Holidays...

It’s been quite a long holiday break for this blog, but I have decided to resume posting occasional, if shorter, entries—whether or not I have something compelling to say—it all depends on my mood. Of late, the mood has been somewhat darker. Things with my parents continue their slow descent: the shopping trips are more excruciating than ever; my father grows more silent, and Jeannie less so.

We shared Thanksgiving with good friends and had a much better time than we would have under any other circumstances, had they been available to us. I say that knowing that our choices were limited: my stepbrother and his family invited the parents over to their house while we were pointedly excluded.  Jeannie expressed slightly awkward embarrassment when she asked what our plans were. As I’ve told people, it was great not attending an event where we would have been truly uncomfortable—but it would have been nice to have the option of saying no thanks.

As for Christmas, we won’t be quite so lucky….again, my stepbrother’s family will welcome dad and Jeannie for dinner on the 24^th—and again, we were not invited—but as a consolation prize, Jeannie asked if my partner and I would like to join them for a simple dinner on the 25^th (without her offspring present.) The catch? We would have to cook everything other than the main course and dessert, a frozen wine cake Jeannie had made some months ago. Though it would have been tempting to decline, we decided to bite the bullet (and our tongues), and go through with the charade.

I imagine my stepbrother, who is a leader in his church, has either decided on his own or else was directed by his superiors to sever contact with his unrepentant, homosexual step-sibling.  I can almost imagine the dialogue, whether internal or with an actual higher authority, which certainly would have included an admonition to pray for us sinners, while obeying the church edict to avoid sin and the near occasions of sin. That would be us, I suppose. He would have been informed that his position in the church requires that he set a good example, both for other parishioners and for his own family, by not appearing to condone what scripture deems unacceptable.

Even the holiday card we got, sent by his wife, had only her name & return address on the envelope, as if using their family address labels might somehow be construed as laxity on his part. None of this is especially surprising or even annoying to me. If anything, I found the hypocrisy of earlier forced interactions less tolerable, so am happy to avoid contact.

A similar incident occurred not long ago when I tracked down our old family physician (who also lived across the street from us when I was a child) and sent an email to him. His initial response was enthusiastic: he was so glad to hear from me, happy that my father was still (relatively) well, and said he’d like to stay in touch. That ended abruptly when in my next email I mentioned my partner of 23 years. No response can be a very strong response.

I know there are many Christians worthy of the name, and even know some of them. But they (joined by representatives of certain other religions) have proved so many times through history and to this day that a simple majority stands out as a smug, judgmental crowd, quickly pointing its collective finger at those perceived as sinners. Meanwhile, they conveniently ignore the more garden variety “sins” they or their family members are often guilty of, and vilify The Other. This may be the season of good will but I say to hell (whatever that is) with them, and suspect that god (whatever that means) would say the same.  

Old and not grey in LA

Uncle Murray

Weekend trip to the Los Angeles area, valley of my birth, which I gladly forsook nearly 30 years ago…our first stop was for lunch with friends; the thermometer registered almost 100 degrees outside when we took our seats, and was well over that when we made it back to our rented Mini Cooper. Ducking into a nearby supermarket to pick up a gift, we then headed to our next destination: my uncle’s 90th birthday party.

The guest of honor, my one and only uncle, could pass for 70 more easily than 90; he and his wife (age 85) are genetic marvels who owe nothing to plastic surgery or high-caliber fitness regimens. They look and act as I always remember them—active and engaged. They drive, travel, play bridge—in short, they continue to enjoy life as few people in their age bracket can.

Aunt Evy

Is there a secret, other than good genes? Uncle Murray continued working part time into his early 80s, and loved his vocation as a post-doctoral professor. Aunt Evelyn, while retired, had served for years as a mentor to new teachers, helping them learn the ropes. Blessed with relatively good health, an active social life, and happy, well-adjusted children and grandchildren, they have ample reason to regard their lives with satisfaction.

Yet they seem not to spend an inordinate amount of time either looking back or forward—but just enjoy their lives. When my uncle had to undergo a somewhat complex medical procedure a while ago, his wife was nonchalant. “Oh, it’s nothing, he’ll be fine.” Denial? Or maybe they've cultivated a serene form of acceptance that’s helped sustain them as they gradually head toward their long home.

There’s simply no comparison between their lives and the situation my parents are in. Pure luck may be part of the story, but I’d be willing to bet a good percentage of my retirement account that at least half the problems my parents are dealing with are directly related to their stupid diet and poor medical advice. It doesn’t help matters that they have an equally stupid marriage, filled with simmering tension and disappointment.

My parents' life together, never especially interesting, has only become more constricted and meaningless. If marriage is nothing else than having a somewhat warm body nearby, at least they’ve achieved that, but at a huge cost. I’m reminded of some of the miserable couples described in W. Somerset Maugham’s stories; Maugham himself was an expert on the topic of unhappy marriage—but at least he had the good sense to get a divorce and move on.

“Marriage is a very good thing, but I think it's a mistake to make a habit out of it.”   W. Somerset Maugham

Birthdays & Funerals & Weddings, Oh My!

