The thing about growing old is how you accumulate memories of so many of your firsts. I don’t know how much of it is true, but my mind informs me about many remembered firsts. Kisses and sex, purchases and experiences.
A big first for me was watching John F. Kennedy’s funeral on television. Another was watching the first moon landing.
But I remember buying my first car, and my family’s first color television. A big Magnavox console with a 25″ screen, my stepfather procured it after it fell off a truck.
Other big first include my first broken bone, meeting my wife and the first time we told each other, I love you. Another memorable first was the first funeral, for a school mate. Firsts fall in line: aircraft flights, purchasing a microwave, VHS player, CD player, home computer.
Now my latest firsts are witnessing a former POTUS declared guilty by a jury of his peers for crimes he committed, and NAZI flags being flown by his supporters as we commemorate the Normandy Landings done to fight NAZIs eighty years ago.
Being here at Mom’s home and witnessing the thermostat follies fascinates me.
Back in my visit’s first few days, it was chilly, often rainy in the morning or at night. With the thermometer showing 75 F in the house, she and her partner would discuss ‘why it’s so cold’ in the house. I would be consulted but I was overly warm. I didn’t think it cold. My 89-year-old mother would put on a sweater but then ask for the temperature to be raised a few degrees.
It’s 77 degrees outside today, and in the house. Complaining about how hot the house is, she turned on the airconditioner and set it on 75 degrees.
Thursday, May 16, 2024, has landed on us. It’s mid-May, and we’re slipping, sliding, gliding toward mid-2024. Then we’ll slip, slide, glide to the 2024 elections and race into holiday season in America. I expect Black Friday advertising to kick in any day.
Though we’re doing a spring and summer shuffle, we have pleasant weather serenading us. The sun did a stirring dawn solo. Sunlight lasered in like an attack from Emperor Ming. Clouds spy from the horizons. It’s 67 now with 77 F on the way. Thunderstorms are also expected. What I found watching the weather on TV last night is that these small cells are populating the Pittsburgh metro area. Rain gets limited to those little doughnuts. In our part of the Churchill Valley, we blinked and missed the rain. Evidence was left behind as small drops on the brown wooden porch rails.
The Mom Help Quest continues. She’s moved the goals on us. We — my sisters and I — believe she needs help getting out of bed and dressing. Mom vehemently disagrees. Sure, it takes hours, and exhausts her, but that doesn’t mean she needs help.
No, she just wants a person to come in once a week to clean, especially the bathrooms. That’s all. And her beau backed her, so my sisters and I backed off. I’ve told Mom I think she’s wrong. Didn’t help any but I thought it important to state my position and get it on record.
My sisters are more frustrated about this than me. They point out that Mom tends to hold off action until things reach a crisis. Then an emergency is declared, and everyone is expected to drop everything an run to help Mom. They’re weary of the circus.
I understand Mom’s stand. This steady decline and shrinking of her independence affects her self-image. She’d like to stay in denial about what’s happening. Of course, she’ll deny that, as well. There’s also probably a piece about feeling like a burden and not wanting to be a burden to others. She doesn’t see with our eyes, and can’t or won’t grasp that by refusing greater help, she makes herself a greater burden.
That’s life in ‘Merica, I guess.
One piece of good news is that her doctor’s office has scheduled an appointment to discuss Mom’s request for a hospital bed. I’ve become leery of getting it after Mom said last night that she didn’t think it was going to make much difference. Told me she takes a sleeping pill and sleeps six to eight hours every night. But she spends the day complaining about how tired she is and how she wants to nap.
Other worries and concerns outside of familia permeate my circle of being, like damaging storms elsewhere, the Canadian wildfires, the Trump Trial for falsifying document, the held breath for what the SCOTUS will say about Trump’s immunity, what actions states are taking to sabotage voter rights, the other Trump trials, inflation concerns, climate change activities, and the upcoming 2024 election.
There’s also a new sideshow, the Trump-Biden debate. I think Trump is a fool for accepting but I’m delighted that he did. I think Trump has a sense that he’s losing his mojo so he wants to be front and center. I believe Trump is in more denial about his condition and situation than Mom.
