Tag Archives: Concepts

Our Cabin Brings Back Fever, As in the Spring Kind

17 Friday May 2013

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The years spent fixing up our ramshackle cabin, nurtured a 30-year marriage.

BY JEANNETTE GOBEL

A sudden realization came to me not long after we purchased our little cabin up at Priest Lake Idaho. This place was not like any standard construction. It was a “Frankencabin.” The inspector’s report must have been 10 pages long. It hit me that a project of this magnitude would be great for our 30-year-long marriage. Not just the common goal of refurbishing the place, but the romantic aspect as well. The benefits have definitely outweighed the negatives. Would most people take on this project? I think not.

Our family had been spending lots of vacation time up at Priest Lake in northern Idaho. This lake is probably one of the most gorgeous spots in the US. My grandparents used to bring my mother and her sisters up in the 1930s. I visited almost every weekend as a child growing up in the ’60s and ’70s.

In the early years of our marriage, we camped. When camping felt like hell as we aged, renting cabins became the norm. We loved everything the lake had to offer. Hiking the many trails, exploring the lake by power boat, or kayaking can fill many a day. One ritual we always look forward to is the boat ride through the mile-long thoroughfare between Lower Priest and Upper Priest Lake. More times than not, we have seen moose drinking at the shore, and ospreys tending to their young in treetop nests.

Financially, it made sense to buy this place. My husband Kevin and I bought the cabin when our youngest was a senior in college. We had been paying rent for the kids while they were at the university. Since we weren’t going to have rents to pay in the college town anymore, we should invest this money in a lake place of our own.

Since it is a summer-use-only place, we anticipate with much excitement, the precise weekend in late May when we open it up for the season. Not only is it an event that has to be done, it is a great romantic weekend. Closing up in the early autumn is also a time for an intimate dinner at nearby Elkin’s, a four-star restaurant.

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Built with a little spit, a little spackle, some steak and chardonnay.

I believe that a marriage survives on chemistry and common goals. We still have the chemistry, but the cabin sure provided us with many challenging goals and priorities. First up was rebuilding the exterior. Priming and painting took one full summer. But does a grilled steak and a bottle of red wine taste like heaven after a hard day of labor. The place looks like a real cabin now.

Next up was repairing water damage, and painting the interior. That was another feat of tenacity for the second summer of ownership. I believe we were more motivated by scrumptious meals, and wine on the deck, or a scenic hike on one the thousands of trails. Other projects have included tree felling, a new roof (which we hired out), bringing the fireplace up to code. We rest easy now knowing that a fire in our woodstove won’t result in a conflagration in the forest. I believe we had grilled salmon with chardonnay the night that work was over with.

Just last year, our entire section of the lake got sewers. (Yay! No more holding tank.) We had plenty of prep work for this to happen. Estimates had to be procured, decisions made as to which contractor won the bid, and then the actual work could begin. Is it ever a relief to flush the toilet, and not worry about backups in the pipes anymore.

On our way to the local hardware store for project supplies, we followed a young moose for a quarter of a mile until he disappeared into the forest. One last project to complete the big hook-up was to connect the cabin plumbing to the actual line. Kevin, being amazing, did this himself. It took most of a week. Boy, did we eat well that week. Cocktails by the fire pit outside at sunset tasted especially decadent as we watched a doe slowly make her way through our front yard.

We have certainly reaped many benefits from ownership of our lake place. Starting with a nurtured marriage. Not to mention projects accomplished, the physical activity, creative cuisine, and a place for retreat from the stress of life.

How Freud (and Montgomery Clift) Unlocked My Psyche

16 Thursday May 2013

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Sigmund Freud and Montgomery Clift.

Sigmund Freud and Montgomery Clift. By Julie Seyler.