Over the last month or so, my father turned 88, a good friend died far too young, and my stepsister treated family and friends to a wedding spectacle that nobody will soon forget no matter how much they’d like to. 

The birthday ranks as the least exceptional of the three events (other than the achievement of another year added to so many) so will remain undescribed. Nor will I discuss the circumstances of my friend who died, except to say he was a remarkable individual, and that his death was a profound blow for those who knew and loved him.

As for the wedding, however, I see no reason to hold back. After all, the bride showed no restraint whatsoever in arranging it—indeed, I hear she was repeatedly begged to curb some of her wilder impulses—but it still added up to what was certainly the tackiest, most painful event I’ve witnessed to date. The back-story here is that this marked wedding #3 for my stepsister, yet she demanded all the trappings (and financial support required) one could expect for a first wedding.

It wasn't quite this bad...

A few glasses of champagne might be appropriate after a big event like this, but apparently the bride felt it would be a good idea to have them before the ceremony….and so she did, while everyone waited. Then she sashayed down the aisle, grinning at those gathered in the little church, as her teenage nephew doodled around on an out-of-tune piano, playing part of the wedding march interspersed with whatever else he could think of at the time, before stumbling to a halt.

Why am I reliving this—is it some kind of exorcism? Enough blow by blow. Here are the highlights:

When asked if she would “take this man as her husband,” the bride gave us a fatuous grin and answered heartily, “Heck yeah!”

After they were pronounced married and given permission to kiss, they stood on the altar swallowing each other like two goldfish; at one point, she grabbed his ass.

The cake topper, at her insistence, showed a bride and groom—but it depicted the bride having leapt headlong into the arms of the groom with her legs wrapped around him.

At the reception, we were treated to a few more deep kisses, and then the inevitable garter ceremony, which the bride decided would be more interesting if the groom wasn’t allowed to use his hands. So he doggedly (as in St. Bernard style) wriggled his way up her dress, finally emerging with what looked like a pair of chewed up, variegated underwear—but which was in fact her garter.

I should mention that the wedding ceremony itself took place during a total eclipse of the sun, which my astrologer partner was quick to point is the most inauspicious time to start any kind of new undertaking. And while my first thought was they’d picked the day and time deliberately because they thought it was “special” it turned out they had no idea, and the stars just naturally fell into place…

As a rule, I don’t mind seeing Jeannie uncomfortable, but even I felt sorry for her that day as she tried to remain nonchalant and upbeat through the entire farce.  My one hope (sadly unrealized) was for one of the religious zealots there to insult me and my partner in some way so I would be able to ask them, with feigned enthusiasm, to tell me all about the sanctity of marriage, after witnessing what we all had.  But the guests all behaved themselves…if only the guests.

Going Monthly....

No need to make excuses; going from a weekly to a monthly format makes sense now that other people are involved in my parents' care. I’m visiting them less often, and while they still invade my thoughts, there’s less new material to explore—until now.

Once again, they’ve been scammed. I had hoped that their earlier brush with ID theft might have instilled more caution, but the con artists are always one step ahead. They know how to insinuate themselves over time, to make a good impression and gain trust—so when they move in for the kill, their victims don’t even realize they’re being taken.

It was only by chance I found out, when I phoned my dad to check in; he mentioned the workers were there even as we spoke, replacing their heating and air conditioning system.  Alarm bells went off, and I began interrogating my hapless father, then the workmen, about what was going on. Exactly why were they replacing a system that was barely 9 years old, and seemed to be working fine?

From what I could gather, my parents had accepted an offer from this company for a “free safety inspection” of their furnace, part of the “club membership plan” they paid $8.99 per month for. And gosh, wouldn't you know that these same foxes just happened to find a “serious problem” with the furnace, one that was “potentially life threatening” if not dealt with right away.

They recommended the furnace be replaced immediately, and “while you’re at it, don’t you think it would be a good idea to replace the AC unit” since it was a few years old, and had already been worked on once? It would only add another $4,100 to the original amount, and they could even get an 18-month interest-free payment plan, so it was a mere $487 per month…

After yelling at both parents for their poor judgment, I made my way up the food chain, eventually reaching the owner of the company. I informed him (without mincing words) that this looked like fraud, and that as a mandated reporter of elder abuse, I might have to move this case forward to the DA and the fraud unit of our local police department.

The owner started by trying to overwhelm me with technical details about furnaces, and spoke of his company’s solid reputation. I then pointed out that the reviews I’d read online revealed a reputation that was far from stellar—multiple horror stories from scammed or manipulated customers.  I said I looked forward to adding my own review, in addition to calling the authorities; then the owner started to backpedal.

“Well, we guarantee 100% satisfaction,” he said. “What do you want us to do?”

For starters, I said, refund virtually the entire amount for the AC unit, which had been working and didn’t need to be replaced. As for the furnace, I knew there was little point in my trying to prove that it wasn’t defective (as it could easily have been sabotaged after its removal) so I’d let that charge stand. The owner said he’d need to talk with his “management team” and then get back to me.