This debate is a beauty pageant. Trump thinks he’ll win it by looking better than Biden — younger, even though he’s just three years behind President Biden — and more articulate and knowledgeable. Those of us outside of Trump’s MAGA influence watching Biden give speeches know that his gaffes are much less than Trump’s crazy talk. I believe President Biden will come off as much more impressive than Trump. Fingers crossed that this will come to be.
Okay, today’s music in the morning mental music stream (Trademark warming) is “Just Like Paradise” by Diamond Dave — David Lee Roth. The 1987 song was selected by Los Neurons by a combo of me thinking about returning home to Ashlandia, where the weather is hotter and the cats are sweet, and a mockery of the situation in America.
The latter — the mockery of America — is delivered by the GOP’s continuing efforts to destroy America by governing as little as possible, remaining as an obstacle to progress, and even tearing down things, such as DeJoy’s destruction of an efficient postal system.
Working on the ridiculous idea that more is better, Postmaster Louis Dejoy has led an effort to consolidate and reduce postal operations, especially in rural areas. He’s slashed trucks and personnel and closed operations. Places like southern Oregon, where I reside, has suffered with continuing mail delays. Our local post offices are shuttering or severely limited in offered services. Customer complaints have soared. Elected officials in Washington, D.C., on both sides of the aisle are demanding answers from DeJoy, and he’s often just blowing them off.
Well, here comes the darkening clouds. I’m already riding the coffee rain, so I’ll wish you a good Thursday and be off. Remember, stay positive, be strong, and Vote Blue in 2024. Here’s the music. Gotta admit, it’s tres Van Halen pop rock, even though it’s not Van Halen. Cheers
I read a NYTimes article about Dr. Richard Restak’s new book on aging. His new book is “The Complete Guide to Memory: The Science of Strengthening Your Mind.” The Times’ article’s title is “How to Prevent Memory Loss”, and that sums it up.
As I reach toward the end of my sixties, I think about memory loss, especially forgetfulness. Whenever a moment of forgetfulness strikes my wife or I, she tends to say, “We’re getting old.”
I dispute the idea that my forgetfulness is automatically a product of aging. I didn’t at first but then I began thinking back to previous episodes of forgetfulness in my life. I’ve had brain farts at one time or another, so I don’t think we should assign much importance to them now. Further, I think blaming it on aging is a sort of surrender that will propagate the myth and acceptance that my memory burps are all about aging.
For instance, if you will.
We’ve gone shopping without a list prepared and forgot to buy something. My partner’s almost kneejerk reaction is, “We’re getting old. We need to remember to make and take lists.”
Well, yes, dear, lists are useful. We learned that lesson forty years ago. That’s why we began using lists in the first place. So, it ain’t necessarily because we’re getting old now. It’s because, like those times in our youth when we forgot something, we were busy. We didn’t slow down to think. We let our mind wander from the task.
That’s almost exactly what Dr. Restak notes in his paragraph, “Some memory lapses are actually attention problems, not memory problems.”
That’s why I liked this article. Many of the suggestions and ideas Dr. Restak presents to help prevent memory loss were ideas I’d discovered for myself. So I find it validating. I think practicing self-awareness about how I approach it whenever I forget something is key. Think about the circumstances around why something was forgotten. Reflect on it: was it an isolated moment or part of a larger trend?
A larger trend is more problematic but dig for the roots of it. Don’t automatically react, well, I’m getting old, so I’m getting forgetful. No, be mindful about remembering.
Finally, what really triggered me to think about this as a post subject was his point about reading novels.
Read more novels.
One early indicator of memory issues, according to Dr. Restak, is giving up on fiction. “People, when they begin to have memory difficulties, tend to switch to reading nonfiction,” he said.
Yes, indeed, I thought. Remembering characters and plot events and details is challenging when reading a novel and thoroughly exercises our memory muscles.
But if you think reading a novel is a memory challenge, try writing one. Keeping details in mind of a complex character and involved plot will definitely help exercise your memory.
Now let me get back to editing and revising before I forget what I was doing.
It’s spring with a wintry flush in Pennhillia, PA. The air is cold and wet. Last night’s rain lowered the temperatures, and clouds keep them down. I don’t know where this front came from but it feels like it was overnighting with winter somewhere.
