Tag Archives: Concepts

My Buddy, His Birds, and Appreciation from the Sidelines

08 Monday Apr 2013

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Birdland

Birdland. Photos by Julie Seyler.

BY JULIE SEYLER

I have a friend who is a birder.  When he first told me that he took excursions to Central Park every Saturday morning during spring migration season to catch what was coming up from down South, I was baffled.  But over the course of our 20-year friendship, I have come to appreciate the mystery of birdwatching.  So while I have never become a bird groupie, I thoroughly understand the pleasure that comes from a successful sighting; the thrill of spying the bird that seemed to get away. And the overall satisfaction of a day spent with warm-blooded creatures that have the power of flight.

And because I know the excitement of seeing something rare and unexpected, I no longer blink an eye if we are driving along, and come to a sudden stop because he spots something in the sky, on the road or in a tree. As a result, I have picked up minimal knowledge of being able to distinguish terns from gulls, and plovers from sandpipers. But basically, I’m a rube.

Nonetheless, if I’m going on vacation to someplace that is known for some exotic, colorful bird species, I most definitely pack my binoculars.  I know I have been very lucky to have seen lilac-breasted rollers, spoonbill cranes, secretary birds, and malachite kingfishers.

Lilacbreasted roller. Botswana

Lilac-breasted roller. Botswana.

So on a recent trip to Sherwood Island State Park in Connecticut, my friend brought the car to a sudden roadside stop to check out bufflehead ducks.  On the walk to the beach, he pointed out Canada geese and coots, and then off he went with his binoculars to see what else he could find.

seeking shore birds

Seeking shore birds.

He came back with a report that he had seen a few more buffleheads, some mergansers and long-tailed ducks. For a 30-minute stop in 30-degree weather, it was definitely gratifying.  Meanwhile, I had ended up walking along the beach checking out the shells. I guess nature calls differently to each of us.

me holding a shell

Me, holding a shell.

I’m a Birder Who Prefers to Fly Solo

26 Tuesday Mar 2013

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One bird

Birding with a group has its perks, but I often stray from the crowd. Photo by Julie Seyler.

BY MARGO D. BELLER

I have always been pulled between being a loner and longing to be part of the crowd. As a child, I kept to myself. As I got older, I made friends along the way. One became my husband (MH). He, too, is a loner, but is not much troubled by that fact. Watching birds is an ideal activity for a loner, although it is often done in a group. I find groups have a tendency to rush along and talk, and I would rather go at my own pace and listen to the singing. Even with MH, I find I bird differently than when alone.

It is when birding the loner and the longer come together.

The other day, at a pond in the middle of a suburban NJ office park, a Pacific loon was discovered. It was publicized on the NJ bird list, which I read. The office park is on the outskirts of my town, which made it imperative for MH and me to see it as soon as we could.

What was it doing there? I don’t know, but weather conditions have been pretty strange this year. This loon is an unusual visitor east of the Continental Divide, but they’ve been reported before. The office park pond, which was not frozen, must have been an appealing sight.

Except in winter, loons are found on lakes and ponds. In winter, when those ponds freeze, they are usually found along the coast. The common loon and its smaller relative, the red-breasted loon, are the Eastern loons you’re likely to see at Barnegat Lighthouse, along the Jersey Shore, for instance.

In winter, they are all black and white and gray. What gave this one away were the shadings of gray and the bill – not as stout as the common loon; not as thin and upturned as the red-throated.

When we got there, we found ourselves in a crowd, but smaller than expected. We were all friendly, talking shop, field marks, or other birds recently seen in the state. As usual, for a while there, I felt I belonged.

And yet, when they started talking about people whose names I don’t know, but they see all the time in their travels, I knew I was not part of this group. I won’t be going south to Florida to see the birds heading north with them, or trekking to Belize or Mexico.

As this point I usually wonder, when does enjoyment of the birds become an obsession? If you spend your life doing nothing but running around to find and tick off birds every time one is reported, is it much of a life?

I admit, I daydream of dropping everything and doing nothing but bird. But bills have to be paid. The loner wins.

