This was emailed to me recently and I agree:
"The other day a young person asked me how I felt about being old. I was taken aback, for I do not think of myself as old. Upon seeing my reaction, she was immediately embarrassed, but I explained that it was an interesting question, and I would ponder it, and let her know.
Old Age, I decided, is a gift.
I am now, probably for the first time in my life, the person I have always wanted to be. Oh, not my body! I sometime despair over my body, the wrinkles, the baggy eyes, and the sagging butt. And often I am taken aback by that old person that lives in my mirror (who looks like my mother!), but I don't agonize over those things for long.
I would never trade my amazing friends, my wonderful life, my loving family for less gray hair or a flatter belly. As I've aged, I've become more kind to myself, and less critical of myself. I've become my own friend.
I don't chide myself for eating that extra cookie, or for not making my bed, or for buying that silly cement gecko that I didn't need, but looks so avante garde on my patio. I am entitled to a treat, to be messy, to be extravagant.
I have seen too many dear friends leave this world too soon; before they understood the great freedom that comes with aging.
Whose business is it if I choose to read or play on the computer until 4 AM and sleep until noon?
I will dance with myself to those wonderful tunes of the 60&70's, and if I, at the same time, wish to weep over a lost love ... I will.
I will walk the beach in a swim suit that is stretched over a bulging body, and will dive into the waves with abandon if I choose to, despite the pitying glances from the jet set.
They, too, will get old.
I know I am sometimes forgetful. But there again, some of life is just as well forgotten. And I eventually remember the important things.
Sure, over the years my heart has been broken. How can your heart not break when you lose a loved one, or when a child suffers, or even when somebody's beloved pet gets hit by a car? But broken hearts are what give us strength and understanding and compassion. A heart never broken is pristine and sterile and will never know the joy of being imperfect.
I am so blessed to have lived long enough to have my hair turning gray, and to have my youthful laughs be forever etched into deep grooves on my face. So many have never laughed, and so many have died before their hair could turn silver.
As you get older, it is easier to be positive. You care less about what other people think. I don't question myself anymore. I've even earned the right to be wrong.
So, to answer your question, I like being old. It has set me free. I like the person I have become. I am not going to live forever, but while I am still here, I will not waste time lamenting what could have been, or worrying about what will be. And I shall eat dessert every single day. (If I feel like it)"
Author Unknown
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Another Time, another place.
The Front Porch
The house was built about 1919, a classic, small, one story Victorian with a half wrap around porch. The balusters and railings were painted a light grey and the porch floor was a darker shade of grey.
Steep concrete steps rose up the front yard bank then wooden steps led onto the porch itself which provided a birds eye view of the street and the houses across the way.
A porch swing suspended by chains from the ceiling seated two and squeaked gently as it swung back and forth. There were two wooden rocking chairs on the porch but the swing was the favorite spot for daydreaming
The air was fresh and warm, sweet smelling, clear of toxins and gas fumes. Not many people owned cars. No jets flew over . Many peaceful hours could be spent sitting on the porch steps or on the concrete steps where the walkway ended at the street. There was no air conditioning back then so the porch breezes were a welcome respite from the summer heat.
You could sit on the steps at night with your brown and white beagle mix dog and count the stars and see the big dipper and the milky way. In the summer night time you could catch lightening bugs and put them in a glass jar. Or you could simply get up and you and your dog could walk up the sidewalk and enjoy the evening. No crime to worry about. No one locked their doors. No one used a key to the house. Did a key even exist ?
Your childhood friend might come sit with you on the porch steps, then the two of you, barefoot and skipping over the hot sidewalk pavement, would run down the street to her house and play Monopoly. Later she would show you the souvenirs her parents had brought back from the 1939 World’s Fair.
Neighbors would look up and call to you on the porch as they walked by headed for the market or up the street to a friend’s house or to the Baptist Church about a half mile up on the nearby main street, or perhaps they were walking to the down town picture show.
You might sit in the swing with your white haired grand daddy who talked with you as he whittled a stick into a whistle.