BY JULIE SEYLER

Does anyone remember coming home from school and turning on Channel 9 at 4:00 to watch the Million Dollar Movie? When I was in my Clark Gable movie phase, I was able to catch a myriad of his pre and post “Gone with the Wind films” like, “Test Pilot” with Myrna Loy, and “China Seas” with Jean Harlow, while lying on my flower bedspread eating forbidden potato chips. But this was not the only station where we could indulge ourselves in Hollywood fantasy. Before Turner Classic Movies, there was also NBC Saturday Night at the Movies inviting us to an evening of at home entertainment. Anyway, this is a long-winded segue into to a movie I discovered when I was about 12 or so.

I remember it was a Saturday evening, and I was home babysitting my younger sisters. After the Swanson’s Turkey TV dinner (the ubiquitous fare on nights when my parents dined out), I settled in to watch the movie of the week. It was “Freud,” which I just learned was directed by John Huston. It starred a bearded Montgomery Clift as Dr. Sigmund Freud. The plot revolves around a woman patient riddled with issues – she is repressed, depressed, and hysterical but there are no physical symptoms that can explain her illness. Freud takes her on as a patient and after two hour’s worth of hypnosis, and lying on Freud’s famous couch, she is cured. Freud’s theories of the unconscious have helped unlock her buried memories and released her from emotional bondage so she can blossom again in the world. Hollywood schmaltz, no doubt, but it turned me on to the power of dreams; the notion that childhood events can shape one’s psyche. And rehashing it all can be a wondrous experience. A few years later, this was confirmed when I saw, “The Three Faces of Eve” with Joanne Woodward’s academy award winning portrayal of a woman with three separate and distinct personalities that had sprouted in response to a traumatic childhood event. Two hours later, she is completely cured by Lee J. Cobb.

These movies simplistically collapsed psychological theory into a 120 minute drama, but the message they contained – that the hidden psyche is a complex and perplexing phenomenon – resonated for me as a teenager. I cannot say that all these years later I have changed my opinion much.

Did the movies lead me to embrace the phenomenon of the psyche? I mean, Montgomery Clift as Freud is a pretty sexy role model. Or was I destined to discover the curious case of the unconscious mind, regardless. It does not matter. I remain a firm believer that the unconscious is way more powerful than what we think we “know.” In fact, I think if scientists could figure out a way to harness the unconscious, the energy problems of the world would be solved.

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From Politics to Air Travel, Perspective Gained From Looking Back

14 Tuesday May 2013

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Back in the old days- Flying in Style.

Flying in style, back in the old days. By Julie Seyler.

BY FRANK TERRANELLA

A lot of what makes those of us on the right side of 50 special is the fact that we can remember the world of 50 years ago. There is an advantage to being able to take the long view of current events. For example, I think that we are uniquely situated to see the broad pendulum swing of majority political thought from the liberalism of the 1960s to 21st century conservatism. If you’re in your 30s, you have never experienced a world where liberal thought was dominant. It’s only when you’re as old as we are that you have the perspective in which to view debates about universal health care, gay marriage and equal rights. We have lived in a world where a president from Texas enacted government-provided health care for senior citizens. That same Texas president signed into law sweeping civil rights legislation that transformed America. With a stroke of the President’s pen, it became illegal to discriminate in employment and housing on the basis of gender or race. You have to be on the right side of 50 to remember classified advertising in newspapers where the columns were headed “Help Wanted – Male,” and “Help Wanted – Female.”

Contrast that with the current political climate out of Texas. Governor Rick Perry would consider President Johnson a socialist. No one under 50 can remember a time when Texas was a solidly Democratic state. They can’t imagine a time when that might happen again. But we on the right side of 50 know that the pendulum that swung all the way to the right can just as easily swing back to the left. Look at Vermont. In 1936 it was one of only two states that FDR did not carry (Maine was the other), and today Vermont is a bastion of liberalism.