Next day, I got what I wanted, at least verbally.  To seal his fate, I faxed over a letter to the owner (capturing a confirmation receipt) restating our conversation and agreement. Somehow, I suspect he won’t give us any trouble, but what’s more disturbing is that he probably regards this as part of the cost of doing business his way—for every one complaint or threat, he probably gets away with at least 10 fraudulent jobs, no questions asked.

My parents were sheepish and embarrassed, but grateful for my intervention. I let them know that this was a real wakeup call, and from now on they should not make any financial decisions without consulting one of us first. I may have saved them a few thousand dollars this time, but the nagging pessimist inside my head wonders what’s next.

All that's holy

Jeannie’s been praying for patience, but apparently nobody’s listening. I called a few days ago and she picked up the phone, sounding breathless and annoyed, but trying to cover it up with laughter. “Oh, it’s just the same old-same old,” she tittered. After some probing, she divulged that in fact she was upset with my father because she was having trouble making him understand her instructions.

The drama centered on her trying to explain, days ahead of time, that he would need to fill in the correct amount on a check, then sign it when he went to the store with me.  She was (from what I know of her style) probably telling him in exhaustive detail something he didn’t even need to know, so I told her not to worry, and that I’d write in the amount and get my dad to sign the check at the appropriate time.

Doing the shopping with my dad alone, while not exactly fun, was better than the usual arrangement.  He had a chance to make some choices about what they’d be buying, and picked out a frozen dinner he thought he might enjoy, then choosing the brand of peanut butter that he liked, as opposed to whatever was cheapest.

We returned to find Jeannie outfitted from head to toe in a flowing white gown and puffy cap, which comprised her baptismal vestments. She was awaiting the arrival of her godmother, who would be taking her to church to witness the baptism of the other new converts. “I’m supposed to wear this every day for eight days after my baptism, and today’s the eighth day,” she informed me. 

I was putting the groceries away while she expounded on the details of her new faith, telling me how meaningful it felt to her. I smiled and nodded, not knowing what else to do.

“My dad tells me that you’ll be having the house blessed,” I said.

“Oh, yes, when we get around to it.”

I didn’t mention that Gene had rolled his eyes when he told me about her plans, and said he didn’t know where he would go during the ceremony, but would like to be elsewhere. I told him I’d come get him if it was possible.

Godmother arrived. We greeted each other cautiously, and then she and Jeannie went off to discuss the significance of various religious symbols. “Oh, then that’s very significant,” I heard Jeannie say.

It was time for me to leave. I hugged my dad, and then went over to Jeannie, as usual, to give her a hug as well. But this time was different: she grimaced, and accepted my embrace stiffly—perhaps feeling that I would contaminate her sacred garb, or maybe not wanting the godmother to see her as too accepting of her gay stepson…who knows?  It was definitely time to leave.

Old and New

Old Man, New iPad

This week’s visit to Dad, on the first day of Passover, covered a lot of ground. Jeannie was at church getting baptized, so the house was blessedly quiet. I’d brought over a rich chicken and matzo ball soup to share—something he hadn’t been able to enjoy since last year. And for entertainment, I came equipped with my new iPad. 

I take for granted today’s technology, and indeed, look forward to more ahead. But for my father, who on top of his recent confusion is a virtual technophobe, it’s all a bit too much. He can manage things like the answering machine—and even had a pre-internet era computer which he would fire up now and then for word processing only.  A few years ago, with some urging from me, he bought the new “e-mail station” which could be plugged into a phone jack and then used to send or receive e-mail; he got as far as taking it out of the box and trying to read the instructions before nearly having a panic attack; he returned the device unused.

My dad is not unlike many older people in his fear of all this newfangled stuff.  He’s seen plenty of changes in his life, and has gone along with most of them, but there may be a limit to how many new things a person can learn. At least that seems to be his situation.

Trying to make the experience more relevant, I’d uploaded something special on Youtube to share with him: an educational TV broadcast from 1966, featuring none other than my father discussing the history of Commedia Dell’arte. I remember, as a 6-year-old, being awakened earlier than usual to watch the broadcast with him as it aired on a weekday morning.

Now, 46 years later, we’re together watching it again. But for my father, the experience appears to be more overwhelming than fun. I imagine him struggling to understand how the old broadcast, captured by kinescope and preserved on 16 mm tape, is now coming through my sleek iPad as we sit at the dining room table.

Maybe there’s another problem too—for him as he is now to watch the image of who he used to be—the competent, if overly reserved, professor holding forth on a topic which he clearly knew well. Yet in the video, he appears stiff, even uncomfortable at times. The crude technical quality of low budget 60s educational television makes his presentation seem even more awkward.

Sensing his discomfort, I switch to other apps: Pandora radio, including a performance by a singer he always enjoyed, then a live webcam view of New York harbor and the Statue of Liberty; he comments on the boats as they go by. “It’s a real-time view,” I say helpfully. “It’s actually happening right now.” Again, he seems overwhelmed, though he describes the experience as “stimulating.”

I suggest a walk around the complex, and he agrees. On familiar territory—his own back yard—he is more relaxed and focused. He shows me the pool and the club house and greets a neighbor working on a project, as we make our way around and back home.

