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.