I bring all this up because I recently traveled to Dallas and, like my colleague Bob Smith, visited the old Texas School Book Depository that is now a museum built around a crime scene. I walked through all the memories of that time.I choked up again as I watched Walter Cronkite report the president’s death. It brought me back to that time, nearly 50 years ago, when America lost its innocence. Just as 9/11 changed America forever, so, too, did November 22, 1963. But you have to be old enough to remember pre-assassination America in order to understand how profoundly this event affected the American psyche. The world depicted so accurately on the television series,”Mad Men,” disappeared by the end of the decade.

And nowhere is the change so apparent than at our airports. First off, in 1963, only a small fraction of Americans traveled by air. People routinely took the train to Florida, and the ship to Europe. Those who did travel by air were treated to an elite world of privilege with stewards and stewardesses (terms borrowed from the world of luxury steamships). Air travelers could walk directly to their gate without passing through any security. Then came the first hijackings to Cuba, and with it came the first metal detectors. And of course, after 9/11, airports became a world of shoeless, beltless passengers being patted down by Homeland Security agents.

On my flight out to Dallas the captain made an announcement that one of our female flight attendants (no longer stewardesses) was on her last flight after 49 years on the job. That’s right, this woman began as a stewardess for the now-defunct Eastern Airlines in 1964, and after that company folded, she moved to American Airlines. The entire cabin gave her a round of applause as she and her beverage cart made the final victory walk up the aisle. And while watching at this youthful-looking woman, who has to be older than me, I wondered what stories she could tell of her 49 years in the air. She began work at a time when airline passengers were a pampered elite, and lived to see the era where passengers have to pay for a cookie. This woman has perspective on air travel – the kind of perspective that comes with long experience.

And so I guess what all of us on the right side of 50 can claim is perspective. We can see the forest, not just the trees.  Maybe there is wisdom in age after all.

 

Rolling With the Zeitgeist

01 Wednesday May 2013

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The spirit of the times. Watercolor ink drawing. Julie Seyler.

The spirit of the times. Watercolor ink drawing. Julie Seyler.

BY JULIE SEYLER

Zeitgeist is a fabulous word. Not only does it begin with the letter Z, but it rolls off the tongue, and has a definition worthy of punditry. In broad terms it means, “the spirit of the times.” An iced, dry martini with a single olive is a zeitgeist moment of the early 21st century. Let me revise that – that was more likely a zeitgeist moment of the mid-1950s. Chocolate martinis, dirty martinis swimming in olives, and pomegranitinis define now.

These meanderings make me hark back to what defined the zeitgeist of the ’70s, when we later-50-year-olds, approaching 60 year olds, and dare I say it, already approaching 70 year olds, were the generation shaping the zeitgeist. Today, that generation, “us,” is the soon-to-be-demographic definition of “senior citizen.”

We all react differently to being on the right side of 50. I have come to refer to this new/next stage as no longer being in Kansas a la Judy Garland in “The Wizard of Oz.” I straddle the fence, desperately clinging to youth, and slowly accepting the fact that I am no longer in any way “young.” And this leads me to ponder: What was the spirit of those times – the ’70s?

Everyone has their own memory bucket, but for me, I hear slogans: “Sex Drugs and Rock ‘n Roll;” “Make Peace, Not War;” “If he’s old enough to fight for his country, he’s old enough to vote.” There were movements: The Black Panther Movement, the Peace Movement, and the one I glommed on to – the Feminist Movement. I was a devotee of Gloria Steinem, but am ashamed to admit that I never read Betty Friedan’s book, “The Feminist Mystique.” For me, the Supreme Court’s decision in Roe v. Wade balancing the interests of the mother, the child, and the state in determining the legal right to have a safe termination of pregnancy was a cause for celebration. (Of course I am flabbergasted that anyone could even conceive of a desire to overturn that decision. It boggles the mind. But that’s another blog.) That’s my partial list of the world around me between 1968-1977.