Light rain is dripping down on us. Temperature is 53 F, which is about our day’s high.
Mother’s Day Cookout planning is ongoing. How many people? How many and what desserts? What about side-dishes, meats, buns and breads and salads, oh my.
Good weather isn’t a call we can make. Sunday is expected to be rainy and chilly, rising into the low 60s F by the mid afternoon. Little sister Gina is hosting us. Besides her husband, children and grandchildren, two other sisters with their husbands, children and grandchildren will be there, along with Mom, me, and Mom’s beau. Fingers crossed and knock on wood that we’ll have a good time.
Today’s music is Avril Lavigne’s “My Happy Ending” out of 2004. The Neurons parked it into my morning mental music stream (Trademark drifting) after my early AM cogitations. Besides dream surveying, I was out on the porch, tasting the cold air, listening to the rain, sucking down coffee and reviewing our family history. Highlights and lowlights came like breaking waves. I remembered this and then that.
2004 became mired in my mind. Mom was my current age in that year. I was but 48. So young, so young. Only two of the many the grands were born. Mom’s beau was justing coming into the picture. She was a healthy, energetic 68 year-old. No evidence of what was to come with all of us, but then how often do the harbingers of what’s to be appear to present a head’s up?
Anyway, from that came the 2004 song, “My Happy Ending”, a succinct song about what was tried and how it failed.
Stay positive, be strong, and Vote Blue in 2024. I have coffee, thanks, and I’m sucking it down like it’s the elixir of the gods. Here’s the music video. Cheers
My computer said, “Looks like you’re in Penn Hills, PA.”
I replied, “What ’bout it? You trying to start something?”
“No,” the machine said, “just asking, you know, you want the local time and weather?”
Yes, I’m at Mom’s house in Penn Hills, back to help out as I can. I went out to get fresh morning air at 9 AM. Humid, warm air slapped my face. I’m dribbling sweat from my pits. I’s 73 F with a high of 84 F coming up. Light rain is expected at 5 PM. The Neurons are like, what is this stuff, humidity?
A stranger in a strange land vibe flucuates. Mom and Frank are the same as ever but gravity is apparently stronger here. They move more slowly, even sluggishly. I’m noticed the same gravity effect on myself; steps I used to quasi-bound up — couldn’t do too much bounding, with their steep rake, narrow confines, and small tread — are carefully navigated. Humidity and gravity. I never expected them to betray me.
My visit is open-ended but I think it’s on a short leash. I want to give my sisters and Mom’s boyfriend a little break from having to do everything for Mom.
Yesterday was a travel day. Left the house at 11 AM and arrived at Mom’s place at midnight. Two flights. Both United. One of the two was on-time for a 50% rate. Not bad? I had to scramble between flights in Denver as the next flight was already boarding. It seemed like over half the people on my United Boeing 737 flight rowed were in the same straits. We rushed out of the jetway like ants scrambling from an anthill under duress.
I’m in the kitchen, sipping coffee, listening to the upstairs sounds drift back down to me as they awake and dress to meet the day. I let them sleep in. I know how good sleep can feel.
With that background, The Neurons fed Dire Straits, “Sultans of Swing”, into the morning mental music stream. Released in the U.S. in 1979, this was the one which first made folks like me ask, “Who are these guys?” Since its release, I’ve grown fond of Mark Knopfler’s many talents. This puts it all on display.
Stay positive, be strong, and Vote Blue in 2024. As noted, I went onto the coffee car already and got my caffeinated assist. Here we go.
Like many things, my computer is aging. It’s developing problems from that.
This HP Envy 17 has been in use for ten years. Not bad, I suppose. But in the last few months, it’s begun developing keyboard issues. Specifically, when typing, the selected letters don’t show up.
“In exampl, here is an uncorreced section. It’s not consistent. It was always the e when it first started, and then he r. But now the problem migrated right. It’s saying on the same line, but it’s now most often the t and the y.”
Really can be disruptive to the whole writing/typing process. I will clean the keys again. Trouble is, I did that a few months ago, and now I worry that I may have contributed to the problem.
