Lost Poem Found Again

While cleaning out her office closet, Fiorella came upon a blank-verse poem she wrote many years ago:

Again and again and again
The old man asks
And I answer, loudly,
Because he is deaf
Again and again and again
He asks the same
And I answer him, patiently,
Because he used to be
My father

Two Poems in Reserve

I wasn't going to let myself grow up
But I did
I wasn't going to let myself grow old
But I did
I wasn't going to let myself die
But I will
*
Age
Is a cage
That bars the door
To the child I am
*

Dinner with the Old Belle

Dinner with the Old Belle

She sat across the restaurant table from us, chewing on her hamburger steak, then spitting it into her napkin, which she discreetly emptied beneath the table. I knew from past experience that when she finished her meal, she would wrap the leftover rolls in a Kleenex and stuff them inside her purse. It was hard to stomach eating across from her, but she was family, and we knew our obligation.

Joyce was a widow, my husband’s much-older sister. Her hands were gnarled from arthritis, purple blotches colored her arms, her head shook, and her voice didn't work right. She had once been beautiful, a debutante, the belle of the ball.  Now she dyed her hair red in the bathtub and insisted it was her natural color, dressed in bargains from the thrift store although she could afford better, and, this evening, had hung a cameo from her neck by a chain attached to a large safety pin that winked at me every time she moved. She looked like a bag lady we were treating to a decent meal.

The dinner conversation was strained. I remember that she asked us for ideas as to where she could meet men her age, and all we could think of was antique car shows. 

As we left the restaurant, a flurry of white-haired women came in—laughing, well-groomed, confident women enjoying each other’s company.  They recognized Joyce as a schoolmate and called her by name, smiling and reaching out to her.  But she shrank back in horror, not allowing them to touch her.

She was too young to be as old as they were.

Older

Fiorella is officially an old lady, but that's better than being a dead old lady. To prove her maturity, she wears the universal pendant of old age, a personal alarm button.  (Truth to tell, the major reason is that she might take a fall or encounter a rattler or  copperhead the hard way while she is exploring the wildwoods.)
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There should probably be an upper age limit for drivers, but then how could older people get around to buy clothes and groceries, visit with friends, and attend doctor appointments?
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This topic is depressing. Fio needs her hair done, some botox, a photofacial, and a pedicure to cheer her up.

Irony

The very second Fiorella decided to take a long walk, the rain started up again.
*
Why is is Fio looks better in the  bathroom mirror than in her selfies?
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Not that Fio's getting any older, but everything about her that supposed to be tight is loosening up--and vice versa.

Ponderings

Fio's all about economy and security.  She turns off lights and locks doors.
*
Fiorella read an article about how grandmothers are opting for being called anything but Granny or Grandma nowadays.  Since Fio's grandmothers died before she was five and her own kids have yet to propagate, she has no opinion in the matter.  Although she would like to be a grandmother some day.
*
Growing older means trying to make sense out of an increasingly senseless world.

Personally Speaking

Jealous of Mommy's attention, Sonya Dog regularly inserts her snout between Fio and her laptop, which means that Fio has to clean off the screen before taking it in for repair .  It's like being sure you have on  clean underwear when you go to the hospital.
*
While normal people look for paintings for their walls, Fiorella searches for walls for her paintings.  Yes, she still has several in storage.
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When was it that Fiorella changed from a young filly to an old nag?
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Husband insists that Fiorella's tombstone will read, "She was easily amused," which would be fine with Fio.  In fact, it makes her laugh.  

Free-range Snippets

Not only is TJ getting a makeover in Louann, but her father is too.  Both of them are beginning to look less like cartoons and more like people.
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We are all the descendants of survivors.  We've been genetically culled.
*
When I am old and my brain has shrunk so much that you must institutionalize me, please provide me with a nice baby doll to cuddle when you're not there.

Mirabella Speaks

Fio's older sister, Mirabella, says that no matter how young her hairdresser swears she looks, the cashiers at Long John Silver's give her a Senior Discount without even asking.
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Mirabella said that when she first started reading the comic strip Cathy, she and Cathy were the same age. When the comic strip ended, Cathy hadn't aged a day, but Mirabella was the age of Cathy's mother.
*
One more thing. When Mirabella was young, you could tell how close you were to Christmas by the number of cards in the mail box. Now Mirabella counts her catalogs.

To Age or Not to Age

British actors are odd in that they actually allow themselves to age--and continue acting till they die. It's just that their roles change.