It all seems so safe and innocent, although my mother reminded me that those years were also characerized by a great deal of violence. I’d forgotten the race riots and Kent State and the utter devastation of lives wrought by the Vietnam War.

Shades of Summer

29 Monday Apr 2013

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Allenhurst Beach. Photo by Julie Seyler.

Allenhurst Beach, unobstructed. Photo by Julie Seyler.

BY LOIS DESOCIO

Have you heard about Project Glass? The Google(y)-eyed glasses that will bring computer-generated images, audio, and more, right into your eye through a mini projector that is embedded into the frame of the glasses. They will make your computer portable. And in your face.

While still in prototype phase, and expected to launch in 2014, Google is working to make these glasses look less geek, more sleek, and more like … glasses. So, here comes the sunglasses.

We, at The Write Side of 50, believe that sunglasses should not be messed with. They are less a shield, and more an ornament. A necessary accessory – right up there with big, dangly earrings, high-stepping shoes, and red lipstick and mascara.

So, we have donned our sunglasses (to add a little sparkle to our homepage) in anticipation of the long, sultry summer days when we will be sunning on our favorite beach. (All ogle, no Google.)

There’s a Method to My Mascara: Plump Up the Volume

26 Friday Apr 2013

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There are NEVER too many mascaras

There are NEVER too many mascaras.

BY JULIE SEYLER

Does anyone remember reading Cosmopolitan (Cosmo) magazine in the 1970s? Helen Gurley Brown’s creative inspiration for the single woman – the risqué diversion from Glamour and the now defunct Mademoiselle? Cosmo always ran a quiz. Maybe all the teen mags did. Maybe they still do. In any event, the purpose of the quiz was to give you, the reader, an insight into your personality. Pop psychology in 10 questions as to whether you were an innate extrovert, who embraced the idea of a party with 100 strangers, or a natural introvert, who could think of nothing more fun than a dinner for two by candlelight. Somehow, the choices given were always made to be mutually exclusive. You were this way, or that way, but never a combo of both. I loved taking those quizzes, and counting how many times I answered (a) or (b) or (c), and getting my nutshell diagnoses in a 100 word paragraph. Better yet, was picking the (a) or (b) or (c) based on my prediction of what the magazine had determined was my primary personality trait.

I don’t remember any of the quizzes today, but one question from one quiz has stuck in my mind over the past 40 years. And rather than it being a reflection of how I have changed, it is a reflection of how I have stayed exactly the same – at least with respect to this particular thing.

The question asked what make-up would I take with me to a desert island. I could choose between mascara, lipstick, or foundation. Hands down, I chose mascara, and today I would still choose mascara (albeit I love my red lipstick also).  Without mascara on, I always feel just a little bit naked, except at the beach – I draw the line at wearing makeup on the beach.

I am very methodical about how I apply mascara. I always have 6 to 8 wands of black mascara with a different type, size and style of brush. I keep a set at home; a set at the gym. And a travel set, because I hate the idea of leaving home without my mascara. People look at my line up and say, “Huh? Why do you have so many mascaras?”

Well, there is a technical method to my madness. The old ones help build the eyelash so it doesn’t clump. The medium old ones help lengthen the eyelash, and the newest mascara gives it shine. (As soon as I discard an old mascara, I buy a new one.)

I have shown my mascara application process to all my guy friends, and they are so appreciative. In fact, I think money can be made on this process.  I intend to ask one of my colleagues if my mascara system can be protected as a business method patent.

7 mascaras and one red lipstick

7 mascaras and one red lipstick.

The Aches and (Ever-Growing) Pains of Aging Eased with a Walk and a Talk

24 Wednesday Apr 2013

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present and absent

Photo by Julie Seyler.

BY MARGO D. BELLER

Now that I am in my mid 50s, I am reminded daily, not only about the uncertainties and challenges of aging, but the consequences. There are aches and pains and sudden fatigue and weight that will not go away. And unexpected mental lapses. There is also the fear I’ll go to sleep and not wake up.