Years earlier grand daddy had sat in the swing with his hand resting on his chin watching silently as you had your 4 month old baby picture made. In the photo your older brother was in the yard below the porch holding you gingerly and looking down at you. You had a fat faced look of contentment as you gazed directly at the old box camera. Your chubby little cheeks and your dark fuzz of hair showed up really well in the photograph which would gradually fade with time but would remain viewable..
You were born in the bedroom to the left of the front porch. Babies were born at home in those days and not in the hospital. You were the last of 10 children but all but 3 had grown up and left home before your birth. You were the caboose.
Sitting on the porch was the perfect place to listen out for the bell of the ice cream truck as it made its’ way slowly down the street. When it got nearer you could run down the porch steps and stand on the side walk and gaze longingly down the street as you decided how you would spend the Buffalo nickel you mother had given you.
The handsome dark haired postman who sang bass in the church choir walked up the porch steps with his extra large well worn brown leather mail satchel to place letters in the small metal mailbox attached to the porch wall at the front door
You walked down the front porch steps and walked to school when you began kindergarten. And up again when the school day was over with much to tell mother about your school day.
You drank lemonade and ate cookies while sitting in the porch swing. Your brother taught you songs like “My Darling Clementine” there. This was before he went off to the US Navy after the beginning of World War 2. He came home safely, thank God so no bad news telegram was delivered to the front door.
After your dog followed you to town and got run over, the lady who hit him drove you home with your dying dog in the back seat and gently placed his lifeless body on the front porch by the door. You cried when the truck came to carry his sweet body away.
To get away from the sadness of the afternoon you and your mother walked down the porch steps to the end of the street.The two of you stepped onto the city bus and rode and rode and talked about your dog and how sad you were. You reminded her the dog first belonged to your brother before he went off to war and you were sad you did not take good care and let him get run over. Mother said it was not your fault. Your brother would understand. She said there will be other dogs but this one was special.
You grew up, finished high school and moved away. Saying good bye to the porch and swing, you tucked your treasured memories away and walked down the front porch steps for the last time, glancing back with longing and regret that the tender simple pleasures of porch days were over.
The house was built about 1919, a classic, small, one story Victorian with a half wrap around porch. The balusters and railings were painted a light grey and the porch floor was a darker shade of grey.
Steep concrete steps rose up the front yard bank then wooden steps led onto the porch itself which provided a birds eye view of the street and the houses across the way.
A porch swing suspended by chains from the ceiling seated two and squeaked gently as it swung back and forth. There were two wooden rocking chairs on the porch but the swing was the favorite spot for daydreaming
The air was fresh and warm, sweet smelling, clear of toxins and gas fumes. Not many people owned cars. No jets flew over . Many peaceful hours could be spent sitting on the porch steps or on the concrete steps where the walkway ended at the street. There was no air conditioning back then so the porch breezes were a welcome respite from the summer heat.
You could sit on the steps at night with your brown and white beagle mix dog and count the stars and see the big dipper and the milky way. In the summer night time you could catch lightening bugs and put them in a glass jar. Or you could simply get up and you and your dog could walk up the sidewalk and enjoy the evening. No crime to worry about. No one locked their doors. No one used a key to the house. Did a key even exist ?
Your childhood friend might come sit with you on the porch steps, then the two of you, barefoot and skipping over the hot sidewalk pavement, would run down the street to her house and play Monopoly. Later she would show you the souvenirs her parents had brought back from the 1939 World’s Fair.
Neighbors would look up and call to you on the porch as they walked by headed for the market or up the street to a friend’s house or to the Baptist Church about a half mile up on the nearby main street, or perhaps they were walking to the down town picture show.
You might sit in the swing with your white haired grand daddy who talked with you as he whittled a stick into a whistle.
Years earlier grand daddy had sat in the swing with his hand resting on his chin watching silently as you had your 4 month old baby picture made. In the photo your older brother was in the yard below the porch holding you gingerly and looking down at you. You had a fat faced look of contentment as you gazed directly at the old box camera. Your chubby little cheeks and your dark fuzz of hair showed up really well in the photograph which would gradually fade with time but would remain viewable..