Our Life List: 338 Birds, and Counting

13 Wednesday Mar 2013

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Margo life list

BY MARGO D. BELLER

Many people keep a “bucket list” of things they want to do before they die.

Birders have a life list.

In the 1947 edition of his classic, “Field Guide to the Birds” of the Eastern U.S., Roger Tory Peterson included two pages with a list of birds covered in the volume. The idea was for a watcher to check off each bird when seen for the first time. He called it a “life list,” as in something seen for the first time in your life.

Birders have been rushing around to see and record new birds ever since.

My husband (MH) photocopied that list several times for me years ago, and I’ve used the copies to record birds from various places – my favorite birding spots in New Jersey and in New England, for instance – plus one to use as a master list. This list is so marked up it is hard to follow at times. I’ve had to add many birds as I traveled outside the East. Many birds Peterson considered accidentals, or rarities, in 1947, have become more common as their ranges expand, or as more birders go out in the field and find them.

MH and I have, in our combined life list, seen 338 types of birds in the years we’ve been birders. This may seem like a lot to non-birders, but it is an almost pathetically small number compared with others who are out in the field nearly every day, or who travel the world, the United States, even their neighborhoods in search of new birds. Many have the time and money to do this, and I envy them. MH and I have to fit in our bird activities when we can.

Still, we enjoy being together in our searching, sharing the successes and being wise enough to keep the failures in perspective.

Some “life” birds have come easier than others. The prothonotary warbler that walked out of the bushes in Central Park. The sandhill cranes that soared over the Indiana toll road on our drive back from a midwest wedding. The anhinga, limpkin and kites we saw during a trip to the Florida panhandle.

Our newest, the northern lapwing, came in March and we didn’t have to go too far. Three of these European visitors, with their distinctive crest and coloring, were found by others during the winter, hanging out in a cattle field on a farm in New Egypt, N.J. Like Alexis de Tocqueville, these old-world land plovers found favor with the new world, and were received enthusiastically.

We came after the initial crowd frenzy ended, and were lucky to find another couple watching the birds with a scope, which they allowed us to use. We were also lucky the birds decided to fly around the field, making it fun to study them with binoculars.

If travel broadens the mind, as the saying goes, we will have to do more traveling if we want to expand our life list, and our life.

The Riddle of the Sphinx Gives a Leg Up on Aging

28 Thursday Feb 2013

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The Alabaster Sphinx. Sculpted over 2500 years ago. Memphis, Egypt.

The Alabaster Sphinx. Sculpted over 3000 years ago. Memphis, Egypt.

BY JULIE SEYLER

The Sphinx exists in the mythology of the ancient world, be it Egypt (1200 BC) or Greece (600 BC).  It is a hybrid creature with a human head, a lion’s body and wings for arms.  It is the catalyst that ignites the Oedipus saga chronicled by Homer, and dramatized by Sophocles.  Remember “The Odyssey” from sophomore year in high school: Oedipus answers the riddle, “What goes on four legs in the morning, on two legs at noon, and on three legs in the evening?”

Aging is a sphinx. It is mythologized. Our conversation is jammed with dramatic tales about what our bodies are doing these days – the duller and longer aches, the higher cholesterol count, and, my favorite of all – big toe arthritis.  Perhaps we know others who are suffering with more dire conditions. All of this weighs on us, because it used to be something that “happens to others.”

And yet it is a hybrid. There is good stuff going on. Wisdom, contentment; and self-awareness are hardly negatives and seemed unattainable to me when I was in my thirties. And since I am devotee of Facebook, there are tons of my peers getting the biggest kick and joy out of their grandkids. I love the photos. But none of this undermines the inevitable fact that we are moving on to the stage of three legs. So obviously, it’s time to throw caution to the wind, and head out for a cocktail and a schmooze-session with a great friend.

Men in Midlife: Puberty Revisited? Or a Time to Grow Up?

