Last first...

A few days ago, my father’s last surviving first cousin died.  She was 88, and had suffered a long, slow decline—but the end came quickly. After getting the news, I debated whether I should tell my dad; they were never especially close and hadn’t been in contact for years. But in the end, I decided to let him know, expecting the impact would be minimal.

And, sure enough, he reacted with his usual blend of rational resignation. “Well, she was sick for so long,” he said. “It wasn’t unexpected.” When I offered my understanding that they weren’t very close, but it was still a loss, he replied, “Yes, first cousins, after all.”

His last direct link to the old family is now gone. As a child, Shirley had spent summers visiting with Gene’s family in their small New Jersey town. Other than that, her life was in New York City—literally. Born there, she got married and lived in the same apartment at the northern tip of Manhattan starting in 1946 until two days before she died. The last time I was in New York, about 3 years ago, she wouldn't let me visit. "I'm sorry. Please forgive me," she begged repeatedly. "I'm not the same person."

Shirley had two daughters. When it became clear that she was going downhill (a series of strokes that slowly eroded her faculties), the elder daughter threw up her hands and gave up without ever trying. She stopped visiting, and after a while, didn’t bother phoning her mother. Meanwhile, the younger, busier daughter was left to arrange everything—caregivers, shopping, bills and medical care.

Thanks to the generous option that New Yorkers enjoy (at least for the moment) she was provided with 24-hour care at home, which her daughter chose instead of a nursing facility, all paid for by the Medicaid program.

California doesn’t offer anything like that. If people here run out of money and need constant supervision, they end up in a nursing home even though there are cheaper options that most people would prefer.  But we aren’t given a choice.

Meanwhile, my parents are here, inching toward the precipice. Their failure to plan will collide messily with the lack of options that their future promises. And I can only wonder who will be around to pick up the pieces…

Mirror, mirror on the wall

When the mirror was my friend

Looking in the mirror was never a favorite pastime for me. (OK, other than for a few years when I was in my 20s.)  Since then, and especially now, my glances at the mirror are purely utilitarian—no unshaven spots, eyebrows in some semblance of order, all right—but there’s no pleasure attached, just the occasional muted sigh of resignation. I recall it used to be mostly women who worried about looking older, but now the concern is universal in our youth-obsessed culture.

Great Aunt Goldie ca. 1906

My great aunt was a woman who broke the rules and normally didn’t care what other people thought—unusual for someone born in the early 1890s. Honest, strongly opinionated, yet warm and accessible, the flashiest thing about her was her name: Goldie Diamond.

Her long gray hair was pinned up into a simple chignon; I never saw her wear any jewelry and no makeup other than deep red lipstick (she always said it was just to keep her lips moist.) She dressed as an old woman “should” (her wild anarchist days long past) but shared opinions that were hardly conventional.

“If I had it to do over again, I’d never marry someone without living together first. It makes so much sense.” (In fact, she did live with a guy for a while, but decided he wasn’t for her and passed him along to her cousin, who married him instead.) Goldie’s own marriage to a more business-minded man was a disaster, but she stuck with it until he died. As my father said, it was their mutual loathing that kept them together.

Once, when she was visiting me at my boarding school, a younger boy there was fascinated by her, asking one question after another. He pointed at the wrinkled wattle hanging below her chin, and without malice, asked, “Why do you have that?” I was mortified, but Goldie didn’t mind at all. “Because I’m OLD, honey!” she said, laughing warmly. The boy laughed with her, happy to learn something about life and people.

Goldie in 1973

She smoked (“like a fish” as my Danish friend says,) and over the decades dealt with a laundry list of health problems: two bouts of colon cancer, gall bladder surgery, a hysterectomy (due to a tubular pregnancy) and a heart attack. Yet when she died, at 82, it was by her own choice: an overdose of heart medication, and a simple note on the night stand stating, “It is enough,” along with my father’s contact information. 

It took me years to acknowledge the fact that she had actually taken her own life; I explained away the note as a precaution, in case she died in her sleep. But once I realized, I accepted without hesitation her choice. She’d lived her life, and had nothing but more pain and sickness to look forward to. Honoring her words, I agree it was enough.

