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The Write Side of 59

~ This is What Happens When You Begin to Age Out of Middle Age

The Write Side of 59

Monthly Archives: June 2013

Thirty One Years Since, “I Do”

18 Tuesday Jun 2013

Posted by Lois DeSocio in Confessional, Men

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

Bob Smith, confessional, Men, wedding anniversary

bob maria

Maria, when we first met. And that’s me chortling in the background.

BY BOB SMITH

Thirty-one years ago, I changed my life with two words: “I do.” Maria and I got married in the courthouse in Paterson because it was too much trouble to have my first marriage annulled so we could get married in a church. The contrast between my second wedding day and my first was striking. At the time of my first marriage (when I was 24 years old), I was terrified, nervous, and not at all sure I was doing the right thing. On the morning of that first wedding day I had a strange itching sensation on my back. I peeled off my dress shirt to let my Dad have a look, and he announced that my back was covered with hives.

“You’re just nervous, Bobby.” He laughed.

I’d never had them before, and I haven’t had them since. The marriage, a mistake, lasted barely three years. The morning of my second marriage, June 18, 1982, was warm and sunny. I was excited and nervous – this time in a good way – as I put on my suit in the garden apartment we’d rented in anticipation of the wedding. I bounded down the steps, and came upon Mr. Coley, an older gentleman who shared the downstairs apartment with his wife and small dog. He was just coming out of his door with a bag of trash in one hand, and the leash in the other.

“Heyyyy … where you rushing off to like that?”

“I’m gettin married,” Mr. Coley. “Today. Right now. To Maria!”

I rushed past him out the door, barely hearing his startled congratulations, happier than I’ve ever been. Not a hive in sight.

We have never looked back. That’s not to say it’s always been easy – there are plenty of ups and downs in 31 years. For instance, my parents, Maria’s parents, and her grandparents all attended our courtroom wedding ceremony, and the modest reception that followed. Of that group of six, only my mom is still alive.

On the other hand, we’ve conceived and raised three amazing children along the way. Now it’s all a jumbled memory of dirty diapers, skinned knees, school concerts, soccer games, class projects, plays, squabbles over toys, broken hearts, holidays, homework, family vacations, sleepover parties, learning to ride bikes, learning to drive cars, and packing off to college. Maria and I have been together through all that and more, sharing our energy and experience and love, and making this house a home.

I was 27 going on 28 when we got married in 1982, looking ahead to being 30, and “all grown up.” Now I’m 58 looking at 59, having grown up along the way, and wondering what the next phase of life will bring. Ultimately, it doesn’t matter. Just as we did 31 years ago, we’ll join hands and move on, happy and content with each other, and trusting that’s all we’ll need to face whatever lies ahead.

My younger son, now 23, mentioned the other day that Maria and I might get tired of one other one of these days. I’ve now been with her more than half my life, and she’s as much a part of me as my hands, legs, or eyes. Would I ever “get tired” of them? Not a chance.

Here’s to you, Maria. And us. And 31 more.

bob today

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Mourning the Photo Album

17 Monday Jun 2013

Posted by WS50 in Art

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Tags

Art, Julie Seyler, photo albums, The Write Side of 50

27 Photo albums

27 Photo albums.

BY JULIE SEYLER

In 1975, I gathered my loose photographs and consigned them to albums. So began my tradition of carefully pasting and labeling photos from Allenhurst Beach to trips to parties into bound notebooks with clear plastic sleeves.

In the 1975 album, I have a photo from a 1968 spin-the-bottle party where friends of mine first kissed. They are still kissing from what I hear. I have photos from Lois’s bridal shower in 1982, when we cruised around the city in a limo screaming at strangers that “She’s the bride!” And I have photos of the old Howard Johnson’s on the Asbury Park Boardwalk. I love that a bookful of memories lies at my beck and call.