12 Tuesday Feb 2013

Posted by in Concepts, Men

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men will be boys

Men will be boys. Photos by Julie Seyler

BY FRANK TERRANELLA

We’ve all heard of the midlife crisis. And if you’re in your 50s, and you haven’t had yours yet, you’re overdue. Anyway, I think that women and men have different midlife crises. For men, it usually comes with the first scent of old age. You know, the sudden inability to remember names, movie titles and even words. Or if the guy is an athlete, it’s the demonstrated failure of his body to do what it used to do. Whatever the trigger, the response is usually the same: In a vain attempt to regain their youth, men revert to behavior they abandoned in their mid-20s. They get drunk, they gamble, they buy expensive toys, and they fool around with women who are not their wives. Not everyone does all of these, but just about everyone has the inclination.

When 50-something married men begin to act like they’re single, this can be disconcerting to their wives, to say the least. But it truly has nothing to do with the wives. The inclinations don’t only hit men in bad, or tired, marriages. I think they’re primal and hard-wired into men’s brains.

You can dress them up but you can't take them out

Men and their games.

What separates the gentlemen from the cads is the response each man has to this inclination. Some men give in and go off for the full ride, including bedding younger women. Divorce soon ensues, and I have actually heard these men brag that, “I traded up from the 1955 model to the 1977 model.” Other men, in the immortal wisdom of President Jimmy Carter, have lust in their hearts. I will confess to being in this group.

As I get older, I have found that intimacy is what’s really important, not just orgasms. There’s nothing wrong with orgasms, it’s just that both men and women can, and do, have them without any intimacy with their partner. This is ultimately very lonely and unfulfilling. So in recent years, I have sought out intimate, non-sexual relationships with a number of women friends. This is something that women do easily without thinking about it. Women tell their women friends intimate details of their lives freely, and it’s no big deal. For men – it’s a big deal.

In the film “When Harry Met Sally,” Billy Crystal’s character is a young man who opines that men and women can never be friends because sex always gets in the way. By that he means that he believes that a guy can’t look at a woman without thinking about getting naked and having sex with her. My experience is that it’s much easier to have an intimate friendship with women in my 50s than it was in my 20s. And that’s a good thing.

My wife has been incredibly understanding as I have begun to have long meals with old girlfriends, work colleagues and a variety of other amazing women. While the conversations have at times been intimate, they have never been orgasmic. I have been proving Billy Crystal wrong for a decade.

In many ways, I think it takes until he’s in his 50s for a man to grow up. The midlife crisis is like a second puberty. The trick is to get through it without making a fool of yourself. And as we all know, there’s no fool like an old fool.

Born to Ride: Is My Love for the Two-Seater Convertible Genetically Driven?

11 Monday Feb 2013

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In Dad's MG, circa 1960.

In Dad’s MG, circa 1960.

BY JULIE SEYLER

Cars have been on my mind lately. It started because I saw an article in the Sunday Times a couple of weeks ago about a car auction. But it wasn’t any old car auction. This one featured autos with provenance – like a purple 1919 Pierce-Arrow, owned by the silent film star, Fatty Arbuckle, and a 1941 Packard, owned by the ice-skating actress, Sonja Henie. These cars were gorgeous.

Then I was talking to a friend of mine, who was in the middle of multiple car transactions, like selling two cars (including a beloved sports car), and simultaneously buying a new, used, practical car. He was doing everything over eBay. It was natural for our conversation to segue from cars we “loved” to cars we “hated.”  We ended the conversation with the conclusion that everybody has an opinion about cars, even if their opinion is, “no opinion.”

It’s true. I know people who only want to be behind the wheel of an automobile that makes them “feel like they are driving a living room couch,” and others who are passionate about their hybrids (especially the gas-to-mile ratio), and some who just love the majestic height afforded by an SUV. Me? I have always cottoned to small cars with convertible tops.

After all these car musings, I started pondering whether one’s car preferences has anything to do with one’s past? Most people would probably say their car decisions are purely arbitrary, or simply pragmatic, but I am sure there is a Proustian component to my predilection for two-seater convertibles.

Fifty years ago, when I was a kid (just saying that phrase, “50 years ago,” cracks me up – can those words actually be coming from my mouth as an accurate statement of fact), I did pop about in an MGTD. My father, a true-blue sports car devotee, would squeeze me and my sister, and our two Chatty Cathy dolls, into the trundle seat of his MG, and off we’d go up the Garden State Parkway, through the Holland Tunnel and over the Brooklyn Bridge to visit my grandparents. The top would be down, of course, and the wind would fly through our hair. I can’t imagine anyone with a four year old and a six year old contemplating a journey like that today. We live in a world where car seat safety dominates.