You were born in the bedroom to the left of the front porch. Babies were born at home in those days and not in the hospital. You were the last of 10 children but all but 3 had grown up and left home before your birth. You were the caboose.
Sitting on the porch was the perfect place to listen out for the bell of the ice cream truck as it made its’ way slowly down the street. When it got nearer you could run down the porch steps and stand on the side walk and gaze longingly down the street as you decided how you would spend the Buffalo nickel you mother had given you.
The handsome dark haired postman who sang bass in the church choir walked up the porch steps with his extra large well worn brown leather mail satchel to place letters in the small metal mailbox attached to the porch wall at the front door
You walked down the front porch steps and walked to school when you began kindergarten. And up again when the school day was over with much to tell mother about your school day.
You drank lemonade and ate cookies while sitting in the porch swing. Your brother taught you songs like “My Darling Clementine” there. This was before he went off to the US Navy after the beginning of World War 2. He came home safely, thank God so no bad news telegram was delivered to the front door.
After your dog followed you to town and got run over, the lady who hit him drove you home with your dying dog in the back seat and gently placed his lifeless body on the front porch by the door. You cried when the truck came to carry his sweet body away.
To get away from the sadness of the afternoon you and your mother walked down the porch steps to the end of the street.The two of you stepped onto the city bus and rode and rode and talked about your dog and how sad you were. You reminded her the dog first belonged to your brother before he went off to war and you were sad you did not take good care and let him get run over. Mother said it was not your fault. Your brother would understand. She said there will be other dogs but this one was special.
You grew up, finished high school and moved away. Saying good bye to the porch and swing, you tucked your treasured memories away and walked down the front porch steps for the last time, glancing back with longing and regret that the tender simple pleasures of porch days were over.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Hot as Hell
I am not kidding. It is hot here. Temps have been hovering around 100 degrees for about a week now with the heat index at around 106 some days.
And guess what? Guess what our UPSTAIRS air conditioner decided to do last Saturday in 100 degree heat. Well it froze up and died. The AC's passing was not entirely unexpected as it was original equipment and our town house which we bought 4 years ago is about 20 years old.We replaced one AC at that time and crossed our fingers on the other.
So the service guy from the AC company came out on Saturday afternoon, (bless his little pea picking heart). He worked and worked trying to correct the problem but to no avail. It was terminal and he had to pull the plug.
Our bedrooms are upstairs so of course hubby and I had to make other plans for sleeping. The temp upstairs was reading out 93 and up and we did not relish being fried in our sleep. I chose the den sofa and Sam chose the sofa bed in the downstairs playroom.We managed remarkably well and even felt like real troopers. Almost like camping out. At least we were cool.
So then,today, the AC company came to install the new equipment. They worked and worked and demolished the old furnace in the upstairs attic and carted off the old outside unit and installed the new stuff.
But UH OH. The new outside Carrier AC had a "defective coil: The servicemen went to pick up a replacement coil to reinstall on the brand new unit. While they were gone Sam and I confered and decided we do NOT want an expensive air conditioner right out of the box with a defective part. After some tough talk with the salesman who sold us the equipment we got the promise of a brand new unit ASAP.
In the meanwhile, the serviceman comes back with the new replacement coil (made in Mexico), installs it and then discovers it was not the coil after all but somehow the compressor had overheated and shut off. He fixed the problem and now it is getting cooler upstairs where I am now sitting at my computer venting.
Why oh why does nothing work right the first time anymore?
Don't get me wrong,I am extremely thankful for the cool air that is wafting down from the overhead register but I just wonder whatever happened to good old Yankee know how and ingenuity.