At last count there were about 50 photo albums, but alas there will be no more. I abandoned ship in 2008. I fought the digital revolution for as long as I could, but five years ago I succumbed to the cheaper expense, convenience, and ever-evolving quality of a digital camera. I am sad for the days of yore – figuring out how many rolls of film to bring on a trip (would 24 rolls with 36 exposures be sufficient for a three-week journey through north India?),determining whether to get 4″x 6″ prints or 5″ x 7″ prints, anticipating how all those photos would look when they came back from the developer, and mourning the ones that were ruined (there was no such thing as photoshopping the underexposed image back to life), and the sharing of them with friends over a glass of wine, not on Facebook.

12 Photo albums

12 Photo albums.

For a while, I was getting prints of the digitals, and still putting them in photo albums. But when I went to Egypt, I simply stored the 3000 photos on my computer, and diligently created separate file folders for each location, day trip, and architectural style I saw. I never finished the cataloguing, but I have to say I do enjoy perusing them on the computer. The effect of taking me back to a time and place – the whole purpose of the picture – is not diminished by the medium.

Abu Simbel from the plane. Egypt, November, 2009.

Abu Simbel from the plane. Egypt, November, 2009.

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The Saturday Blog: Converging Paths

15 Saturday Jun 2013

Posted by Lois DeSocio in Art

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Art, Julie Seyler, Lois DeSocio, Path Trains, The Saturday Blog, The Write Side of 50

Converging paths.  Path trains.  Journal Square, Jersey City.

Converging Path trains. Journal Square, Jersey City. Photo by Julie Seyler.

It’s possible to come from different places and meet in the middle.

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A Father’s Day Toast to My Father Figure: Americo

14 Friday Jun 2013

Posted by Lois DeSocio in Confessional, Men

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Tags

confessional, Father's Day, Frank Terranella, Men, The Write Side of 50

Ipad Camera pictures 043

Decades past the right side of 50, Americo remains an enduring testament to a life well-lived.

BY FRANK TERRANELLA

As someone whose father died more than 45 years ago, I have not really celebrated Father’s Day for a long time. I have celebrated my grandfathers and my father-in-law on that day, but none of these people were my father, and it’s not the same.

There’s one person who’s often mistaken for my father, and that’s my mother’s husband. My mother remarried in 1984, and has been married to a man with the improbable name of Americo for nearly 30 years now – far longer than she was married to my father. Americo, who goes by the nicknames of Rick and Merc, is a great guy who was an avid golfer into his late 70s. But he’s been off the links for a while now. You see, he turned 90 on June 1, the same day my son was married.

In fact, we continually embarrassed him that day when hundreds of wedding guests, many of whom he did not know, came up to him and congratulated him on the milestone. And of course, we had a cake, and my nieces sang “Happy Birthday.” It was very gracious of my son and his bride to share their day with him.

So Americo has been on the right side of 50 since 1973, and although he’s slowed down a bit with age, he’s still very much living and loving life. I’d say he has a good shot at making it to 100. Seeing Americo still enjoy watching golf and baseball, his beloved gelato and the occasional martini, is an inspiration to those of us more recently arrived at 50 plus. He provides the kind of perspective on life that only longevity can bring.

The thing about living a very long time is that you have to watch everyone your age – friends and family – die before you. That’s sometimes almost too much to bear. Americo still gets choked up sometimes talking about his beloved first wife, whom he lost to cancer more than 30 years ago.

Speaking of hurt, Americo suffers from chronic back pain from his golfing days. But he didn’t let it stop him from making the five-hour car ride to Vermont recently for the wedding. He couldn’t miss that. You see, he’s been a true grandfather to my children from the day they were born. And here’s the kicker – he never had any children of his own. Yet as soon as my wife and I had kids, he took on babysitting chores right along with my mother. He took them to parks to play, and on trips to pick strawberries. He was responsible for their learning how to swim.