In any case, perhaps it is because of those early road trip memories that I love two-seater convertibles. The wind in my hair never gets old. So, while I was reminiscing about the “old” days, I asked my dad what other cars he owned. He replied:

We had a few MGTDs 1950s; also MGA 1960; also MGB 1962; Corvettes – three of them, 1964s. When you were a baby in Fort Lee, we had a ’52 Morris Minor. Grandma made a convertible top for it. I forgot to mention our 55 T-Bird convertible with the hard top.

They were all small, two-seater, convertibles, except maybe the Morris Minor. Not sure if he, too, loves the wind in his hair, but the car genes were passed down.

Blogs We Like

28 Monday Jan 2013

Posted by in Art, Concepts, Food, Men, News, Opinion, Travel

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BLOGS WE LIKE Photo

By Julie Seyler.

BY LOIS DESOCIO

According to the most recent stats, there are 156 million blogs, and counting, on the Internet. A good chunk of the pile seems to be geared to us baby boomers. Apparently, we like to read, talk, and write about ourselves. Here are some age-appropriate (and a couple not), that are worth mentioning:

The big guys, Booming from The New York Times and Huffington Post’s Huff/Post50, will give you news, commentary, debate, celebrity bloggers – basically all the good, the bad and the ugly that comes with the “middle ages.”

There’s gutsy girls:

A read of The Feisty Side of 50, BOOM! By Cindy Joseph, and Almost 60? Really?, will help us women feel good being gray, and naked; make us want to climb the biggest mountain out there, and then maybe kick up our heels at the summit, and scream “Yay Menopause!;” and then come down to earth – in that order.

Wordly men:

Award-winning writer, and our new contributor, Anthony Buccino, writes about history, travel, even N.J. Transit. And there’s David V. Mitchell’s, Sparsely Sage and Timley, a West Coast, post-boomer blogger, who had us with his title.

A cool spot for a little bit of everything, including some tech advice, is boomspeak.

There are others that we like because, even though the bloggers are over 50, they manage to write about something else. Annalena’s Kitchen has everything to do with the fun, the passion and the science behind food. Blogger Norman Hanson, is “just an over the hill gay guy who likes to cook.” And no doubt you’ve noticed that we tend to be madly appreciative of the visual image and the craft that comes with being a highly-skilled artist. Barbara Rachko’s barbararachkoscoloreddust delivers.

No 50-year-old bloggers in sight on The Five O’Clock Cocktail, but it is right on time with us.

And Stilettos Stuck in Snow (full disclosure – we know her mother), and Everyday is a Holiday must be mentioned, because although these bloggers are nowhere near 50, they’ve managed to produce some visually appealing, artsy, fashion-focused blogs. It’s important for us boomers to remember it’s not all about us, and they offer us a fun way to check in and keep up the with the times.

Eating Early is for the Birds. But a 5 O’Clock Cocktail is Special

25 Friday Jan 2013

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martinis at Rolf's-3

It’s 5 o’clock stemware! Photo by Julie Seyler.

BY LOIS DESOCIO

I’m noticing among my fellow “fifties,” as our families morph into new patterns, that 5 o’clock is our happy hour; our Early Bird Special. There seems to be an unspoken, and early-onset vibe at my local bar: times are tough, the world is messy – let’s share a drink. Let’s go early. We don’t even have to know each other’s names.

I’ve always enjoyed drinking early. These days, I’ve found, I’ve comfortably fit into a new pattern of pushing the workday back, sliding the mealtimes forward, so I can slip into the sip about two hours after my last meal. I work at home for the most part. I get up at 5, have breakfast by 11, lunch around 3:30, (my dinner is often at the eleventh hour), and I don’t need bells nor whistles to herald: it’s 5 o’clock, who wants to go out for a drink?