Take three grand dames who appeared together decades ago in a TV performance of Shakespeare's Midsummer Night's Dream. Judi Dench ("M")appeared as Titania; Diana Rigg, later to gain fame as Emma Peel, played Helena; and Helen Mirren, AKA Queen Elizabeth, took on the role of Hermia.
Now they play senior citizens

American actors, on the other hand, try to cling to the type of roles they first had when they hit Hollywood--young roles. And discreet trips to the friendly neighborhood plastic surgeon accommodate them. Think of Demi Moore, Pamela Anderson, and Priscilla Presley. And names like Jennifer Anniston, Eva Longoria, and Angelina Jolie are following suit.

Then there's Betty White.

Snippet Olio

Leftovers: Maybe someone told Lady Gaga she needed to put some meat on her bones, but how the heck did she keep the flies away?
*
It's autumn--plaid dresses, dappled light, dreams of not being prepared for a test . . . .
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The speaker at last night's RWA meeting was a woman Fio recognized from years ago, when they were both involved in civic theater. They embraced, as women do, and had a nice chat about old times. Like herself, Fio noted, Lana was no spring chicken. Hmm, maybe that high school reunion Fio's been regretting signing up for isn't going to be so bad after all.

Return Trip

As a child, Fiorella was often addressed as "Sweetheart" or "Dear." Later on, she was called "Miss." Then came the dreaded "Ma'am." Sunday, during her return trip from Orlando, the flight attendants kept calling her "Sweetheart" or "Dear."

Time for plastic surgery.

Cantankerous

I feel antique,
So old I creak,
Body's weak,
Can hardly speak.
At least that's how I feel today--
Tomorrow I'll feel another way.

It's in the DNA

Fio's been brooding on family matters lately, and she's realized that long after she's lost her memory and judgment, she'll still be analyzing and coming up with ideas.

She saw it in her father when, after Mother's death, he started inventing things like paper sandals to wear indoors. And later, in the retirement home, with his theory that turning his arm at an odd angle to fend off the intrusion into his space by another resident had set off his shingles attack, and that his beloved plaid 1970's slacks had been stolen from his closet by a covetous repairman.

Yes, the drive to figure things out endures long after memory and judgment depart. And Fio, who tries to figure everything out, will be the same. God help her children.

Reflections

Now that the sun is out again, Fiorella is fending off the appearance (if not the actuality) of aging by wearing one of Daughter's old white band gloves on her left hand when she drives. That's the hand that's trying to develop a couple of brown spots.

She's smearing sunscreen on the left side of her face too. And studying ads in magazines and on TV about miraculous skin creams.

Maybe she should just pack away her magnifying mirror.

Cut-off

When I was young and hinkty, I told my students that if they heard I had requested no extreme measures should be taken to keep me alive, they should shout murder because I wanted to cling on, no matter what. Where there was life, there was hope.

But now, I feel differently. Maybe it has something to do with the living death my father was involved in. Or maybe the example of my friend's father, who couldn't remember his wife's name, but wanted his gun because he was convinced someone was trying to kill him.

As far as I can tell, eighty-five is the cut-off time.

All in all, getting older is a whole lot less interesting than I thought it would be.

Coming up the Caddie

Years ago my father told me that the most beautiful thing he had ever seen was a storm coming up the Caddie when he was a boy.

The Caddie, as I understand it, was a by-water of his hometown river. The river was dead, killed by lumbering and the paper mills, but the Caddie was apparently still safe because the community cowherd drank from it.

And that's why Dad was there at sunset, to get the cows home, or maybe just to claim the family cow.

And that's when he saw the storm coming up the Caddie.

Yesterday I visited Dad in the nursing home. He was unresponsive, slitting his eyes open when I bellowed in his ear, then closing them again. I noticed his breathing was irregular: ten strong breaths followed by about fifteen seconds of no discernible inhalations. Then his breaths went down to eight between the periods of immobility, where it stabilized. Finally I rose to go.

I thought about notifying a nurse, but decided not to. Dad is ninety-five, past his time--deaf, half-blind, wheelchair-bound, incontinent, unable to feed himself, unable to communicate, unable to remember. I doubt if he'll make it to ninety-six.

The storm is coming up the Caddie.

Batter Up

Once I asked my father what he had wanted to be when he grew up. "A baseball player," he told me, his voice wistful with the memory.

Dad was a lifelong athlete--golf, tennis, bowling, whatever. Maybe in another day and time, he could have pursued his diamond dream, but he was born into poverty and the Great Depression dominated his early adulthood.

He's being scouted now, and sooner rather than later, heaven will be signing him for the home team.

Nuturing

Spoonful by pureed spoonful I feed him, soon remembering how to turn the spoon just so, to scrape up the extras that didn't quite make it off his lip and get them into his mouth on the next try. Coaxing, cooing. Once a skill is developed, one never forgets it.

Just as I fed my babies, now I feed my father.

Can't Take It with You

Dad's hearing aids (two pairs), belt, glasses, and now his false teeth have gone by the wayside in various nursing homes. Now I understand why they say we go out of this world as naked as we came into it.