My mother died over 30 years ago when she was 60. When she was my age she had been diagnosed with breast cancer. This past March, her brother died of complications from dementia at the age of 91. He had more years, but he was never the same after his wife died eight years before of Alzheimer’s, which made the dementia seem like a cruel joke. Which one had the better of it – my mother or her brother?

I lost a friend to a heart attack, and another was recently diagnosed with a form of dementia. Friends are losing their parents. Popular
musicians and actors I grew up with are dying.

Where have you gone, Annette Funicello?

That’s no way to think, my husband constantly reminds me. Which is why those birdwatching walks I take in the woods provide better relief than any anxiety medication. So does keeping up with friends while they’re still around. I recently called one of these friends, who had turned 95. He not only has the distinction of being the oldest of my friends, but he’s my only friend that is also a former employer.

When he answered the phone, he knew who I was. He could hear me “fair,” and we easily talked about family, the news of the day, politics and how much he dislikes sports, as though we were still in the same office rather than 1,000 miles apart. He pens a weekly essay for the writers group at the senior residence where he lives, and reads The New York Times daily to keep up.

He doesn’t understand the Internet and social media, so telling him about blog posts isn’t worth the effort. He stopped looking at email when his inbox got stuffed with spam.

“I live in the past,” he said, preferring old-fashioned letters and phone calls. He doesn’t have a Facebook page or a Twitter feed, and wouldn’t want one, although he has a lot of interesting stories he could tell about his military career during World War II. I would like to age his way. His family is nearby, and people look in on him daily. He is content with his life, despite the sad things, which includes his wife’s passing.

“Anyone who says they’ve never gone through any bad things in his life hasn’t lived,” he told me.

As we were ending our conversation, my 95-year-old friend told me something astonishing. He has weekly conversations with his brother in Florida, who just turned 100! He seemed in awe of the fact his brother is still alive, well, and has all his faculties.

So am I – of both of them. I can only hope to have the same luck.

When an Old Box Camera Gives You Bulbs, Make Vases

17 Wednesday Apr 2013

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Flash bulb vases. Made and photographed by Bob Smith

Flash bulb vases. Made and photographed by Bob Smith.

BY BOB SMITH

At the old family house in Cresskill, I found a dusty yellow box bearing the name Kodak DUAFLEX IV Flash Outfit. It was that brown box camera that I recently wrote about – the one Mom had used to take our pictures when we were kids. Tucked away inside was the original receipt dated March 1956 for $22.85 – starting with a $10 deposit. Evidently, Mom and Dad didn’t have enough nickels to rub together to buy it all at once.

The Kodak Duaflex. Photo by Bob Smith

The Kodak Duaflex. Photo by Bob Smith.

I decided to get it working again and perhaps recapture some of the magic that camera had seen. A haze of dust had accumulated on the inside of the lenses over the years, so first it had to be taken apart and cleaned. The Duaflex is a simple leather-textured cardboard box with lenses mounted on the front and a viewfinder through the top. Nothing to it.

Well, not completely. I’m mechanically challenged, so once I take something apart, there’s a good chance it’s not getting put back together the same way again. Within 25 minutes, I had screws the size of mustard seeds, lozenge-shaped lenses, metal springs and parts, and the three sections of the leatherette box spread across my kitchen table. Cleaning the lenses took 30 seconds – dab alcohol on a cotton swab, three swipes per side. Done.

Two tense hours later, after numerous cocked screws, a slightly bent viewfinder, and one ugly crease in the cardboard box where I had jammed on the faceplate at the wrong angle, Humpty Dumpty was back together again, nearly as good as new.

But I couldn’t snap pictures yet. Kodak still makes film wide enough for the camera, but not mounted on a spool that fits the brackets on the Duaflex IV. My local camera shop guru cheerfully explained that I could easily adjust the diameter of the plastic spool so it would fit inside the camera housing.