There’s something about that first sip. The palette is primed. The lips greet the glass with precognitive delight (that premiere swig always delivers), and all the day’s duties are backstroking, thanks to the clink, the sip, the swallow. And at 5 o’clock, chances are the pressures of the day are still whooshing within. This timely trek down to your local tavern goes hand-in-hand with no pressure. No pressure to hurry, no pressure to move. No pressure to have more than one. And it’s early enough to get a seat at the bar (even the much-desired corner).

It’s different from going out to dinner – which has a turnover timetable as restaurants limit your time at the table. It’s different from the cocktail before dinner – which is also on a schedule. Often, that cocktail takes a back seat once the food comes. And often, the food comes too early. I don’t appreciate my half-sipped martini being usurped by a salad. (My dirty martini comes with its own olive salad, thank you.)

I’ve always bucked the pre-50 credo that labels early as un-cool. I’m damned with being both a morning person, and a night owl. I’ve always liked to start early, but have suffered through years of cajoling and prodding to get anyone to join me before 8 or 9. And I don’t like drinking alone, and since I’m pretty much living alone these days, I prefer not to drink at home. So this new fraternity of imbibing is working for me.

And 5 o’clock as a bellwether is nothing new. Factory laborers toiled away until the 5 o’clock whistle, it’s been prime time for Wall Streeters to work the room, and of course, there’s the Flintstones. And for the less-secure among us that need to justify, there’s the overused excuse, “it’s five o’clock somewhere.“

My Left Side (of 50)

22 Tuesday Jan 2013

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How many lives have we lived?

How many lives have we lived? By Julie Seyler

BY JULIE SEYLER

It’s funny how unaware we are when we start our life journey. There are dreams and hopes and disappointments, and when scanned from the perch of the right side of 50, it can be fascinating to see how many different lives we have experienced by the time we get to this one. And certainly, the annual issuance of W-2 forms makes one contemplate how many jobs we have held.

So when I look back, it was 43 years ago (ye gads) when I got my first job. I was 14, the age when you could get your working papers in New Jersey. My parents insisted that I start earning a living, or at least stop relying on them for my allowance.

a bad photo of the AP Boardwalk looking north from Ocean Ave.

Asbury Park Boardwalk, circa ’70s, looking north from Ocean Ave.

It’s long long gone, but there was a miniscule “restaurant,” if I can even call it that, on the south end of the Asbury Park boardwalk by the Casino called the Maxwell House Coffee Shop. All we served was homemade cinnamon donuts, homemade plain donuts and Maxwell House coffee. We opened at 7 a.m., and closed at 3 p.m. I could, and did, eat all the donuts I wanted. Every morning, and throughout the day, a batch of dough would be whipped up into a thick creamy mass, pushed through a machine, and dropped into a vat of hot oil to be quickly fried and as quickly removed. They were delicious. Dunkin Donuts is a facsimile of the real thing I stuffed my face with for two summers in a row.

Me in waitress outfit for Michael's

Me in waitress outfit for Michael’s

I graduated to other boardwalk joints – 1970s landmarks like the Casino Coffee Shop, Howard Johnson’s (loved the clam strips), and Michael’s Seafood Restaurant. I hate to admit it, but I became a really good waitress. I juggled five, stacked dishes at a time, served them without a crash,  promptly cleared them when everyone finished, and then handed over the check five minutes later. It was all about turnover.

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It All Started with a Refused Statin

11 Friday Jan 2013

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lipitor

Phooey!

BY LOIS DESOCIO

At my latest annual physical a few weeks ago, my doctor asked me who my cardiologist was. Cardiologist? I’m way too young for a cardiologist. Cardiologists are for old people with heart disease. She sighed. She shook her head in disgust. She was surprised I wasn’t dead yet.

“Your cholesterol is sky-high,” she said. (She said the same thing two years ago, and I’m still here.) “What do I have to do to get you to swallow that pill!”

That pill is Lipitor (apparently everyone is doing it), which she had prescribed for me two years ago, which I filled, and left sitting, unopened and expired on my dresser. As much as Julie will grasp every word her doctors and friends dole out, and will act accordingly, I rebuff. My quest becomes: “Phooey! I will prove you wrong.” I say no to drugs. And I eat a lot of spinach.

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