I read this when I googled AC in the South and I agree 100%
"I am not the least bit sentimental about my un-air-conditioned Georgia childhood, especially my nocturnal summertime tossing and turning at the foot of the bed, praying to catch a breeze through the nearby window before the rooster started sounding off. Suffice it to say, if cranking up the A/C constitutes an unnatural act, put me down as a habitual and unrepentant offender."
and this
As air-conditioning was reshaping the way we lived, it was also helping to change the way we made our living. Without it, most of our bigger, heavier, and more complex industries would surely have never headed South after World War II, nor would many of the people who worked in and managed them, or the retirees who jumped at the chance to luxuriate in air-conditioned comfort while telling us how they used to do it in Ohio. Overall, the air-conditioner was crucial to reversing the South's historic pattern of out-migration and to the explosive growth of the "Sunbelt" in the 1970s."
http://www.uga.edu/gm/902/FeatBack.html
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
And guess what? Guess what our UPSTAIRS air conditioner decided to do last Saturday in 100 degree heat. Well it froze up and died. The AC's passing was not entirely unexpected as it was original equipment and our town house which we bought 4 years ago is about 20 years old.We replaced one AC at that time and crossed our fingers on the other.
So the service guy from the AC company came out on Saturday afternoon, (bless his little pea picking heart). He worked and worked trying to correct the problem but to no avail. It was terminal and he had to pull the plug.
Our bedrooms are upstairs so of course hubby and I had to make other plans for sleeping. The temp upstairs was reading out 93 and up and we did not relish being fried in our sleep. I chose the den sofa and Sam chose the sofa bed in the downstairs playroom.We managed remarkably well and even felt like real troopers. Almost like camping out. At least we were cool.
So then,today, the AC company came to install the new equipment. They worked and worked and demolished the old furnace in the upstairs attic and carted off the old outside unit and installed the new stuff.
But UH OH. The new outside Carrier AC had a "defective coil: The servicemen went to pick up a replacement coil to reinstall on the brand new unit. While they were gone Sam and I confered and decided we do NOT want an expensive air conditioner right out of the box with a defective part. After some tough talk with the salesman who sold us the equipment we got the promise of a brand new unit ASAP.
In the meanwhile, the serviceman comes back with the new replacement coil (made in Mexico), installs it and then discovers it was not the coil after all but somehow the compressor had overheated and shut off. He fixed the problem and now it is getting cooler upstairs where I am now sitting at my computer venting.
Why oh why does nothing work right the first time anymore?
Don't get me wrong,I am extremely thankful for the cool air that is wafting down from the overhead register but I just wonder whatever happened to good old Yankee know how and ingenuity.
I read this when I googled AC in the South and I agree 100%
"I am not the least bit sentimental about my un-air-conditioned Georgia childhood, especially my nocturnal summertime tossing and turning at the foot of the bed, praying to catch a breeze through the nearby window before the rooster started sounding off. Suffice it to say, if cranking up the A/C constitutes an unnatural act, put me down as a habitual and unrepentant offender."
and this
As air-conditioning was reshaping the way we lived, it was also helping to change the way we made our living. Without it, most of our bigger, heavier, and more complex industries would surely have never headed South after World War II, nor would many of the people who worked in and managed them, or the retirees who jumped at the chance to luxuriate in air-conditioned comfort while telling us how they used to do it in Ohio. Overall, the air-conditioner was crucial to reversing the South's historic pattern of out-migration and to the explosive growth of the "Sunbelt" in the 1970s."
http://www.uga.edu/gm/902/FeatBack.html
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Friday, August 10, 2007
I want to be six again
I thought that now in the miserable dog days of summer we might want to consider this:
To Whom it May Concern
"I am hereby officially tendering my resignation as an adult, in order to accept the responsibilities of a 6 year old. The tax base is lower. I want to be six again.
I want to go to McDonald’s and think it’s the best place in the world to eat.
I want to sail sticks across a fresh mud puddle and make waves with rocks.
I want to think M&Ms are better than money, because you can eat them.
I want to play kickball during recess and stay up on Christmas Eve waiting to hear Santa and Rudolph on the roof.
I long for the days when life was simple. When all you knew were your colors, the addition tables and simple nursery rhymes, but it didn’t bother you, because you didn’t know what you didn’t know and you didn’t care.
I want to go to school and have snack time, recess, gym and field trips.
I want to be happy, because I don’t know what should make me upset.