By the time Americo married my mother, I had already been married for five years. So he never had to play father to me as might have been the case had I been 15 or 16. But he always represented to me the prime example of the American Dream. He was born in the United States to Italian immigrants, who were so proud of their new country that they named their only son after it. He spoke only Italian until he entered kindergarten. But then he assimilated and worked his way to middle-class security with a house, and a yard, that was the envy of his neighbors for many years.

So as he enters his 10th decade on this planet, I think it’s about time I recognized this father figure who continues to show everyone who knows him that life after 50 can be very sweet indeed.

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There’s No Tiptoeing Around The Hair on Our Heads

13 Thursday Jun 2013

Posted by WS50 in Concepts

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Concepts, Hair, Hair loss, Julie Seyler, Lois DeSocio, The Write Side of 50

Hair...a mind of its own. Photocollage by Julie Seyler

Hair…a mind of its own. Photocollage by Julie Seyler

BY JULIE SEYLER AND LOIS DESOCIO

The blog has weighed in on eyebrows, so why not meander onto other post-50 hair issues? Like the way it morphs into a foreign object in strange places (ear and nose hair, mostly on men), or pulls a disappearing act (where’d the hairline go?), or simply re-invents itself from a thick flow of trestly curls into a plate of limp spaghetti strands.

There are thousands of documented scientific, genetic, chemical, hormonal explanations for these unsuspected changes, but they do not cure the shock of the switcheroo. And just as you get accustomed to one specific change, such as adapting to fine hair after a lifetime of dense curls, it becomes even finer – so fine that if you touch it, it ends up in your hand instead of staying nicely in place on the top of your head. Aging is body betrayal on tiptoes.

Here, plucked from The U.S. National Library of Medicine and The National Institutes of Health, is the science that gets to the root of aging hair:

Hair thickness change. Hair is made of many protein strands. A single hair has a normal life between 2 and 6 years. That hair then falls out and is replaced with a new hair. How much hair you have on your body and head is also determined by your genes.

“… nearly everyone has some hair loss with aging. The rate of hair growth also slows.

Hair strands become smaller and have less pigment. So the thick, coarse hair of a young adult eventually becomes thin, fine, light-colored hair. Many hair follicles stop producing new hairs.

Men may start showing signs of baldness by the time they are 30 years old. Many men are nearly bald by age 60. A type of baldness related to the male hormone testosterone is called male-pattern baldness. Hair may be lost at the temples or at the top of the head.

Women can develop a similar type of baldness as they age. This is called female-pattern baldness. Hair becomes less dense and the scalp may become visible.

As you age, your body and facial hair are also lost. But hairs that remain may become coarser. Women may lose body hair. Facial hair may get coarser, especially on the chin and around the lips. Men may grow longer and coarser eyebrow, ear, and nose hair.”

Phooey. It doesn’t have to be that way. Errant nose, ear, chin, and hand! hair can be plucked and snipped, shaved and sheared. But here’s the dirt on the hair on your head: Don’t wash it. You can still shower, of course. But just rinse. And run your fingers through it under the spout. Massage the oils out and throughout. Shun the shampoo part starting on Monday, and by Thursday, you will have the hair you had in your 30s. A little grease adds heft and sheen. There’s a reason that the hair follicles, those sebaceous glands, are full of natural oils. Keep any loose hairs in place by not brushing them. Instead: Scrunch. Tousle. Repeat.

And research supports that, along with good nutrition, exercise will keep hair healthy. So, hit the gym, steer clear of shampoo, and add some sweat to the grit. Skeptics might imagine that this combination would lead to nothing but a bad hair day of “limp spaghetti strands.”  No –  you will, instead, sport “a thick flow of trestly curls.”

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Cleaning Out for Moving Day (Except the Wrap, Ribbon, Bows and Corks)

12 Wednesday Jun 2013

Posted by WS50 in Confessional, Men

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

Bob Smith, confessional, Men, Moving

ribbon

BY BOB SMITH

Moving out of a house after 28 years is an involved process. We started by cleaning all the obvious junk out of the basement and the closets, which took us about eight days (spread out over three months of weekends). One pile of stuff was designated “garbage,” another was labeled “give to family,” another “give to charity,” and another pile – ideally, but not always, the smallest – was labeled “keep.”