Back to the tools. With X-Acto knife and metal file, I sliced and shaved a 16th of an inch off the perimeter of each end of the film spool so it would fit into the camera. The hour was laced with epithets and sliced fingers, but at the end, that spool had roughly rounded ends that not only fit inside the camera, but actually (with some effort) rolled to allow the film to advance. Photo ready!

Not. You needed a flash for indoor shots. Luckily the kit included the flash attachment, complete with a half dozen old-fashioned flash bulbs. Of course, installing batteries in the flash unit also required a screwdriver, but there was only one screw holding the hard plastic housing together, and even I couldn’t screw up unscrewing that.

Family photos, courtesy of the Duaflex.

Family photos, courtesy of the Duaflex.

I was finally ready for a test shot of the family dog. The flash was accompanied by a crackle-popping sound like a small explosion, and the inside of the bulb turned hazy and gray with smoke – one step removed from flash powder. Its hot surface had partially melted and was bubbled with caramel-colored burnt spots. The dog was so startled, he spent the next hour cowering under the kitchen table.

I moved on to human subjects, snapping my wife and son, my son with his girlfriend, and even one shot of Mom. With each snap, I reflexively looked down at the camera, seeking digital gratification. No such luck. Once you finished a roll, you sent the whole thing away to be developed and wouldn’t know for a week or more if any pictures had turned out well.

As it turned out, none did. Apart from one backyard shot of the dog (which has gone missing – the photo, not the dog, who’s probably still under the table), they’re all dark, out of focus, or both. Either my technique, or the old equipment itself, was not up to the task.

But Maria liked the spent flashbulbs. Online she learned that people make vases out of light bulbs, and suggested we try the same thing. You removed the metal contact at the end of the bulb to create the opening, which was right up my alley: breaking things. I grabbed the nubby metal tip with pliers and twisted. It made a satisfying glassy crunching sound as I turned it back and forth to free it from the edge. Then I pulled the nub out of the bulb, still trailing gossamer traces of filament. I jammed a screwdriver into the hole, and rotated it to smooth the opening and clear away the underbrush of cloudy stuff filling the bulb. I shook out the tiny glass fragments, and the bulb was ready for mounting.

With synthetic modeling clay, we fashioned circular disks and baked them for 10 minutes to make them hard. Then we glued one onto the bottom of each bulb to create a flat platform, and the transformation was complete: each flashbulb was now a freestanding bud vase. Those unique handmade vases are now proudly collecting dust on a shelf in our family room.

The old camera had given us lemons, and we made more lemons.

Traveling with Scissors (Remember When?)

16 Tuesday Apr 2013

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Scissors from Spain, bought in 1984

Scissors from Spain, bought in 1984.

BY JULIE SEYLER

I have a pair of scissors I bought in Toledo, Spain in 1984. Everyone knows the connection between Toledo and El Greco, but the city was also once famous for its swords. I could neither afford, nor did I want a sword, but I most definitely wanted a keepsake that would capture their essence.  Every tourist shop was filled with swords and knives, and cutlery characterized by the basic inlay of gold or silver known as damascene ware. The design was different from anything I saw back home, and after much thought, I decided a pair of scissors would be the perfect souvenir. Not only pretty and unique, but functional. They were packaged in a black velvet pouch.  The pouch is long since lost, but I always know where those scissors are because they define a moment in time.

I was 26.  I had met a friend in Lisbon.  My traveler’s checks, totally $1500, were stolen the day after I arrived.  So we started out with a morning at the American Express office, but quickly got back on track and headed out to the beach in Cascais, and up to the medieval village of Obidos, and back down, and across, to Spain.  En route to Marbella, I got a speeding ticket. It was ridiculous, not the ticket, but me driving since I didn’t know how to maneuver a shift.  Once I got into fourth gear, I stayed there because it was comfortable, and easier, than downshifting to third.  We paid the fine, and drove into Sevilla. From there, we circled Andalusia hitting Granada to see the Alhambra and the Cathedral in Cordoba. We drank sherry in Jerez de la Frontera, saw the aqueducts and a bullfight in Ronda, and moved north to Toledo, where I bought the scissors.  In Madrid, our last stop, I lost my camera, but had absolutely no problem boarding the plane with a pair of scissors in my bag.

