Category Archives: Family

GETTING THERE JUST HAPPENS

     I pretty much have an answer for everything and even when I don’t, I pretty much come up with something.  Every now and then, though, I get thrown.  Today, I was at a loss for words not once but twice.  A gal in her 80’s asked me what it was like, “to feel that young,” as I swam past her in the water.  What the heck did she mean by that?  I certainly don’t feel ‘young’ in any sense of the word.  I scrambled for a suitable reply,  “Well, about the same way it felt for you when you were my age, I guess.”  Not a great answer, I know.

      Later, my 13 year–old asked me, “Is it scary getting old?”  “Nope,” I replied quite honestly.  “Looking in the mirror and SEEING that you’re old can be scary but getting there just happens.”  She thought about this a moment and then asked:  “Well, is it scary dying?”  “Um,” I replied scrambling for words.  “I’m not sure that I can answer that one quite yet.”   (http://www.helen-hudson.com) 

 

 

PUT THE CART BEFORE THE HORSE

Having fun over fifty involves a little more thought than it used to.  For example, I can’t just jump on my shopping cart and fly down the produce aisle willy nilly anymore.  First off, I can’t do wheelies—at least on purpose—because I DO NOT WANT TO FALL!  Something might break, or worse, fracture. 

      Thus, when attempting said maneuver I am now choosy about which cart to pick.  All four wheels must be oiled and turn well.  One bad wheel and you’re a goner.  Then, I must be sure I have some considerable weight in the basket first.  I have found that one watermelon, or a good 25 lb bag of organic carrots is terrific ballast.  Also, I must be wearing tennis shoes.  In the old days, sandals were fine, but it’s hard to get a good running start if one of them flops off and you roll over your bare, naked arthritic toes.  Also, I have to look to be sure the aisle ahead of me is clear.  There’s nothing worse than being in the middle of a great ride and having some idiot suddenly turn in front of you with cartons of eggs in their little front section. So, I try limiting myself a bit during Easter. 

     One good thing about getting older is that experience has long taught you what does NOT work.  Therefore, you should be able to completely ENJOY yourself without killing yourself.  It’s a fine balance–aging that is–using what little you’ve got left to your utmost ability.  I could just hang it up I suppose–forego the giggles from the store clerks, the eye rolls from teenagers, and the head shaking from little, old ladies.  I could push my cart leisurely down the aisle like everyone else my age.  But as long as I still have that little, inner desire to just GO, it seems kind of stupid to hit the PAUSE button.  I mean I’m not dead yet. 

     Granny used to say, ‘You can’t put the cart before the horse.’  In her day, that made sense, because the horse would start eating whatever was in the cart instead of pulling it.  In my case, I just want to ride it.  So, as long as there’s a little horsepower left in this chassis that’s exactly what I intend to do.  (Helen Hudson is the author of, “Kissing Tomatoes,” a memoir of her grandmother’s Alzheimer’s.  http://www.helen-hudson.com    

AARP (An Age Richly Producing)

     I was mad.  Fuming actually.  Could not believe that the envelope I had just pulled from the mailbox was “an invitation to join AARP.”  Certainly this was meant for someone else; someone really old.  Not ME, the ponytailed girl who had just put in her ½ mile daily swim.  But no, it really WAS me.  “Can you believe this?” I practically choked to my husband.  “AARP sent ME an invitation to join, like I’m 65 or something.” “Well,” he replied a little too calmly, “I believe you qualify at age 50.”  “Ah Ha!  There!  You see?  They’re obviously confused.  I’m still 49 and plan to stay that way for a long time.”  He just chuckled.  I fumed. 

     My grandmother had been an AARP member for as long as I could remember.  THAT made sense.   What has never made sense to me is what AARP stands for:  the American Association of Retired Persons.  ‘Retired,’ if you look it up means:  “secluded,” “shut away,” and, “withdrawn from working or a professional career.”  You gotta be kidding me.  In this day and age who can afford to stop working at 50?  Who wants to?  Not only that, who wants to be associated with a bunch of withdrawn, no longer working people?  Not me.  I tore up the invitation. 