Except for wrapping paper, ribbon, and bows. Those are always in the “keep” pile at my house. We have carefully packed, and will take with us to our next house more than a dozen partially-used rolls of gift wrap with patterns to cover every conceivable occasion. Probably 80% of our collection is Christmas wrap, because we’re so heavily invested in that particular holiday. But if you need birthday wrap, we have both juvenile and grown-up patterns available. Fancy metallic wrap suitable for anniversaries or everyday giving? Yup – gold, silver and multicolored varieties can be found in our basement. We even have some Halloween wrap that features pumpkins and skulls on a black background pierced by glaring “spooky eyes.”

The rolls of wrap are jammed into shopping bags on a shelf, jumbled together like festive baguettes. Nestled among the bags of wrap are other bags jammed with pre-tied ribbons (the kind with sticky paper stapled to the bottom, often with bits of colored paper still attached from when they were ripped off their original packages), as well as rolls and rolls of string ribbon that you peel off and tie yourself. Some of these come in small spools where the ribbon is looped around itself, just like rolls of kite string. If you tied all our spare ribbon end to end, you could fly a kite on motley string from here to Milwaukee.wrap

But we wouldn’t waste ribbon like that. After all, we might need it someday to garnish a gift we’ve wrapped with one of the multitudinous scraps of paper lurking in our basement.

Don’t get me wrong. I love nicely wrapped and decorated gifts. But it seems to me we’d all be better off if we recycled that old wrapping paper – not by using it to wrap gifts for years to come, but by tossing it in the municipal recycling bin. We’d help the economy by buying new paper (and ribbon) for every wrapping occasion, and we’d help the environment by letting that valuable paper be made into newer, more exciting and vibrant patterns to delight new generations of gift-givers and recipients everywhere. Best of all, we’d avoid the ever-growing encroachment of clutter in our basement created by all that wrap, ribbon, and bows.

Before you know it, there won’t be any room for my wine cork collection. I’ve been saving them for years because they seem so damn useful. They’re dense and waterproof, with solid structure and character. They’re decorated with writing and artwork, and have colorful stains to remind us of the wine we enjoyed with them. They float.corks

And you can do any number of cool things with them. Sliced in half, lengthwise, and fit into the proper wooden frame, they can be turned into lumpy message boards or wobbly trivets. Thinner pieces cut across the diameter of the corks are ideal for making sturdy, slip-resistant (and maybe a bit uneven) feet for wood cutting boards. Or you can just toss them, whole, into a jumbo decorative jar, and enjoy the ambience and personality that flows from their collective presence in a room.

Someday I’ll make all those things, and more, with that fine collection of corks, and give them away as gifts. I already know how we’ll wrap them.

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Me and My Art: The Whole Picture

11 Tuesday Jun 2013

Posted by WS50 in Art

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Art, Julie Seyler, The Write Side of 50

A Painting from about 1997.

A Painting from about 1997.

BY JULIE SEYLER

Lois and I started this blog because we both love pencils – she loves to write, and I love to draw – drawing being a metaphor for creating a visual image, be it with a pencil, oil paint, watercolor, camera or a brassiere.

Beginning in high school, when I discovered Matisse and VanGogh, through to today, when I see some artist I’ve never heard of, I have been intrigued by art. Not because I always understand it, but because of the mystery. A painting may be beautiful, “The Girl with the Pearl Earring,” realistically astounding, (Rembrandt’s self-portraits) or primally powerful (DeKooning’s Women series), but for me, it is discovering something new, previously unseen, that keeps me looking.

