Who Will Remember?

"I never wanted to be the eldest."

~ Ben Magestro

I haven't thought of this comment in years.  Many years.  Dad made it at the news of the death of his remaining older brother over 25 years ago.  Dad was just about the age I am today.  I didn't pursue the comment.  Maybe it was because I am the eldest child and grandchild and had never given it much thought at the point.  Maybe I feared I'd make both of us uncomfortable discussing why he felt that way. Maybe I arrogantly assumed I understood. Whatever - I just let it pass, one more comment to file away. 

Until recently, when I caught a video of my remaining uncle, now in his 80's, suddenly frail, undoubtedly old.  In the weeks that have followed, my dad's comment has popped up at the most unexpected moments.  Finally, I suspect I understand.  When this uncle dies, when I am the eldest in the clan, who will remember?

For, it's not only that this uncle is the last of his generation.  In many ways, he was more an older brother than an uncle.  We lived under the same roof at the end of World War II.  He consoled me and tried to protect me when the stress of that household at that time was too much for a little girl.  He took me trick or treating.  He fixed my plate at the buffet when we celebrated my great-grandmother's 100th birthday.  He was there when I was baptized, and when I received Holy Communion.  He remembers the day Grandma gave up her icebox for a refrigerator, what it took to keep the coal burning furnace going, the snowstorm that crippled the city in 1947.

He was the first male in the family to get a college degree; I was the first female.  He was the first to leave the city and his family to serve in Korea.  I was the first to leave the city and never return.

When he dies, there will be no one left who knows where I began, who can appreciate even remotely what it has taken to be who and where I am today. There will be no one else who remembers. I'm not sure this is what Dad meant when he made that comment so many years ago.  But I rather suspect I'm in the ballpark.

I know there are scientific reasons given for why we older folks begin to dwell on memories of our younger selves.  But what if it isn't also that we reach a point when we are the eldest and there is no one else who remembers?

A Work in Progress

"Routine, which I used to scorn as next door to incarceration, holds new appeal for me."
~ Carolyn G. Heilbrun
The Last Gift of Time

First, before I go any further, a few words as to my short hiatus from posting.  Given John's illness, I want to reassure anyone following the blog for some time now, we are fine.  Just have been busy fending off the imps of technology.  First, the printer, then the computer, and even my Kindle acted up.  But, and I say this with some pride, I handled it all and did so with patience, a modicum of grace, and success. (And yes, with the help of some patient, competent technicians.)  Not bad for someone who not long ago was afraid that I would break the computer if I hit the wrong key.

Now, for the Heilbrun quote.  I've been reading The Last Gift of Time for a few days now - one of my new habits, reading inspirational material as part of my morning routine.  Among the many sentences that caught my attention for its clarity and significance, this one captured an awareness I have had for some time now, but could not express with such eloquence or brevity.  

Like Heilbrun, I have a long history of resisting routine, seeing it as impeding my sense of freedom.  Lacking creativity and spontaneity, "next door to incarceration."  A psychologist might suggest this was a normal reaction to being raised by strict disciplinarians and taught by even stricter Catholic nuns.  I told myself that I needed more choice. I loved the individualized teaching methods of the 70's and 80's, no fixed curriculum for me.  And when I led my own training courses, I took pains to be sure no one course ever looked like another.  I could redecorate every month and have had to work, really work, at not starting yet another project, pursuing another hobby.

Upon retiring, however, habits and routines  took on a new meaning. The most obvious reason I began to concentrate on developing habits was to compensate for my " normal aging brain," as my doctor labeled it.  You know - where did I put my keys? What's her name, what's that word?  Why did I come into this room?  Surprisingly, it didn't take very long, well longer than 21 days, to recognize that habits and routines could actually increase my sense of freedom rather than confine it.  Freedom from worry and anxiety, freedom from stress, freedom to put my attention on something other than retrieval.  