     That was then.  Now, however, I have come to enjoy the lovely discounts on hotels and rental cars my AARP membership offers—when I am travelling for WORK!  However, I abhor their acronym.  EVERYONE I know over 50 is STILL WORKING—STILL ACTIVE—and STILL HAVING …um… SCINTILLATING CONVERSATIONS!!  Here is what some of my “retired” friends over 50 are doing:  a  photographer with a recent showing in Seattle, a heart surgeon with a full caseload, an author, who just returned from a book tour in Europe, a singer-songwriter presently on a 30 city US tour, a college professor, about to publish a new book, a lawyer actively litigating the FDA, and an actor starring in a TV series, which recently won a Golden Globe.  Another just returned from a 3 month volunteer stint as a doctor in Nigeria.  This doesn’t even begin to include the less glamorous professions where ALL of my other friends are still gainfully employed. 

     When my grandmother was the age I am now, she had recently earned a masters degree , was working as a high school guidance counselor AND she was caring for me all by herself.  I actually said these words to her:  “Granny, what does it feel like to be SO old?” * Okay, so I was only five, but trust me,  I’m still kicking myself over that.  (*Excerpt from, “Kissing Tomatoes,” by Helen Hudson.     http://www.helen-hudson.com.)

MEMORIES ARE MADE IN THE ROOMS OF THE MIND

     It is odd searching for a home in a city devastated by flood waters.  Odd, because while I am assessing location, price and square footage, everywhere around me, people are carting their soggy, moldy possessions to the curb.  Many are now homeless.  While CNN did broadcast a one-hour special on the Nashville floods, nothing reported comes close to the actual reality.  On one street, a house for sale sits slightly above those on either side of it, which are gutted and windowless with mattresses and splintered boards piled high outside. 

     I drive to the next address, passing a lovely park where just weeks ago, kids were playing baseball and flying kites.  Today those lush, green acres are awash in debris.  All week, trucks have been dumping appliances, stoves, A/C units, warped bookshelves, stain-soaked draperies and bed frames.  Standing lamps and chairs stick out of these gargantuan piles, like broken arms and legs. The newscasters sound amazed when they report, “There’s been no looting.”  But the truth is, there is nothing salvageable to steal.   For a home buyer, the good news is that prices are going down.  At one showing, I was quoted one price at the front door, but by the time I left, the realtor whispered that the owner would, “take another 20% off.”  But it really isn’t about the price.  It’s about making that house a home; the kind my grandmother made for me.

     Granny purchased her first home in 1956.  “It cost a fortune,” she often said.  ”26 thousand dollars!”  When I took my own children back to see that “wonderful” place where I grew up, I didn’t even recognize it.  Her tiny ranch with the bright green trim was a ruin of pock-marked plaster and peeling paint.  The palm tree-dotted, well-manicured subdivision where it used to stand and where I learned how to both jump rope and drive, was a slum.  Chained up dogs barked from the alleys where I used to roller skate.  Granny’s garden, once an Eden of flourishing vegetables and zinnias, was now a gnarl of burnt weeds and old car parts.  Even the mailbox hung at half-mast, with the “4412″ missing.  I well remember the day we painted it and planted sunflowers underneath. 

     Time has erased Granny’s home like the floods have obliterated those of thousands in Nashville.  All that ever really remains with us though  is the memories that were made inside.  (Hudson is the author of, “Kissing Tomatoes,” a memoir of the years her Grandmother lived with her when she had Alzheimer’s.  http://www.helen-hudson.com).

HOLD YOUR HORSES!!

     Before you read one, more word, I must warn you:  I am prejudiced towards old folks.  Just love ‘em. Guess you could say I have a thing for crinkly, wrinkles and a shuffling step.  In fact, give me a sour codger over a surly teen ANY day of the week.  At least they’ve earned it.  Okay, so maybe they’re not the best drivers.  Maybe they do put on the left signal, then turn right—but I absolutely REFUSE TO HONK AT THEM!  

     Take today, for example.  I was driving my youngest to school, when I caught sight of an old Chrysler up ahead on the right, starting to inch past the STOP sign.  “They’re not pulling out in front of me,” I say mostly to myself.  Yup. I’m going 50 mph as a little old lady pulls smack into my lane going 15 mph and she is definitely NOT accelerating.  I pump the brakes.  Several seconds later and she’s barely climbed to 30 mph.  “Why didn’t you honk your horn at her?” my daughter queries.  “She’s old,” I reply.  “The noise would have just startled her more.  It’s safer to just brake.” 