Now that I think of it, a leisurely walk in the early spring sunshine, father and son talking together, is better than any number of high-tech devices, which often end up separating people more than bringing them together. Much as I like my toys, Gene seems to know inherently that there are more important things in life.

Decisions, decisions

My father spent nearly a month agonizing over whether he should open a can of tomato soup before deciding not to; meanwhile, Jeannie has moved ahead full bore on her spiritual path, and is scheduled to be baptized as a member of the Orthodox Church next week. Neither of these decisions surprises me.

Anybody who knows Gene would never describe him as reckless; precise, careful, reserved—those are the qualities that comprise my dad’s fundamental character—yet he has been known to throw his legendary caution to the wind when it comes to major life decisions like marriage or relocating. Confronted with a truly important matter, he has more than once leaped without looking, and consequences be damned. A can of tomato soup, on the other hand, apparently warrants much more careful thought. 

The soup in question was my idea: a creamy tomato basil bisque which I brought over hoping to give him a little variety from the split pea soup he’s been eating almost every day. I did my best to promote the virtues of the bisque—not too spicy, no strong garlic flavor—and then left it up to him for a while. But soon, in my weekly phone calls, I began asking if he’d tried the soup yet.

“No, not yet,” was his invariable response. So I let it go for another week. The next time I asked, I thought there was hope. “Well, I took it out and thought about it, but then decided against it,” he said.

Exasperation began creeping into my tone. “It’s just a can of soup, dad. It’s not like getting married or buying a house.” He chuckled.

Then, over at their place last week, I asked one more time about the soup. As I could have predicted, he hadn’t tried it. Jeannie piped up, saying that she too had mentioned it to him several times but he didn’t appear interested. “OK, that’s fine, I’ll just take it back,” I said. Gene, with seeming relief, handed me the can of soup. One less thing to worry about for both of us.

As for Jeannie’s conversion experience, I knew it was coming. Her monologues now are filled with references to divine intervention (which apparently extends to simple mistakes in legal documents and the address of another church member but to her all provides fresh meaning in an otherwise dull life.)

She’s undeniably happy, and I won’t begrudge that. Befuddled and trivial as she is, anything that gives her a sense of purpose is fine, so long as she doesn’t try to foist her beliefs on others. That’s a big “if” given that she has a lifelong tendency to share her feelings about everything. I’ll do my best to smile and bite my tongue rather than debating her.

After all, beliefs are just that—beliefs. They can’t be proven or disproven, and no matter how illogical or strange they might seem to others they make perfect sense to their owners. I accept that believers see the world as they do, and leave them alone; what annoys me is that so many of them seem unwilling to return the favor.

Old Jokes

Went to a birthday party this past weekend; I think everybody there was over 50, and many were in their 60s or beyond. The birthday girl, a sprightly 68, looked great—partly due to decorative art—but never mind that. What stood out was how much younger old people seem to me now compared to some years ago.

Granted, this group would be classified as the youngest of the older set, but somehow they seemed more vibrant than people of that demographic appeared to me in the past, in touch with themselves and each other, looking ahead rather than behind.

Spirits were high and people were telling jokes—appropriately enough, most of them about old people. Maybe jokes about the elderly are still acceptable, given that almost everyone will have the opportunity to be one of “them” at some point.  Ironic, though, since “some point” may be here far sooner than people realize.  Then again, there could be an element of denial or defensive posturing that takes place when people tell jokes about their own kind (while not thinking of themselves as those other people.) 

As I said before, this group could hardly be called typical. San Francisco Bay Area folks are less inclined to identify with the “older adult” category—clothing and hairstyles are more likely to be hip, and most importantly, attitudes stay current: no grousing about “young people these days” or “back when I was young, we used to…”  If I were to observe a gathering of mature Idaho Republican churchgoers, I might encounter the same old folks/old attitudes I remember from my youth.

Even so, my Berkeley buddies aren't blindly optimistic about the future, unaware of the world’s challenges. I see more hope and less head-shaking going on than I used to: the prevailing attitude seems to be, “Things may be going to hell now but somehow it will all work out…”

And if things don’t work out, most of us older folks won’t be around to deal with it. The joke, as it were, will be on the next generation. 

The most important thing....

AFTER all this time, it occurs to me that writing a blog is like keeping a diary—the now quaint habit of scribing daily events and thoughts—do people still do that, I wonder? As in: “Dear Diary, I woke up late and suddenly remembered that…”

And while I don’t think of these random offerings as my diary, there’s enough personal (and, I hope, literary) depth to bring things up to a level slightly higher than the pathetic self-promotional bleating of too many cyber-authors.  What I’m aiming for is more like a journal, something that lets me record incidents or conversations I can look back on later to provide myself with context, or just to reflect.

A recent exchange between me and my father merits recording, even though I’m unlikely to forget it anytime soon. We were talking about my stepmother’s ongoing religious conversion process (which I referred to as brainwashing); my dad agreed, saying, “Definitely. She’s really going for it in a big way.”  I then said, “I don’t imagine you’ll be moving in that direction.”

He laughed, and said “Definitely not.” And after a short pause: “Well, I have you…and you’re the most important thing in my life.”