So, I started with the obvious, the same place for my keys and sunglasses.  Grouping items by function and always, always returning them to their home.  Making lists and checking them twice.  Keeping one master calendar.  Developing schedules to address my needs rather than someone else's.  The behaviors organized, disciplined folks develop at a much younger age.

Last fall, when John was diagnosed and our lives took on chemo treatments, doctors' visits, medications, a state of hyper vigilance, these habits sustained me even as new habits and routines were demanded.  Sterilizing surfaces and materials often, communicating with friends and family more consistently, checking for potential obstacles, asking for help, etc., John's physical health and my mental health depend on them. They keep us grounded and provide a sense of stability and normalcy when any day can present a new and unexpected challenge.  They keep me tethered to today rather than floating away in sea of future uncertainty.  A computer glitch is just that, a glitch, not the cause of a meltdown.

Have I become a creature of habit?  Hardly.  Not after decades of denial and outright resistance.  But I can see the fruits of my labor.  I can feel the shift in my thinking.  Do I wish I had learned this sooner, well, maybe.  For now, let's just say I'm a work in progress.

How Could I Forget?

"The only thing we have to fear is fear itself."

~Franklin Delano Roosevelt

I woke thinking of this quote over a week ago and have been wrestling with what I wanted to say as a result.  I have heard myself saying to myself and others, far too often, that I am afraid.  But afraid of what, of whom, why?  What happened to my commitment to realistic optimism?

So, for days now, I've reflected on this.  Asked a group of women whose values, and intellect, whose thoughtfulness and honesty I respect if they are fear-full.  Deliberated on their responses.  Written pages in my personal journal.  

This is what I've concluded:

• I've been afraid, very afraid of the hate and venom that Donald Trump has unleashed, even more than Trump himself - and that's saying a lot.  
• I've been afraid of the environment of exclusion and pessimism, of blame and relentless attack promoted in Cleveland.
• I've been afraid that people who see the world differently than he does might not stand up for their beliefs, might retreat and retract rather than engage.
• Most of all, I've been afraid of my own fear, aware that I wanted to retreat, saying I would move to Costa Rica if he is elected.  

And, then, yesterday,I remembered.  A friend had posted an appreciation for the speech made in Philadelphia by the father of a fallen Muslim American soldier.  The response from, I am assuming, a Trump supporter, dismissed this father's message by pointing to Bengazi.  My response..."what if both views are valid."  Both/and - a concept I have tried to live by for years.  How could I forget?  Is this what fear does - block out what we know is better for us?
Make us deaf and blind to anything other than what we believe?  

What if, instead of "either/or", we could consider "both/and."  There is hate and venom out there, and there is compassion and consideration. There are those who will retreat and those who will engage.  There are those who will seek exclusion and pessimism and those who choose inclusion and optimism.  There are significant problems in this country and there has been significant progress over the past eight years.  One does not negate the other.

Isn't realistic optimism an example of both/and thinking?  Surely I can be both aware of and acknowledge  the negative and work to promote what's positive.   And with that, the fear has morphed into concern and commitment.  A relief for my husband, I'm sure.  And much healthier for me.  

The Odd Little Moments

"The happiest of lives, seen in retrospect, is but a collection of odd little moments."

~  Unknown*

I don't remember the author of this quote, one of my favorites.   But I do remember the moment I first saw it.  It was one of three quotes, written in elegant calligraphy on a postcard, sent by my then principal who, though not given to intimate conversations, was obviously concerned about my emotional state at that time.  In the throes of a devastating divorce and wallowing in self-pity, I was sure I would never be happy again.  And, I am embarrassed to admit, I let everyone around me know it!  Ad nauseum!

This quote in particular, and the fact that this reserved woman had sent it, caught me up short.  That night I began to capture the odd little moments of the day that might give me, even for a second, the hope that I could be happy again one day.  Night after night I persisted, not noticing that eventually, the little lists developed into a gratitude practicel. 