In a way, it reminds me of typewriters I’ve used. Some of them had keys which needed extra attention. Like an old Brother typewriter I used for several years. Press a few of those keys and they were instantly stuck, full stop.
New computer, you suggest? You crazy? This one still has a lot of good life to it. It just requires a little extra focus and the willingness to adjust.
Besides, if I purchase a new puter, I’d need to rid myself of this one. Or just add it to the others in my house, maybe build some sort of ‘Puter Henge and pretend it’s art.
Snippets from another table. It’s two women, and seem like they’re in their mid-sixties. I couldn’t help overhearing them and was often ready to insert myself in the two women’s conversation.
I didn’t, though. Restraining myself, time and time again.
***
“I seem to have some neurapathy going on with my knee. From my knee to my foot. Tingling, some numbness, sometimes. I guess I need to have that looked at. Just another thing.”
***
“You have a daughter in Portland?”
“No, Eugene. I think the other daughter is in Idaho. We’re not sure. She doesn’t call or write and stays off social media.”
***
“I’m visiting my new grandson in Texas. I’m staying with the daughter who isn’t sure if she likes me.”
“My daughter and I are having better relations. She told me, ‘Mom, I didn’t like it when you did blah blah.’ I think that’s better than just holding in anger over something. At least I can go, okay, I can learn from that.”
***
“I read Agatha Christie during my last flight. It was perfect, not too challenging or intellectual, so it’s ideal for a flight. But she solves the crime in the last three minutes. It’s like, but, wait a minute.”
“I’m in the middle of Demon Copperhead. I enjoy Barbara Kingsolver — I enjoyed Unshelved — but sometimes she can be very dark. I like her overall, though. I also like Louise Penny. She writes mysteries set in this little tiny town in Canada.”
I saw it in their body language and shaded eyes: what does this guy want? Can he be trusted?
Three women, three places, three weeks. I was being friendly. Thought I was charming, as I’ve done all my life. Maybe I was wrong all those years. Now, addressing these women in public places, catching their reactions, I have to re-think matters.
First, it’s their right to not be bothered by others, just as it’s mine. I thought that asking what someone was reading was safe and innocuous as we crossed paths at the coffee shop. She’d previously asked me to watch her purse for her. As a writer and reader, I’m often trying to learn what others are reading. It interests me. But asking this sixty-ish woman clearly disturbed her. Haven’t seen her since when she was a coffee shop regular. I hope I haven’t driven her away. I’m sorry.
I sincerely believed I knew the second woman from another place. I judged her to be in her sixties. She indulged me and responded but clearly thought I was up to something, maybe hitting on her. Sorry, ma’am. I won’t do it again.
I’m used to being flirty. I always thought I was charming. My wife and sisters always told me I was charming. Maybe they were being nice. Polite. Maybe I used to be charming but, older now, it’s no longer charming. Perhaps, because I’m older, it’s perceived as creepy.
Could be that it’s not me at all, but other matters, a product of our times. Women have endured unwanted male attention and assumptions and decided, enough. I’ll note, I do the same with males, chatting with them sometimes about what they’re reading, their accent, or talking to them because I think I might know them.
My wife has spoken of being approached by men in public. For example, she’s working out and a man walking by will tell her with a grin, “Smile.” Pisses her off. She’s exercising and sweating. It’s work. She’s focusing. Smiling is not part of her agenda, and she resents him telling her that because men are always saying things like to women.
I thought what I was doing was different. I guess I was rationalizing it as different and okay.
I quit, though. I’ll keep to my private circle, drop a cone of secrecy around it, only speak when addressed, and keep myself to myself.
This all probably reads like self-pitying whining. That’s not my intention but you’ll reach your own conclusion. I like to write to think through my thoughts. Doesn’t mean I need to post it for the public, but I often find that things which confuse me also confuses others. Or maybe I’m fishing for sympathy and just rationalizing that I’m searching for understanding. It’s a challenge for me because this is how I learned to be from Mom and my wife, polite and friendly. It’s inculcated in me.
I guess this is the new world, at least in progressive Ashlandia, for a sixty-seven-year-old white male. I just need to learn, accept, and adjust.
Michael Seidel, writer 