What can one say to that? It’s not the first time he’s told me how much I mean to him—but it’s always moving. For me, seeing him as a representative of his buttoned-up generation, it’s a bit of a shock when my father speaks from the heart so directly…I almost feel embarrassed. I respond in kind, though, thanking him and saying I feel the same…but a little unsure of what that means.

The bond between parent and child changes (at least from the child’s perspective) once the child is an adult.  A unique connection is still there, but I imagine a parent will always feel the sense of being a parent, loving his or her child in the same way, while the adult child loses at least some of the intense attachment that characterizes the early parent-child relationship.

Almost every phone call ends with my dad telling me, “I love you,” and I say the same to him. It feels incomplete, almost wrong, if for some reason we don’t get to say that to each other. Hearing those words, knowing their truth, is a big part of who I am—my feelings of worth and self-confidence I owe at least in part to the strong emotional support I got from the beginning.

I realize there will come a time when those three simple words will no longer pass between us, so I treasure them even more. Knowing how many children rarely (if ever) heard them from their fathers gives me good reason to feel grateful…

Help!

No reason to party yet, but maybe things are headed in that direction: my parents had their first experience with a paid helper, a young woman who charges a mere $10 per hour (plus mileage, I would hope.)  Gene needed to visit the podiatrist, so she got him there on time, waited, and then took him back home. Cost: $20.

A grocery run, which will take place sometime after the 10^th of this month, may cost about the same. Twenty dollars here or there sounds like a bargain, and I hope my parents agree. For me, the free time is priceless, and for one less grocery trip per month, I can live with the minor pangs of guilt that may visit me for not being the perfect son.

I console myself with the knowledge that twice a month, for the time being, I’ll continue to help with their shopping in person, as well as maintaining the monthly online routine. And if for some reason (a vacation, perhaps?) I’m not available, they now have someone else to call on. On top of that, I still plan to go down for a purely social visit on weekends that I’m not shopping for them.

A childhood friend of mine takes wonderful care of her mother, now almost 90 and living with chronic pain and increasing dementia. Almost every day, my friend (or her adult daughter) picks old mom up, loads her into the car and takes her out to one of her favorite restaurants.  It helps that grandma is the one who pays the bill; in addition, neither my friend nor her daughter is working, so it’s not a big imposition on their time. Hell, if I weren’t working and someone wanted to take me out to lunch every day, I think I could manage.

Without casting aspersions on my friend or her daughter, they both stand to inherit a lot when their matriarch finally dies.  Even a few years in a nursing home wouldn’t diminish the family fortune by much.  The good news here is that that my friends aren’t just after money--they genuinely care for their elderly relation, and enjoy spending time with her.

In my case, however, things are different.  I enjoy the company of my dad, but once every week or so is fine. The tension around money makes me less willing to engage with them; getting my parents to pay for anything beyond the bare necessities is a struggle—and as for some future inheritance, I can predict with confidence that I’ve been effectively disinherited. The fact that there’s relatively little money in the first place makes that knowledge easier to bear. By the time they reach their journey’s end, there could be nothing left apart from their mobile home, which I would frankly prefer go to anyone other than me.

So many families I’ve known fall into bitter dispute over inheritance issues; I’m glad to say my family fell apart years ago, and there’s little more that can go wrong. But I’m an optimist…and could end up very disappointed.

Exercise in futility

Jack Lalanne, before & after

Exercise guru Jack LaLanne didn’t enjoy exercising much—in fact, he hated it—but that never stopped him. He exercised daily, almost obsessively, because he knew it was good for him—that along with a boring whole foods diet.  He lived to age 96, active until nearly the end. 

Experts on aging agree that regular physical activity is an essential part of wellbeing as folks get older. My parents got on board with the message a long time ago and made going to the gym a regular part of their lives until moving up here, where their activity has slowed to an occasional walk.

The good news for people like me, who eschew regular strenuous activity, is that it’s never too late to begin. (Well, almost never; let’s assume that we won’t die before getting started on some kind of regimen.) Former couch potatoes see results in a fairly short time. The benefits of exercise include improved balance, strength—and cognition.  Add to that a few extra years in most cases. All of this is well documented, but I’m still not convinced.

Nothing is required except taking the first steps, and then building a routine you can live with.  I did it back when I was in my 20s, before gradually losing interest; my distaste for the gym environment was part of the issue. Then, just three years ago, I decided to combat middle age spread by engaging in regular brisk walks. I noticed a difference, and may decide to take it to the next level within the next 5 years or so…

Still, at a certain point it all feels like rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic.  You may take longer to sink into oblivion (and will probably enjoy a slightly smoother voyage), but sink you will—and may even ask if all the time and energy spent exercising might have been put to a higher purpose. And enough people make old bones with little or no exercise for me to believe that genetics trumps behavior.

But for those who can tolerate regular exercise and want compelling evidence of its benefits, check out this short video of Maia, the 95-year-old great aunt of a friend who has kept up her routine for decades (she’s a former dancer, by the way, which probably helped her in building the discipline and stamina she has.) And unlike Jack LaLanne, Maia appears to enjoy her routine, which is less exercise than pure joy in movement. 

http://vimeo.com/31733784

Hell of a week...