Nowhere to go and all day to get there...

Now and then, I wonder how I’d fill my days if I didn’t work and had to spend most of my time at home. It would be a huge adjustment for me; some people seem to manage free time pretty well, but for my part I thrive on structure and deadlines.  I’m also quite social, and can only spend a few hours a day reading or puttering around the house. 

It’s been interesting for me to see how old people manage their time. My father spends most of his lying down these days, but given his situation that’s understandable.  Jeannie, with more energy and a passion for talking, does quite a bit more—but even so she seems to have barely enough tasks to occupy half her waking hours. 

A few years ago, she would volunteer at the local library, but is long past that point now. Even my father had a couple of regular activities: he’d read the newspaper aloud for a blind neighbor, and served a few terms on the condo association board. At some point, he designated himself as the “public lighting monitor” for their complex, and would make the rounds every evening to be sure the lights were all working. But now he naps, while she reads mysteries and drinks white zinfandel.

My father’s cousin in Miami leads a much more productive life. At 87, she still drives to her volunteer job at the local performance center, and takes in occasional shows. She shops and cooks, emails and talks to people on the phone and enjoys watching videos most evenings.  She even finds time to read. Interested and engaged, she’s the ideal older person we should all aspire to be.

Another woman I know stays busy, but not in a way I can imagine doing.  Over the years, she has compiled an enormous collection of musical performances, both audio and video. Thousands of tapes line her walls, and she’s catalogued every one of them (along with her books.) She then loans things out to friends while keeping a careful record of who has what. Between taping and watching videos, reading, organizing her meals and exercise routine, I’m sure she’s rarely bored. But fulfilled? I wonder…

Then again, she may be just fine. I of all people should embrace the fact that there’s no one way to live, and however strange it may seem to others, if nobody’s health and safety are compromised, practically anything goes.

Mushroom Madness

“What are chanterelles?” It was a simple enough question, but speaks volumes about Jeannie’s awareness of food, given that I’d just been telling her about mushroom ragout. Good thing I didn’t mention the cremini and porcini which also played a role in my dinner party’s piece de resistance.  For that matter, she wasn’t quite sure what polenta was (“Now isn’t that some kind of pasta?”) Even my father, impaired though he is, spoke up to correct her.

No one has ever been better suited than Jeannie to the era of 1950s convenience cooking.  While feeling obligated to cook for the family, she always made it as easy for herself as possible. Even when not working, she never saw the point of getting creative in the kitchen.  A special dinner for company might consist of her famous sherry beef: chunks of stewing meat thrown together with two cans of Campbell’s cream of mushroom soup, dry onion soup mix, and a cup of sherry—just serve over rice and there you are.

My teen years found me for the first time eating canned mushrooms (stems and pieces, no less) in many forms: over watery turbot filets, mixed with frozen peas, folded into meat loaf. Another specialty of the house was honey chicken: equal amounts of honey and soy sauce, with minced dehydrated onions all poured over chicken, then covered tightly with foil and steamed in the oven for nearly two hours.

Anything that went into the oven had to be covered in foil; the goal was always to minimize “cooking smells” and avoid the possibility of spattering. The oven truly was as clean as on the day it was delivered. As added insurance, the exhaust fan was always running no matter what was on the stove—even boiling eggs.

One time my stepbrother decided to fry a couple of hot dogs while Jeannie was out; she came home to find a few spots of grease on the stove, a telltale frankfurter aroma lingering in the kitchen—and quickly went into Medea mode, racing through the house while shrieking imprecations, turning on fans and throwing windows open.  For once, I didn’t envy my stepbrother.

Now, of course, the convenience factor trumps everything. As I mentioned in an earlier entry, just the thought of scrubbing a potato overwhelms her. Instant rice, canned mushrooms and, as always, dehydrated minced onion are Jeannie’s loyal friends. And while she usually shuns frozen dinners, I think when she gets to the point of relying on them, everyone will be much better off.

Picasso on my mind

Quick trip to San Francisco this weekend: dinner with friends, followed by a play (including for no extra charge the world’s most annoying usher, who nagged patrons nonstop about a series of offenses that nobody was even committing) and then next day, a fine Picasso exhibit.