I want to think the world is fair and everyone in it is honest and good. I want to believe that anything is possible.
Sometime, while I was maturing, I learned too much. I learned of nuclear weapons, prejudice, starving and abused kids, lies, unhappy marriages, illness, pain and mortality.
I want to be six again.
I want to think that everyone, including myself, will live forever, because I don’t know the concept of death.
I want to be oblivious to the complexity of life and be overly excited by the little things again.
I want television to be something I watch for fun, not something used for escape from the things I should be doing.
I want to live knowing the little things that I find exciting will always make me as happy as when I first learned them.
I want to be six again.
I remember not seeing the world as a whole, but rather being aware of only the things that directly concerned me.
I want to be naive enough to think that if I’m happy, so is everyone else.
I want to walk down the beach and think only of the sand beneath my feet and the possibility of finding that blue piece of sea glass I’m looking for.
I want to spend my afternoons climbing trees and riding my bike, letting the grownups worry about time, the dentist and how to find the money to fix the old car.
I want to wonder what I’ll do when I grow up and what I’ll be, who I’ll be and not worry about what I’ll do if this doesn’t work out.
I want that time back.
I want to use it now as an escape, so that when my computer crashes, or I have a mountain of paperwork, or two depressed friends, or a fight with my spouse, or bittersweet memories of times gone by, or second thoughts about so many things, I can travel back and build a snowman, without thinking about anything except whether the snow sticks together and what I can possibly use for the snowman’s mouth.
I want to be six again."
Author Unknown
To Whom it May Concern
"I am hereby officially tendering my resignation as an adult, in order to accept the responsibilities of a 6 year old. The tax base is lower. I want to be six again.
I want to go to McDonald’s and think it’s the best place in the world to eat.
I want to sail sticks across a fresh mud puddle and make waves with rocks.
I want to think M&Ms are better than money, because you can eat them.
I want to play kickball during recess and stay up on Christmas Eve waiting to hear Santa and Rudolph on the roof.
I long for the days when life was simple. When all you knew were your colors, the addition tables and simple nursery rhymes, but it didn’t bother you, because you didn’t know what you didn’t know and you didn’t care.
I want to go to school and have snack time, recess, gym and field trips.
I want to be happy, because I don’t know what should make me upset.
I want to think the world is fair and everyone in it is honest and good. I want to believe that anything is possible.
Sometime, while I was maturing, I learned too much. I learned of nuclear weapons, prejudice, starving and abused kids, lies, unhappy marriages, illness, pain and mortality.
I want to be six again.
I want to think that everyone, including myself, will live forever, because I don’t know the concept of death.
I want to be oblivious to the complexity of life and be overly excited by the little things again.
I want television to be something I watch for fun, not something used for escape from the things I should be doing.
I want to live knowing the little things that I find exciting will always make me as happy as when I first learned them.
I want to be six again.
I remember not seeing the world as a whole, but rather being aware of only the things that directly concerned me.
I want to be naive enough to think that if I’m happy, so is everyone else.
I want to walk down the beach and think only of the sand beneath my feet and the possibility of finding that blue piece of sea glass I’m looking for.
I want to spend my afternoons climbing trees and riding my bike, letting the grownups worry about time, the dentist and how to find the money to fix the old car.
I want to wonder what I’ll do when I grow up and what I’ll be, who I’ll be and not worry about what I’ll do if this doesn’t work out.
I want that time back.
I want to use it now as an escape, so that when my computer crashes, or I have a mountain of paperwork, or two depressed friends, or a fight with my spouse, or bittersweet memories of times gone by, or second thoughts about so many things, I can travel back and build a snowman, without thinking about anything except whether the snow sticks together and what I can possibly use for the snowman’s mouth.
I want to be six again."
Author Unknown
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
Millie on ABC
Hooray for our Millie Garfield. She and her blog were just on ABC evening news segment about elder bloggers. Run on over to Millie's blog and congratulate her.
Click on title of this post to be linked to
http://mymomsblog.blogspot.com/
Click on title of this post to be linked to
http://mymomsblog.blogspot.com/
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