Hell comes in many varieties, depending on who you ask.  My own particular version, at least for this week, involved sitting at the table in my parents’ mobile home, while Jeannie yammered about Muslims. Owing partly to her ongoing indoctrination (namely, the “comparative religions” workshop she’s been attending, sponsored by her son’s orthodox church) she’s now taken to regurgitating half-baked tidbits she gathers from the instructor and other group members, sharing them with anyone who’s around.

As my dad worked on his breakfast and I tried to read the paper, Jeannie stood near the table, holding forth on people who believe differently than she does.  

“The more I learn about Muslims, the more I realize how dangerous they are.  It’s terrible!  They want to take over the world, and make everyone live by their rules.” She informed us that Muslim men have a special fondness for “blond American women,” and after they marry and get them pregnant, they then take away the children because women in those countries have no rights.

I object, saying there are plenty of moderate Muslim people who lead ordinary lives and have no interest in taking over the world or marrying blond American women, but Jeannie brushes my point aside. “I know there are some like that, but their religion is all about converting everyone, even by force.”

Then, without transition, she’s on to the topic of atheists. “And an atheist—that’s something I could never be, I just couldn’t imagine.”  She grimaces, shuddering. “They’re denying the spiritual element that’s part of everyone.”

I point out there are plenty of well-adjusted people who are either atheist or agnostic, and who are likely to be happy, highly moral beings. That only goads her to parrot a remark from an old philosophy teacher: “Agnostics are just atheists with no courage.”

Jeannie has always been vocal about her religious beliefs, and can’t imagine someone not worshipping a “higher power” as she does. Her anti-Muslim rants, however, started about 6 months ago, and have only been getting worse.  While I agree that terrorists are evil and need to be stopped, Jeannie seems to feel that nearly all Muslims represent a terrorist threat.  

I could have said other things in response to her tirade, starting with the fact that religion and culture are not always one and the same; oppression against women and minorities happens in many different countries, many of them non-Muslim.

To that I could have added that Christians have their own pretty atrocious history of oppression, including the destruction of whole cultures. How ‘bout them Crusades? And don’t forget the Inquisition.

Or I could have just suggested that, as a good Christian, she should pray for those poor beings rather than judging them.

But as usual, I let it go after my first remark, because even while it would be easy to expose her failure of logic (not to mention lack of compassion) there was no point in trying to enlighten her. Like a dog with a bone, she just wants something to focus on.

Knowing that doesn’t make it any easier for me to sit through her monologues; I have yet to master my dad’s ability to tune her out.  What I could do, if I were so inclined, is to pray for patience and understanding, but I haven’t reached that point yet.

Mona, the Wonder Woman

Now and again, I need to remind myself of the remarkable elders I’ve known. They’re out there, of course, but it’s so much easier to notice the obvious shortcomings of someone like my stepmother, to the point that when I reflect on old people I may not think of the best examples first.

One such person was my father’s late cousin Mona Freye (a fairly distant cousin—her grandmother and my father’s grandmother were sisters.) Mona was a bright star who inspired all who knew her and even those people who only heard about her story.  As this year marks the 100^th anniversary of her birth, Mona’s story deserves to be told again.

Mona on her 92nd birthday with her daughter Shell 

She dropped out of high school when her father died during the Great Depression; needing to support her family, she got a job, while still holding onto the dream of finishing school.  But life interrupted: she had to work; then she got married and raised a daughter in the Oakland area. My dad visited Mona a few times when he was a student at Cal, but after he graduated they lost touch.

Finally, in her 70s, she got her GED and decided to continue on to college—and it was only natural that she’d want to attend UC Berkeley, close to home. It wasn’t easy, but she did it, graduating from Cal in 1994 at the age of 82 with a degree in English. Newspapers everywhere carried the story and she even appeared on David Letterman, where she charmed him and everyone watching. (Interesting sidebar: Letterman and the papers all mentioned that Mona was 78—because she’d lied about her birth date on the entrance application, fearing age discrimination. Eventually she came clean about it with the school .)

Her message, that "It's never too late to come back to school," spread throughout the world and prompted a flood of calls to the campus and letters to Mona, many from older people who decided they could do it too. My father happened to see a news segment about her achievement and got back in touch with her, which is how she and I connected. (I remember my mother’s disdain when I told her the story: “Oh, that’s ridiculous,” she snorted. “What’s the point of getting a degree at her age?”) But my mother was always quick to dismiss anything even slightly unconventional.

Over the next decade, my partner and I became close with Mona and her family, visiting regularly. She never lost interest in the world or in other people, even as her own world became more challenging. I remember enjoying her 90th birthday party with family and friends at a local restaurant where another group was celebrating the birthday of a woman in her 20s. The two birthday girls chatted; the young woman couldn’t believe Mona’s age. “It’s just a number,” Mona told her, laughing.