So while I had taken a few art classes in high school (everyone remember Mr. Judikic?), I had not pursued it either as a hobby or a profession. Instead, I went to museums and galleries to experience art. But just before I turned 40, a feeling came over me that I had to do something with my hands. I enrolled in a papier-mache class. Who knew a box, a toilet paper roll, the papier-mache and acrylic paint could be so fascinating? I collected armatures in every size from four-foot-long dresser drawers to two-foot cartons to mini styrofoam balls. My living room was morphing into a studio, and my dining room table was a resting ground for paints, bowls and brushes.

The weddong cake. Papier-mache and acrylic paint.

The wedding cake. Papier-mache and acrylic paint.

Then a friend suggested I take a painting class at the Art Students’ League, and from 1995, for about the next 10 years, I spent Tuesday evenings there. Those first three years were magical, and they ring vividly still today. The first year I had Joanna Pousette-Dart. She was a working artist, and scion of a family of artists. She insisted we learn how to stretch and gesso a canvas. An invaluable tool in these days of the ready-mades. When I mentioned to her that I was going to start with a small canvas, she retorted, “Go big. Once you go big, you’ll never go small again.” I immediately began purchasing five and six foot stretcher bars. Joanna would say things like, “The more you see, the more you see,” and constantly remind us to “Look at the night sky because there are so many colors.”

After Joanna, I took classes with Knox Martin who was also a great teacher in ways far different than Joanna. Despite the massive glass erections that have erupted on the West Side Highway his presence remains and reigns:

Knox Martin on the West Side Highway

Knox Martin on the West Side Highway

My favorite quote of his was, “Monet didn’t deserve to suck VanGogh’s brush.”

At home, on top of the escalating papier-mache sculptures, I had paintings all over the place in various stages of completion. I would get up in the morning, and paint and come home after work and paint. Saturday morning was spent stretching and gessoing and papier-maching and then running around trying to see gallery shows.

The floor with gessoing in process.

The floor with gessoing in process.

My passion for materials led me from acrylics to oils to watercolors, paper, and fabric and beads and thread and anything else that seemed usable. If a painting wasn’t working, I’d cut it up, and make a collage.

Collage made from cut up painting, thread, flowers.

Collage made from cut up painting, thread, flowers.

Lately, it has been impossible to paint. For one thing I seem to need more sleep, but also because the studio now doubles as a storage space. So I draw and do watercolors and mini-collages. But I know all of my ideas are being stored for when the easel can re-emerge.

the studio copy

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Love, Sweat, Tears, and a Little Déja`Vu at My Son’s Wedding

10 Monday Jun 2013

Posted by Lois DeSocio in Confessional, Men

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confessional, Frank Terranella, Men, The Write Side of 50, Wedding

BY FRANK TERRANELLA

frank wedding 2

frank wedding

One of the joys of life after 50 is seeing your children get married and start families of their own. It provides the prospect of continuity of the family name, and I guess on some fundamental level, it signals that the biological imperative to pass down your genes has been fulfilled. My doctor once told me that once you fulfill your reproductive obligations, Mother Nature does her best to kill you off because you’re no longer of any value to the herd. Thankfully, modern medicine usually frustrates Mother Nature’s murderous ways.

Anyway, my son was married on June 1, and I found it to be a marvelous experience. The wedding was in Vermont, the home state of his new wife. Vermont is a lovely place, and its rolling, green lushness was particularly evident after a wet spring. The weather was a bit peculiar, as it is wont to be in this era of climate change. The weekend before the wedding, it was in the low 40s, and there was spring skiing at Killington. However, June 1 was quite a different story. The thermometer hit 90 degrees, an all-time record for Burlington, Vermont on that day. While a 90-degree day in New York is just another summer day, northern Vermonters are not used to that kind of heat. They usually don’t need air conditioning, and so we found that the reception hall was cooled only by fans. Needless to say, fans are not up to the job of cooling a barn full of people in fancy clothes, particularly when they start dancing. My daughter’s boyfriend perspired so profusely that he had to throw the shirt away, as nothing could remove the perspiration stains. Fortunately, the cathedral where the wedding ceremony occurred was fully air conditioned. As I watched from the front row (there are some benefits to being father of the groom), I was struck by a sense of déjà vu.

