing, but not to play instruments at a “play-party.”  They also were not allowed to play cards except for Rook and Old Maid.

Aunt Geneva was the only one of the sisters to learn to drive a car, work outside the home, and marry someone outside of the community.  She continued to work at a plant that manufactured shoe soles while raising two boys.  I was always happy when she came down to visit Aunt Lou because Uncle Fatty would come over with his guitar, and they would play and sing the old songs, as well as “Little Brown Jug,” “Froggy Went A-Courtin'” and “In the Pines.”

Here is the recipe for Aunt Geneva’s coconut pie.  It is not a coconut cream pie, but a dense, sweet, custard pie, and very easy to make.

Geneva’s Coconut Pie

1 cup sugar

1 cup milk

5 tablespoons flour

dash salt

2 or 3 eggs (2 large, or 3 smaller)

1 teaspoon vanilla

1 can coconut (or 1 cup flaked coconut)

1/2 stick butter

Mix all ingredients.  Bake in unbaked pie shell at 350 degrees about 45 minutes.

September 11: Remember to Love

On Friday I went to Trinity Church, on Broadway close to Wall Street, to hear a choral performance.  Trinity had choirs singing all day on September 9, either at Trinity Church or at St. Paul’s Chapel, which was a place of refuge and rest for first responders.  The church called the event “Remember to Love:  A Choral Blessing,” and invited choirs from Boston, Washington, DC and Pennsylvania to perform, as well as their own choirs and others from New York City.  http://www.trinitywallstreet.org/  (There are special services today, Sept. 11, as well).

The Copley Singers from Boston performed at 3 p.m.  The program included  Samuel Barber’s Agnus Dei, spirituals, and a part of Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Requiem, among other pieces.  Hearing their harmonies and the clarity of sound in the church filled with tourists, people who worked on Wall Street, and those who came just for the concert united us all in remembrance.

It ended with one I had never heard before, “Song of Athene,” by John Taverner.  I was moved by it.  I’m sharing the lyrics as they were printed in the program.  It sums up what I think we all hope for those who perished.

Song of Athene, by John Taverner

May flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.

Remember me, O Lord, when you come into your kingdom.

Give rest, O Lord, to your handmaid, who has fallen asleep.

The Choir of Saints have found the well-spring of life and door of Paradise.

Life:  A shadow and a dream.  Weeping at the grave creates the song:

Alleluia.  Come, enjoy rewards and crowns I have prepared for you.

Recessionista: Links and Recommendations

One of my dreams as a child was to be able to spend without worrying.  My parents grew up during the Great Depression, never went to college, and worked hard all their lives to support us kids and give us a better chance.  A big part of this was scrimping, saving and stretching as a way of life.  Another factor was debt, mortgaging the farm to pay for the current year’s crop.

I paid my own way through college and graduate school, and worked my way up to a comfortable life.  I’ve never been extravagant (although there are those who would argue with that statement), but I’ve enjoyed being able to eat out at will, buy what I wanted within reason, and pay off the bills every month.

Well, the Great Recession has put an end to all that.  I don’t mean to say this is as bad as Great Depression–there is no comparison.  But current days are a sad change from the good times we have all enjoyed in the past.  I have found a number of ways to keep some of the pleasures of affluence without spending much (or, in some cases, any) money.  Please share your recommendations!

  1. The public library.  My county has a wonderful library system, with books, DVDs, and music CDs, all for free.  My local library also has free lectures, musical performances of surprising quality, and other events.
  2. Through my library, access to Freegal, which lets you download music for free  http://www.freegalmusic.com/homes/aboutus  Your library pays for a certain amount of downloads up front for their cardholders, and they are available on a first-come-first-serve basis until the library quota is used up.
  3. www.paperbackswap.com This is a great way to get rid of books you don’t want any more and get books you do want to read.  All it costs you is the postage to send a book to the requestor.  Somehow I ended up with more books than I had originally (hmmm), but as a reading junkie, it helps feed my need.  And you can set up a wish list with automatic ordering!
  4. www.restaurant.com Eat. Drink. Save money (their tagline).  Users can buy coupons good for $25 or $50 at a subscribing restaurant for as little as $2.  Restrictions do apply.
  5. Tracking down free concerts and performances of other kinds through my local patch.com and organizations like the public library, Jazz Forum Arts (metro New York area), and the local newspapers.

I long to go back to my old, somewhat profligate ways.  Maybe that will happen soon.  But I intend to keep some of my newer, more frugal habits!