That was part of Mona’s magic—she never accepted the role of an “old person” with all the limitations that term implies. Like anyone, she had problems and she dealt with them as well as she could. Her final problem, stage 4 lung cancer, she accepted resolutely. “I don’t want any treatment, I just want to die. I want to die.” And so she did, about two weeks after her diagnosis. 94 years is a good life by any measure—but Mona’s would have been a good one no matter what.

and now, a word from our sponsor...

Old people can be so many things—wise or foolish, active or dependent, living or dying…I guess they’re like most other people when it comes down to it. But whatever their personal qualities, there’s one thing we can rely on: the elderly constitute a huge business opportunity, one that will keep growing for some years to come.

A silver tsunami of problems is coming our way, close up and personal: dementia, incontinence, loss of mobility, hearing and vision…all the age-related conditions we can imagine and maybe a few more we haven’t thought of yet.  And right there, ready to handle each problem (while making a big profit) are the businesses that provide goods and services to address every old-age issue.

Unless some of our brightest scientists come up with a miraculous cure for aging, many entrepreneurs stand to make a fortune on high-tech hearing aids and the like, while other enterprises may crash and burn. I’m thinking about those large assisted living communities which are so cost-prohibitive for most people (and will only become more out of reach for our shrinking middle class) that many are bound to fail.

Tied in with the economic realities I see a paradigm shift in the younger-elders, the boomers who want it their way, thank you, and will figure out how to stay in their own homes. In addition to hired caregivers for the most disabled, I envision a wave of intentional communities—middle aged adults moving into the homes of older people, where they will help keep the household running and provide basic help—the elders watching the kids when their parents are unavailable—until the oldest members die off and the caregivers themselves grow old and recruit a new crop of not-quite-old people to help them…a continuing cycle of chosen families…

As typewriters have been replaced by computers and i-phones, so family structures also change. Fewer people will marry and move to the suburbs (a trend already established) while more adults are living together in a variety of relationships.  But as the French say, “plus ca change, plus c’est la meme chose.”

Intentional Community, North Carolina

The idea of people living in the same household, caring for and helping each other—wasn’t it like this before, back in the good old days? Before assisted living and nursing homes, this was what life was supposed to be…and may be again. 

Back to Normal

“Man shoots nail into his own brain” ran the headline. Interesting choice, I thought, but I’m still celebrating my father’s recent milestone—the first newspaper article he’s cut out for me in two years. The story itself is odd (I’d already seen it, to be honest) and I wonder if my dad had any ulterior, if vicarious motive for choosing this particular article as he considers his daily life.

No matter, the simple fact that my father clipped an article is reason to rejoice, even as Jeannie, her post-birthday glow fading, resumes her dissatisfied carping about other people’s failures—particularly  Gene’s. This time, she’s grumbling about his birthday present to her—a gift card to Bed, Bath & Beyond—which I helped him choose.

“There was a mix-up with the cards. I wanted a gift card for Macy’s,” she huffed. Then, lowering her voice to a stage whisper, she added, “But he forgot.”

It took a minute for me to understand. “Do you mean you’d asked him to buy you a Macy’s gift card, and he got you this one instead?”

“Yes,” she answered.  “He forgot.”

“Well, blame it on me, since the Bed & Bath card was my idea. Maybe he didn’t remember, but at least he got you a gift. And you did say you might need a new bedspread.”

“Oh, yes, I know.” Moody silence follows.

I had no doubt, though she was keeping her voice low now, that she’d spoken loudly enough to him when she discovered the mistake.  “What’s this!?” I can imagine her saying. “I told you I wanted a Macy’s gift card.”

Here again, I must remind myself that routine and expectations are of paramount importance in most elderly minds. The smallest uncertainty or deviation from the plan sparks an episode of anxiety just short of what someone else might experience right before a plane crash.

I used this incident as an opportunity to mention the idea of having a helper take them on a shopping trip; my stepbrother had already told her about the person he knows who could do that, and her first question was “Does she charge by the hour or by the activity?” Apparently, my stepbrother wasn’t sure, so he said he’d check.

The delaying tactics are endless…meanwhile, does anyone have a nail gun I could borrow? Just kidding...I think.

Party Time

I was hoping that Jeannie’s birthday party, held midweek in their mobile home, would have provided a few choice anecdotes or at least one really awkward moment I could talk about, but no such luck. Given that more than half the attendees were members of the Eastern Orthodox Church the event went surprisingly well.

Martin Luther King and Rodney King both would  have been proud: we really did all get along. It wasn’t mere icy politeness.  When people were introduced to me and my partner, there were warm smiles and casual references to other relatives and their partners.  My stepbrother’s wife asked us why we didn’t get married when we had the chance, and urged us to be more affectionate together as she was snapping a photo. She pointed out that her religious tradition is not one of judgment (like those happy-clappy Evangelicals!) and more about love and celebration. I took that with a grain of salt, but appreciated the thought.

And while I could get catty about some of the appetizers, there were enough decent offerings to let me ignore the weird ones.

Jeannie, queen for a day, was basking in the glow of everyone’s attention.  Being the main attraction, along with the generous gifts and a few drinks, brought out her best qualities: warmth, graciousness and even a certain humility.  She made her appreciation clear to everyone.