     Not five minutes later, we are accelerating from a 4-way stop when a blonde in a Mercedes, rolls through the STOP sign and bolts in front of me.  I lay on the horn so hard and fast, my daughter fairly leaps from her seat.  I’m now on the blonde’s bumper, close enough to see that she’s texting!  “Gosh, Mom,” my daughter pipes up again.  “Why did you honk at HER?”  “Well, she didn’t stop at the STOP sign.  She pulled out in front of us without looking where she’s going because she’s texting..AND she’s young and quick and should know better!” 

     When Granny first taught me how to drive she kept a hawk eye on my speedometer.  If I went one millisecond over the speed limit, she calmly said, “Now, hold your horses dear.  We’re in no hurry.”  I thought she was referring to the horsepower of the engine but a woman born in 1900 means real horses.  Granny had once owned a stallion named Duke.  “He was 15 hands high and a powerful animal.  If not bridled and trained he could stampede right over you.”  So, the next time you’re tempted to honk at one of our silver-haired seniors, remember:  Hold Your Horses!  (http://www.helen-hudson.com.)

A DAY FOR MOTHERS–A LIFETIME OF MOTHERING

     There is a mother on our back porch; a common, house finch.  For days, I watched her build her bowl-shaped nest on the 5″ by 5″ column ledge that supports the awning.  Trip after trip of gathering sticks never seemed to wear her out.  She flew her missions until that nest was as perfectly round and centered on the precipice as if it had been pre-drawn by a protractor. 

     The waiting began.  Sometimes, I would look up, see her eyes closed and imagine she was laying her eggs.  For weeks she sat, even through the deluge of tornadoes, rain and floods which shook Nashville to the core.  Undeterred, she merely preened her feathers and waited.  I grew tired of waiting and forgot all about her until the day I heard chirrupy peeps and looked up.  Three, tiny heads, just barely above the lip of her nest were open-beaked and squawking.  In she swooped with worms from the wet ground and they fought for her delicacies. 

     Many days have passed and those heads now tower over a space too small for their size.  The nest is no longer neat or centered, but has shifted several inches to the right and looks shabby.  The right side is bent down low from the weight of that mother patiently standing to nourish each open mouth.  Displaced twigs and debris have fallen to the ground underneath.  Feathers and dung are splashed and stuck to the sides.  There is nowhere for them to go but out now.

     I was 40 my first Mother’s Day & until then, my life had been all about me.  So thoroughly thoughtless and self-centered was I, that years earlier I said something to my cousin which still haunts me.  She had recently given birth to her first child and we were to meet for an afternoon coffee.  She phoned at 2 PM to say she could not make it.  “The baby was up all night with colic…has a diaper rash..exhausted …just now headed to the shower.”  My reply?  “It’s two o’clock in the afternoon.  You’re just NOW taking a shower?  What do you DO all day?” 

     She is an empty-nester now.  Her three daughters are grown and gone into lives of their own.  Mine will soon follow.  And Anna Jarvis, who 100 years ago began ”Mother’s Day” as a tribute to her own mother is gone, too.  She  was bereft at the commercialization that her special day ultimately became:  “A printed card means nothing except that you are too lazy to write to the woman who has done more for you than anyone in the world.”  Had she ever had children of her own, they would have been as proud of her as I was of the grandmother who raised me.  (Hudson is the author of ,”Kissing Tomatoes,” a memoir of 40 years with her grandmother.  http://www.helen-hudson.com). 

NO TIME LIKE THE PRESENT

     I first dragged my girls to play piano at nursing homes when they were in middle school.  I wanted them to see firsthand what it’s like to get old–really old.  I also wanted them to know what happens to you if you can’t take care of yourself any longer:  Strangers do it.  Enough said.  At first, my oldest was intimidated by the bizarre behavior of those whose wits had failed.  While she played, one woman  kept yelling at her to, “Get out of my house.”  My youngest went squeamish at the smells and sights. 