Picasso doesn't rank as my personal favorite, but I can appreciate a lot of what he did to define 20^th century art. That he lived to be 91 and was still active, growing in new creative directions, amazes me as much as the passion for life and art that burned brightly to his final days. A brief description of his love life, as detailed in Wikipedia, is exhausting to imagine, even at my comparatively young age:


In 1944, after the liberation of Paris, Picasso began a romantic relationship with a young art student named Francoise Gilot.  She was 40 years younger than he was.  Picasso grew tired of his mistress Dora Maar; Picasso and Gilot began to live together.  Eventually they had two children: Claude, born in 1947 and Paloma, born in 1949. In her 1964 book “Life with Picasso, (Gilot) describes his abusive treatment and myriad infidelities which led her to leave him, taking the children with her….

Picasso had affairs with women of an even greater age disparity than his and Gilot’s. While still involved with Gilot, in 1951, Picasso had a six-week affair with Genevieve Laporte, who was four years younger than Gilot.

Oh—and for the record, he was married during the time all these adventures took place. But this was a man who lived by his own rules, both artistic and personal. I’m torn between admiration and disgust at such a free spirit, knowing I could never live as he did, and yet wondering if maybe, at least to some extent, being a true artist means rebelling against all conventions.

Eventually, according to the experts, Picasso accepted the limitations of age. His later art apparently reflected a waning interest in young women, yet his love of life remained. His last words, spoken over dinner while entertaining friends in 1973 were nothing if not inspiring: "Drink to me, drink to my health, you know I can't drink any more."  


Here's to you, Pablo.

Nothing to say? Then...

Some eons back (during my early teen years, as I recall) I skimmed a Reader's Digest article entitled, "Are you a Bore?" And to this day, I can quote the opening lines: "Are you a bore? If you think you are, relax--you're not. But if the thought never occurred to you, then there's a terrible chance that you are..."

So now, all these years later and almost 10 months into this blog, I raise the question to myself, if only in hopes of avoiding the dread possibility. There is only so much that can be said about weekly visits to the grocery store, odd parental quirks, or even general observations on aging. And for the time, I may have said enough.

Complaining constantly about a single subject quickly becomes tiresome even when doing so offers readers some amusement or a sense of therapeutic release to the writer. Andy Rooney, who never ran out of things to complain about, finally reached the decision (at age 92) to give it a rest, after over 1000 episodes.

It may also be that focusing so much on the negative, or turning other people's problems and shortcomings into a subject of amusement, could be less than therapeutic. It certainly doesn't bode well for me in the karma department.

For now I stand by all the horrible things I've said thus far, and at the same time have decided to strive for brevity and enlightenment more than cruel mockery in the future.... but please note that there may be times I miss that goal, if I even aim for it. Sometimes, a story will be just too good, or a remark too foolish to let languish. No apologies for those eventualities. The only apology I'll offer is if I've been boring anyone...

Death of a Refrigerator (part 2)

The repairman said he felt terrible; he was truly sorry to be the bearer of bad news...but there was nothing that could be done to save my parents' refrigerator. Their 4-year-old Amana would have to be commended to the nearest recycling team, which, after stripping whatever metal might be worth something, will haul the remains to a landfill where they'll rest for the next 20 generations or so.

One hopes for something good to come out of this sad tale; a scientific advance, perhaps...or a life lesson--anything to prevent other families from going through the same pain. I was thinking our local newspaper might have run an inspirational story (my calls to the city desk went unanswered). Probably, these events are both too commonplace and depressing for them to burden an already overwhelmed public.

Here then, is the humble lesson, borrowed from the wisdom of many cultures that recognize this universal truth: "You get what you pay for." Put another way, "the very cheapest will cost you dearly." Or as a friend's Croatian grandmother said more than once, "I'm not rich enough to afford the cheapest."

Wisdom like that should guide us, help us from making painful mistakes. Sad to say, my parents once again opted for a fairly cheap refrigerator...but this time with my blessing. It appears to be a slightly more reliable brand and should get them through at least another 5 or 6 years--and may even outlive them. In any case, I'm not holding my breath...