In the almost 40 years that have passed, I have continued to list the odd little moments, sometimes in a journal dedicated only to that.  Sometimes I've included them in my daily journal. Sometimes at night, sometimes the next day, but rarely with a lapse of a couple days.  During the happiest periods of my life, during the difficult - the suicide of a friend, the death of my parents, Cat Scratch Fever (yes, there is such a thing), my cancer, John's. During all the transitions. Some days it was a stretch to recall even one positive moment, let alone the minimum of three I set myself. Some days I could, and do, list ten.

These days, when I am learning to deal with issues related to the short term memory lapses that develop with aging - where did I put my glasses, what's that actor's name, why did I come into this room, etc., etc., - remembering these special little moments has taken on a new relevance. (It's not my memory that's going, it's just the retrieval mechanism that falters now and then.)  And oddly enough, these little moments can come more easily.  Sometimes almost unbidden, reminding me that I've been blessed.  Odd little moments, like - 

• digging a tunnel in the snow drifts of my childhood
• being asked to sing for a Halloween treat
• hunting for Easter eggs
• holding my baby sister for the first time
• winning an oratorical contest
• being elected to the prom court - yup, me!
• coming upon a tree laden with blue birds and years later, another laden with monarchs
• waking up from a tent in Alaska and seeing the top of Mt. McKinley, quickly covered by a layer of clouds
• my first piece of Godiva chocolate 
• the moment I met John
• the first time he said, "I love you"
• hugging a tree
• bursting into tears at the sight of the David
• stumbling, almost literally and certainly unexpectedly, on a relative in the Sicilian hometown of my grandparents
• flying in a helicopter down the face of a waterfall in Kauai
• holding my breath as a butterfly rested upon my hand
• the news that I was cancer free
• the news that John was cancer free

I keep a list of the most significant of these moments handy because it can be too easy to remember old hurts, or dwell on current aches and pains, or worry about future loss and decline. Far too easy.

* Does anyone recognize this quote, and it's author?

Letting Go

"All the art of living lies in the fine mingling of letting go and holding on."
~ Havelock Ellis 

I have had this title and quote ready for about a week now, considering what I wanted to share about the process I've been going through as I let go of possessions I once thought so important.  About how satisfying and mature it feels to let go - the shoes, the books, the incomplete projects, the attachments, the "just in case" stuff.  Although I also was embarrassed at how many rulers, scissors, candles, index cards, post-its, etc. we still had after all my previous attempts to declutter.  I also planned to include the names of a couple books that have been helpful in the process.

And, then, this week a lesson in letting go no book could adequately provide.  This past Tuesday afternoon, a beautiful spring day in southern Utah, a large group of acquaintances gathered on the patio of a local restaurant to celebrate a successful event held earlier in the day.  Drinks and appetizers added to the sense of conviviality. The festivities were well underway when she arrived, our eldest member.  The sweet, charming, and cherished 90 year-old who has been a joy and inspiration to so many.   She is interesting, curious, with a wonderful sense of humor.  Always impeccably dressed, beautifully coiffed, her white hair surrounding a constant smile.  In good health, intellectually, emotionally, and until very recently, physically.

She came on the arm of a good friend to say one final good-bye as recent health challenges have caused her to agree to move to an independent living facility near family in the mid-West.  As we embraced, I could see the pain and sadness in her eyes.  Trying to be of help, I said, "This must be so hard."  

"Oh, it is, but it's for the best, I guess." 

"I understand,"  I said.

"That's what everybody says.  I understand."

And we hugged and exchanged kisses and promised to stay in touch.  And I tried to tell her how much she has meant to me and how I will miss her.

But our conversation has niggled at me in the days and nights since.  For I believe now that I missed her point. I don't understand.  I don't know how many of us can.  She is being asked to let go of her home, her friends, her independence, her sense of competency, the environment and weather and activities she has known for decades.  And to do so gracefully.  All within a couple months. 