Maybe that’s the secret to getting along with people—just address their hidden (even obvious) need by giving them whatever kind of recognition or respect they crave. Of course, carrying out that philosophy all the time would make human beings unbearable—a bunch of perpetual two-year-olds being granted their every wish.

Painful as it is, we need to be thwarted now and then, to learn our place in the world; I just get tired of having to learn the same lesson.

The weekly mix...

Wraithlike, my father gradually appeared in the room on Friday the 13th after I arrived to perform my weekly duty. He stood there with a wan smile, yet looking vaguely troubled. He remembered that we had made plans to go out for lunch but knew that shopping had to come first; out of respect for his limited energy, I suggested he could skip the grocery run, letting Jeannie go alone with me. He accepted the offer and immediately went to lie down.

Jeannie was in overdrive, excited at the prospect of her 80^th birthday party. “I can’t believe it,” she said, referring both to the party and the number of years she’ll have amassed. “The latest count is 21 people!” She had stemware out on the table and decorations ready, with four more days to go before the event.

Once we returned, my dad was ready to go for lunch—true to form, he’d located a coupon for a local coffee shop, but said it was up to me where we went, so I chose another place we’d enjoyed before. We got there and sat down, speaking only occasionally.  Most of the conversation consisted of his brief responses to my questions. I asked him, at one point, if he wanted to increase his activity level. “No,” he said. “But then just lying around the house doing nothing is no fun.”

“Are you bored most of the time?” I asked. He nodded. I’d assumed this was an issue for him, but hadn’t come up with a solution. Then it hit me. “Well, you know one thing you might be able to do. Since I don’t get the newspaper now, maybe you could cut out articles you think would be interesting and save them for me.”

He brightened. “Yes, I could do that.” Indeed, he had been doing it for years before moving up here. At least once a month I’d get an envelope stuffed with articles he’d clipped, along with a brief note explaining why I might be interested in them.

What a simple idea! And why hadn’t I thought of it sooner? At the same time, I recall how annoyed I used to get at receiving the packets. He would spend several days poring over the Sunday paper, deciding which articles to send me. And why he thought I’d be interested in some of the things was a mystery—but that was before.  Whatever he decides to cut out now—coupons, legal notices—anything is fine! It’s all about giving him a reason to feel needed, and that he’s still performing a useful activity.  That’s all any of us truly needs.

PS: After a 2-week delay, I got an email response from my stepbrother. It was more encouraging than I expected; he said that while they don’t feel overwhelmed yet, he understands that I’m reaching that point—and that he’ll bring up the idea of hiring a helper (little by little, and he even has someone in mind who could do the job.) But progress is worth noting, even when it doesn’t follow a direct route.

The Day after Christmas...

So I skipped a week—big deal. Isn’t that what holidays are for? Trust me, though, the time was brimming over with activity, and now my only chore is to figure out what to write about.  Should I report on our trip to Universal Studios? Christmas dinner with family and new acquaintances, including an Olympic Gold medalist? Or maybe…the spontaneous decision to scatter my mother’s ashes, four years after her death.

A good deal of background would probably help clarify things for a reader unfamiliar with my bizarre family situation, but we can do without that. Just the facts, man, and if I seem a little cold or removed from the situation, that’s because I am—and have been from the tender age of 1.

Visiting my half-sister on Christmas day, I asked out of curiosity if my mother’s ashes had been scattered, figuring by now they had been. No, Bonnie said, they’re right here, and promptly brought out what looked like a gift bag, complete with peaks of white tissue paper. Inside the bag was a sealed plastic cube containing the ashes. “I've been keeping her in the cedar chest and never got around to doing anything about it,” she said.

The container was heavier than I expected, about 7 or 8 pounds, I guessed. We sat at the kitchen table, staring at the bag; a slow, oppressive mood permeated the room, resisting our light, even irreverent comments. Then I had an idea.

“You know,” I began, “she always talked about wanting to go to the beach. She brought it up almost every time I’d visit, even after she was in the nursing home..."

It’s true. My mother obsessed about visiting the beach, but after she became paralyzed in her mid-30s it never happened. Logistically, it would have been extremely difficult, nearly impossible…and at a certain point, her yearning seemed almost symbolic. “Going to the beach” meant reliving the happier, carefree times of her youth, forgetting the physical and emotional entrapment of her daily life.

And that’s how the decision was made.  We agreed to take her ashes to the nearby beach and release them into the Pacific.

The morning was sunny and clear, with a light breeze—a perfect Southern California day. I spent almost an hour walking on the beach, carrying my mother’s ashes in a backpack, while my partner, sister and her husband did yoga. As I walked, I had a quiet, one-way conversation while taking in the sights and sounds of the ocean. “OK, we’re at the beach mom. It’s a beautiful day.” The weight of the backpack was both irksome and oddly comforting.

Then it was time. We took off our shoes and socks and walked to the water’s edge, the waves rushing up to lap at our feet. Using a small abalone shell, one at a time we took turns scooping grayish-white ash into the surf and watching as it was carried out to sea.  Bon Voyage, mom, my sister said. You’re free now.