I looked at my son and saw myself 35 years ago. It was very strange. And very right. But then the priest pronounced them married, they kissed, and the crowd applauded. Suddenly, an involuntary sound burst out from deep in my chest. It was a sob of joy. It was just one short outburst, but I immediately thought back to the last time I could remember reacting in that way. It was 27 years ago, and the nurse in the delivery room handed my son to me. This same primal sob of joy blared out of me then. Now the little boy was a man, and taking a wife. I think that probably the best thing about getting older is having the joy of seeing the fruits of your parenting labors. Being a parent is not an easy job, and when it goes right, it’s cause for celebration. So here’s to a son well-done, and his lovely bride.

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The Saturday Blog: Chicken Bus

08 Saturday Jun 2013

Posted by WS50 in Art

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Art, Julie Seyler, Lois DeSocio, The Saturday Blog, The Write Side of 50

Santiago, Guatemala. December, 2010.

Santiago, Guatemala. December, 2010. Photo by Julie Seyler.

Not Manhattan transit.

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When One Door Closes …

07 Friday Jun 2013

Posted by Lois DeSocio in Confessional

≈ 8 Comments

Tags

confessional, Lois DeSocio, Moving, The Write Side of 50

photo

BY LOIS DESOCIO

I love my house as much as a person can love a structure. To me, who is not really materialistic for the most part, it is the most wonderful composite of wood and glass; stone and grass. I’ve pretty much humanized it. I talk to it. It comforts me. And as I prepare to move out of it – and take the 15 years of me, and my family, away from it – I feel like it, too, is sagging a bit from roof to root in sadness and loss.

spindles

I do believe we fixed this missing spindle. Twice.

Yes – get a grip, Lois. Although my heart is being tugged daily from my chest to my gut, my head does reign. It’s time to turn things over. For me, it will be my new leaf. For my home – the deed.

But this house (my fourth and final) is hard to leave. It is enchanting. It’s rambling, old, and solid. It comes with some history (Abraham Lincoln has sat in front of my 200-year-old marble fireplace), humor (stairway spindles have gone missing without notice), a mix of modern-day convenience (floor-to-floor laundry shoot), and old-time charm (buzzers on all floors, and a bicycle bell on the kitchen wall).

There’s lots of space to be alone, but it’s not so cavernous as to allow loneliness. It can be filled with people, and not feel crowded. The whole downstairs has allowed my kids, when they were smaller, and as present-day strapping young men, to run in circles with our crazy border collie throughout, until she pants and slides herself into a sideways floor-flop – as happy as if she had just run through a field of Kentucky bluegrass. It is also dotted with curves and corners for intimate gatherings alongside leaded glass windows that make the sun sparkle and shimmer when it comes inside. And it has long kitchen counters that beckon: “Lean on me.”

Moving

Off the walls. Pulled out of drawers. Into boxes.

Preparing to move has meant that gerunds and present participles (those “ing” words) have ruled for a year now: Hauling (disposing), Packing (sweating), Cleaning (back-breaking), Staging (announcing). Crying. But with no menopause in sight, and without warning, lately, after I break into a wet mess of gulping, heaving sobs that take me to my knees at the thought of leaving – in a flash, I then rise up into a twirly, heel-kicking danseur – prancing from room to room, ears plugged with iPod music, arms and head ceiling-ward, with my heart less tugged, and more joyful, in tribute to every bit of the wonderful space I got to live in.

So, now that the contractors, who have been renovating my home, and have become an extended family for the last seven months have left, and the realtors who will be selling my house are “moving” in, I have done some unpacking. Specifically, the unpacking of some new “ing” words. Like: Breathing. Arising. Fulfilling.

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