Why does this answer spring so easily?  Because it is easier to say than to admit that we are afraid our time will come to have to let go of so much?  So suddenly?  I don't understand.  Honestly, I hope I never have to.  So I am going to call, and apologize and tell her that I don't understand.  But I do care.  And I will miss her.  I will hold her in my heart and thoughts.

  

I Remember...

"Memories are the key not to the past, but to the future."

~ Corrie Ten Boom

Get to know anyone over 60 or 65 and inevitably the topic of memory will arise.  Goodreads has a collection of 1816 Quotes about Memory.  I fret about it every time I can't recall a name or a word I know I know, forgot where I put something, or wonder why I came into a room.

So, when the following quiz arrived in an e-mail from my husband, I was intrigued and decided to take it (even if the title is a little off-putting).

Older Than Dirt Quiz

Instructions:  Count all the items you remember, not the ones you were told about.

1. Blackjack chewing gum
2. Wax coke-shaped bottles with colored sugar water
3. Candy cigarettes
4. Soda pop machines that dispensed glass bottles
5. Coffee shops or dines with table side jukeboxes
6. Home milk delivery in glass bottles
7. Party lines on the telephone
8. Newsreels before the movie (instead of commercials!)
9. P.F. Flyers
10. Butch wax
11. TV test patterns that came on at night after the last show and remained until TV came on again in the morning...and there were usually only 3 channels
12. Peashooters
13. Howdy Doody
14. 45 RPM records
15. S & H Green Stamps
16. Hi-fi's
17. Metal ice cube trays with a lever
18. Mimeograph paper
19. Blue flashbulbs
20. Packards
21. Roller skate keys
22. Cork popguns
23. Studebakers
24. Drive-ins
25. Wash tub wringers

Scoring: If you remember 0-5, you're still young.  If you remember 6-10, you are getting older.  If you remember 11-15, don't tell your age.  And if you remember 16-25, you're "older than dirt."

Yes, I'm "older than dirt."  But this list got me thinking, and I've created my own version.  A list of other things I remember.  I remember...

• the iceman delivering blocks of ice for my grandmother's icebox
• scrubbing clothes on a washboard so that my mother wouldn't be embarrassed when she hung the clothes out to dry
• seeing gold stars hung in the windows of families who lost a child during World War II and wondering why a gold star
• pictures of Nazi death camps that surfaced when WWII ended
• school being cancelled in the fall because of a polio epidemic
• fights being settled with fists, not guns
• bullies whose names and faces were at least known to their victims
• having my desire to go to college questioned because I was "just going to get married and have kids"
• Joe McCarthy and HUAC and the Communist Threat...and ruined reputations and careers
• the courage of Edward R. Morrow who called for the outrage to stop
• bomb shelters and bomb drills
• Selma and listening to "I Have a Dream"
• the assassinations of the Kennedys, Martin Luther King, Jr. and Malcolm X
• the Vietnam War, the protests, Kent State and the Chicago 7
• the wrenching apart of some families as they took sides over the war
• Watergate and Nixon's resignation
• Oklahoma City

I may get a bit nostalgic over memories of roller skate keys and drive-in movies and the pictures in my mind of simpler days, even feel a bit sad that life has become much more complex.   But, the consequences to future generations of not knowing about P.F. Flyers or Butch Wax or Studebakers is minuscule.  However, not knowing, or worse,  choosing to forget or deny the effects of violent dissension, not remembering how easily fear and anger become hatred that tears asunder families and communities, how quickly rumor and innuendo can become "truth", how hard fought the victories for social justice were - these, I believe, have consequence not just for the future, but most certainly today.

So, my list is not intended as a quiz.  There is no scoring to be done.  Rather, I ask how much do you remember?  How much have you passed on to others who don't know or may not understand why some of us who are "older than dirt" are growing more concerned with what we see taking shape in countries around the world, including our own.  For what if memories really are "the key not to the past, but to the future"?