So whenever I use those scissors I am reminded of the girl and the world of 30 years ago.  I was somewhat fearless and mighty trusting, because although my money was stolen, and I was stopped by a Portuguese policeman, the world seemed like a safe place. I think back and so many things were different.  I always went to the post office to buy stamps because the best way to communicate was through post cards.  Overseas phone calls were prohibitively expensive, and you had to find a place that had international telephone service.  I was able to afford a three- week trip not just because everything was cheaper, but because I could sleep in a lumpy bed in a hostel, and didn’t give a thought to group showers with a bunch of other kids. Even losing my camera was not devastating, because I used film.  The camera was gone, but not the 12 rolls of film documenting every adventure before Madrid.

Fade back to 2013.  Needless to say those scissors have became dull after 30 years of use.  One night, Steve was sharpening knives, so I asked if he could hone the scissors as well. Who knew a knife sharpener is the death knell of a scissor blade?  They no longer cut, and I am in the middle of researching scissor sharpeners, because I can never give them up.

My Sixth, Zero-Birthday, and Counting (On Two Hands)

09 Tuesday Apr 2013

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Frank bday

It’s my birthday.

BY FRANK TERRANELLA

Fingers. We have 10 of them. So ancient people decided that our numbering system would be based on 10 – one number for each finger. I bring this up because it causes us to get all worked up about birthdays ending in a zero. Does turning 50 or 60 or 70 really mean anything? The answer is that it does for many people.

The first zero-birthday that mattered to me was when I turned 30. Having grown up at a time when we were warned not to trust anyone over 30, there was some trepidation at reaching that milestone. Turning 40 was a bit more traumatic. It’s the entrance to “middle age.” It would have been tough to take no longer being “young,” except that by this time, I had two young children, and I knew full well what young was.

I can honestly say that turning 50 was a big snore. Oh sure, it’s a half-century, and that sounds really old. And the AARP comes to claim you. But all in all, it’s no worse than turning 40. That being said, my body sure knew the difference between 40 and 50. Cancer,” the “Big C,” hit me at 52, and again at 57.

That old saying is correct – you’re as old as you feel. Billy Crystal’s Fernando character on “Saturday Night Live” used to say that it doesn’t matter how you feel, as long as you look “mahvalus.” But I think it’s just the opposite. It doesn’t matter how you look, as long as you feel “mahvalus.”

All this is apropos of my turning 60 today. I have survived a decade that was hard on my health. But I can truthfully say that I am as healthy today as I was when I was 40. So for me, the idea that turning 60 is a milestone is strange. I don’t feel any older. That is not to say that I won’t take advantage of the senior citizen discounts that will now come my way. I certainly will. (If I remember I’m 60.)

Frank bday 2

I was “Medieval” in the ’60s.

Back in the summer of 1967, the Beatles released Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. I was 14, and was playing lead guitar in a garage band called, The Medievals.

We played local dances, and actually got paid for it. My band mates and I sat and listened to Sgt. Pepper’s as soon as it came out. On Side 2 was a song called, “When I’m Sixty-Four,” that imagined a distant future, and the uncertainty of love surviving. At the time, I couldn’t imagine a time 50 years into the future when I would be 64. Now, it’s just four years away.

When I started writing for this blog, I wrote an article about the sands of an hourglass, and the days of our lives. I have had 21,915 days so far. Some of them have been dull; some exciting. Some lovely. Some terrifying. Many of them have been memorable. On my 60th birthday, I look forward to several thousand more memorable days. On to 70!