     While those experiences had a sobering effect on them, it didn’t last long and that’s probably a good thing.  Why dwell on ones demise before one reaches the brink of all possibility?  As teenagers now, their lives are mostly all ahead of them.  They are navigating those chapters after, “The Preface.”  For those in the homes where they played Chopin and Bach, life is mostly all behind in the chapters before, “The End.”  

     What most of us seem to forget, though, is that ALL of Life’s chapters carry equal importance.  What good is the Introduction without the Epilogue?  How can you understand Chapter 27 if you haven’t read chapter 8?  The finest part of our stories ultimately comes at the Conclusion; that transfixing moment where all the tribulations and triumphs that made us human culminate.  Who were we?  How did we navigate our birthrights?  Ultimately, what did we offer this world where we make such a very, brief presence?  

     I cherished my children from the moment I knew they were forming inside of me.  My husband and I marveled over their first words, held our breaths at their first steps, dried their tears and held them close.  Someday, though, someone else will hear their last words, watch their final steps and hopefully, hold them very, very close.  We will likely not even be here when our girls reach the very age we are now.  I have done the math.  So, I have to hope that the world they are aging into will one day embrace the wrinkles, the mottled skin, and the dementias.  For it does not now and the gap between our young and old is very wide indeed.

     How to bridge it?  Take the kids to Grandpa’s.  So what if he is cantankerous and crotchety.  All the better.  Let them see how they don’t want to grow up.  Pay your kids to rake the leaves off, “Old Aunt Becky’s” porch.  Better yet, if your own parents are beginning to lose their grip, move them in with you.  Even in the moderate stages of Alzheimer’s many are finding it both cheaper and more rewarding than a nursing home.  At the very least, you’ve offered the example to your children.  There’s really no time like the present.  (Helen Hudson cared for her grandmother for 13 years when she had Alzheimer’s.  ”Kissing Tomatoes,” is her story of those years).  http://www.helen-hudson.com. 

 

      

OLD FOLKS & ARTICHOKES

     When Granny* first taught me how to eat an artichoke, I was perturbed that I had to go through all those layers of armor just to get to that mushroom cap of a heart.  Frankly, at 13, I thought the best part was the butter dipping.  Until last night, as I began instructing my own teenagers on the ‘art’ of eating one, I never realized how much artichokes remind me of old people: thin-skinned, thorny & tough on the outside, multi-layered, increasingly soft towards the middle, and way, down deep inside is a heart so delectable it is protected by a Fort Knox of cellulose.  

     “Artichokes,” the dictionary also tells me, “have a very, long growing season and prefer mild climates.”  Sounds like old folks to me.   On first glance, you really don’t want to get too close to them.  (The artichokes, that is).  The two I had purchased were hard as rocks & my youngest, in particular, was skeptical.  After steaming them, though, we began with the scrawny, meatless, tough outer stalks.   They were scaly and mottled with spots just like the skin of, yeah, you know.  My oldest marveled at the design & symmetry of their leaves as my youngest impatiently rolled her eyes.  “Ouch!” she said suddenly.  “You never said there were thorns on these!” 

     The truth is I had forgotten.  It’s funny how one forgets the barbs as time passes.  Now, we peeled our way deep towards the center where the petals are lighter and softer, and the flesh thicker with taste.  Down we dove, eating through the tender, inner layers, lined with purple edges that form a whitish curve inwards.  “Now grab hold of that section and pull,” I commanded.  My oldest tugged lightly.  “No.  Really pull it hard and kind of wiggle it.”  Suddenly it broke free. There was the carpet of white, cilia-like, thin fibers hovering tightly over the heart.  Indeed, it resembled a full crown of white hair.  ”Is this the choke?  Will I choke if I eat it?” my youngest queried.   “Not if we scrape it away.” 

     Patiently, we took a spoon and carved the hairs away until the heart was smooth.  My oldest savored the morsel with a touch of lemon and salt and pronounced it, “Pretty good.”  My youngest, not overly fond of any vegetable, said it was, “Okay, but that sure is a lot of work for that little bit of food.”  Yes.  So is life.  So also is learning to appreciate the old folks among us.   Both are journeys well worth taking.  For the record,  I find them deliciously splendid and rich at heart!.  (The old folks that is.)  *From “Kissing Tomatoes,” by Helen Hudson.  http://www.helen-hudson.com)         

ALZHEIMER’S & THE GIFT OF FORGETTING

     Only ONCE did Granny say to me during her Alzheimer’s years, ”I think I am losing my memory.”  It was towards the end, in the middle of that period when she was wearing a diaper and I was re-instructing her on how to use a spoon.  She didn’t even know my name and my first instinct was to laugh.  Instead I replied:  ”Yes, Granny.  You are.”  She paused and then added, “Well, I guess that’s God’s way of making me forget what might hurt me to remember.”** 

     Wow.  That moment literally changed my thinking about the whole Alzheimer’s saga; the nightmarish horror of watching a person go from themself to NO self.  Until then I was always on the outside looking in.  Now I had a tiny glimpse of the inside looking out and it seemed less frightening.  While memory brings me both joy & sorrow and while it is memory that has informed who I am, it was not mine at birth.  Alzheimer’s returns us to childhood, albeit in a convoluted way.  Of course the particular journey back differs for everyone. 

     In all, Granny’s journey was a gentle one, much like the man who swam next to me this morning.  Well, he wasn’t swimming exactly, just kind of grinning as he dog-paddled back and forth.  I guessed him at about 65, but the incessant grin was more reminiscent of a six year-old.  As I lapped him I kept trying to remember where I had seen him before.  I knew that it was not here in the adult lap pool.  Then it came to me.  He was the same man I had seen months earlier being held by the hand of a caregiver in the shallow end of the kiddie pool!! 

     For a moment I panicked.  I stopped to check on him.  Yup.  Still grinning with his head out of the water.  Suddenly, he stopped, and said to me, “Oh.  I thought you were my daughter.”  Before I could reply he said, “Or my daughter’s friend?  Or are you my …daughter….?”  As he kept trying to figure out who I was, I suddenly replied:  “Yes.  I am your friend.  We are friends!”  “Friends!” he grinned as he dog-paddled away.  As I left, I recognized his caregiver on the other side of the kiddie pool.  “Does he have Alzheimer’s?” I asked her.  “Why, yes,” she replied.  “How did you know?”   ”Well,” I replied.  “There are certain things you don’t forget…..at least while you can still remember.”   (** Excerpt from, “Kissing Tomatoes,” http://www.helen-hudson.com.    

STRAIGHTEN UP AND FLY RIGHT!

     When I was a kid and my grandmother said, “Straighten up and fly right!” It meant pull your shoulders back and act proud to be who you are.  When I was a teenager and she said it, I  recall coming up with this flippant remark:  “People don’t fly.  So it won’t do me any good to straighten up!”  If only I had noticed old people then, I might have paid closer attention.  But I didn’t.  They were a separate species and not on my radar at all.  

     I realize now that there are two kinds of slumpers:  teenagers, who haven’t yet grown used to their bodies and old people, who are getting tired of them.  However, I have discovered a little known secret about the older ones:  If you smile at them, they actually stand up straighter.  Here’s the problem.  Who smiles at them anymore?  

     Face it.  Getting old means getting less attention.  In fact, it’s so much less it borders on non-existent.  Old people are so used to being ignored that they are disappearing right before our eyes.  No, not like in primitive societies where they literally walked off into the wilderness when it was ‘time to go.’  In modern society, they do it in small steps.  It starts with that slump–a drawing in to their shell–perhaps so they won’t be bumped & jostled by all those young people rushing past them.  The voice gets softer, not just because it’s worn out, but because there’s no real reason to raise it anymore.  Who is listening?  

     This morning,  I noticed an older woman shuffling towards the supermarket a few feet ahead of me.  She had the slump and the slowed gait as she tentatively moved towards the large, heavy, glass door.  I realized that she was trying to estimate how much time she had to pull that door open before a young man coming towards her from the other side got there first.  She hesitated.  Smart woman.  He blammed through the door and would have flattened her if she hadn’t paused.  In fact, he didn’t even SEE her.  Quickly, I grabbed the door handle and held it for her.  For half a second she looked up, took a big breath and smiled.  “Oh, thank you dear,” she said.  As she continued on towards the shopping carts, I noticed she was actually standing taller.  I could hear Nat King Cole singing in my head:  Straighten Up And Fly Right.”  (http://www.helen-hudson.com)