Tag Archives: confessional

The Loss of a Friend, and a Fear of Falling

28 Wednesday Aug 2013

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inside an old church in Stellenbosch

BY MARGO D. BELLER

Back in April, I wrote about my friend and former employer, who had just turned 95. I had called him on his birthday. During our talk I was reassured that he was not only doing as well as could be expected physically, but was as mentally sharp as ever – writing columns and reading The New York Times. His attitude was upbeat and, as usual, he was full of good humor. But he was philosophical, too.

“Anyone who says they’ve never gone through any bad things in his life hasn’t lived,” he told me at that time. I had hoped to have an old age as good as his.

Unfortunately, about a month after that conversation, my friend fell and broke his ankle. He lost his mobility, and went downhill fast. He’d been in and out of rehab several times. I learned he died in his sleep four months after our talk. I regret not calling again, but his son said, those times that my friend was awake, he wasn’t talking on the phone anyway.

We are warned about the danger of falls as we get older. I think of my great ­aunt, another vibrant, sharp person, and how she was never the same after she fell, and broke a leg bone. She, too, was shuttled in and out of the hospital, and that is where she died. I think of the falls I have taken, including one where I fell flat on my face. I’ve had swellings and a black eye, but no broken bones. Yet. I have not put in the types of safety devices my elderly father had in his bathroom, and I do exercises that, I hope, help me keep my balance.

Still, there’s always the next one.

Despite knowing, logically, that I am aging, emotionally, I feel much younger. The thought of the inevitable decay frightens me as I get closer to 60 – my
mother’s age when she died. Even if I live to 95, ­and my friend’s older brother is very much alive at 100, ­is that a good life if I am physically or, worse, mentally infirm?
Does quantity of years equal quality?

My friend had a good life to the end, surrounded by his family and friends. But there are no guarantees in this life. Situations change. Many of us Boomers run around like youngsters, refusing to believe we will die. One of my friends, a few years older, like me, has no children. Unlike me, she is single. She worries about having the money to retire, and pay any medical bills. She told me that when she gets to the point where she can’t take care of herself anymore, she’s going out on a “sunset cruise,” with a laced cocktail, and is not coming back.

I can appreciate her thinking, even as I recoil from the thought of hastening the Creator along. I do not think my 95­-year-­old friend feared the end. I wish he was still around so I could ask him.

It’s the Pond, Not the Fish, That Got Away

26 Monday Aug 2013

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THE POND 2

Art by Julie Seyler.

BY BOB SMITH

In our early teens, my brother Jim and I would sneak onto the grounds of a nearby private Catholic girls’ school to fish in a stream-fed pond at the back of the property. One summer morning, a nun who had caught us trespassing there punished us by forcing us to throw back our catch: two plump trout begging to be pan-fried in butter for breakfast. They were already quite dead, and releasing them was a useless gesture, but the merciful sister would have none of it.

The incident soured us on that fishing hole, so we avoided it for the next couple of months. Instead we fished in the smaller pond upstream of the school, which was legally accessible because it bordered on a public street. Or we’d fish downstream of the school in a brook that ran through a wooded strip behind a row of suburban houses, none of which laid claim to owning that piece of land.

But we knew the trout could feed and grow almost without limit in the cool, deep waters of that big pond behind the girls’ school. We were determined to sneak in there again to catch them – nuns be damned.

It was late August by the time we got up the courage to go back. We slid out of bed at 5:15 a.m., and dressed in the dark, quietly pulling on jeans and tee shirts we’d laid out the night before. Then we gathered our gear and can of nightcrawlers from the garage, carefully rolling open the overhead door, and talking in hushed whispers so we wouldn’t awaken our parents in the bedroom above.

The sky was a black dome dotted with stars; no trace of moon. And although the air was scented with grass, it carried a melancholy undertone too – the distinct chill that creeps into late summer mornings as the season steals away. We walked in silence through the quiet streets to the entrance to the woods a mile away.

It was darker along the stream than it had been on the road, but by now the sky was starting to brighten enough so that, even in the twilight below the canopy of trees, we could pick out the familiar dirt path ahead. There was a concrete spillway just below the pond that sloped steeply upwards for about forty feet. As we labored up the path alongside the spillway, we noticed there was a broad wet path on the concrete, rippling with a steady trickle of water from above, as if the pond were overflowing.

But it hadn’t rained in a week.

We reached the top and peered out of the bushes, our heads level with the dirt road that circled the pond. The sun was pretty well up by now, and we could see there were no nuns about, and that the caretaker’s empty truck was parked by his house across the lake. All clear. We clambered up onto the road, carefully poking our fragile fishing poles out of the bushes ahead of us, like insects’ antennae testing the air. We scurried across the road onto the wooden dock and looked out over the pond. Normally we would see the rose reflection of the new dawn on the glassy water; bugs darting in the mist being snatched from the air by trout breaking the surface; ripples from the morning breeze – but there was nothing. The pond was gone.

Someone had drained it by opening the sluice gates at the top of the spillway. That explained the trickle on the concrete – they must have done it days ago. By now, the pond had almost entirely bled out.

Our pristine secret fishing hole had been reduced to a slimy expanse of black mud, and a few shallow puddles. The deepest remaining spots were in the middle, where the pond had been deepest when it was full, and where we assumed the largest fish had hidden. It looked as if most of them were still there, crowded into the last refuge of water, the sluggish movements of their clustered dorsal fins barely covered by the brackish soup. Some moved more slowly than others. Others had stopped moving and had begun to merge with the mud.

We never learned why they drained that pond, but if the goal was to deter trespassers, they achieved it with us. We left that day, sick at heart, and never returned.

I Love My Car Because It’s MY Car

23 Friday Aug 2013

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car me

My cockpit.

BY LOIS DESOCIO

I must riff on Julie’s post from yesterday about her car, because I counter her disdain of driving with a kicky passion for it that rivals the romance a pilot must have with taking to the skies in his or her plane. For me, a wheel in hand, and a road ahead, unfailingly filters life’s daily pummels.

I adore my car. I do not have the hip convertible that Julie has (I have my hip, though), but I do have a posh, black … SUV. I’ve had it for three years now. It was my first new car in ten years, and as soon as I brought it home, it would instigate head-scratching among some friends: “Why did you buy another “mom car?” (It’s not a “mom car,” thank you, because it’s not a minivan.) And it does not holster sippy cups, and the seats are never sticky.

It’s neither garish, nor gigantic, but it’s roomy enough to lug my stuff, and generous enough in height to allow a view from above on the highways. And after years of driving the family car, in which I taught my sons to drive, and subsequently shared with them so often that it became more their locker room, and less my wheels, for the first time in decades, I have a car that is mine. Just mine.

It has become a salve to some of the wallops life has thrown my way lately. My car has become the one thing to which I am a coxswain. It is my trusty vessel. It takes me wherever I want to go. It stays where I put it. I can lock out anyone I choose. It’s cool in the summer;warm in the winter. The top doesn’t come off, but it has a hole in the roof that lets in the wind without messing my hair. I can make phone calls in it, ask it directions; listen to music and scream-sing along with abandon. It doesn’t lie, manipulate, talk back or ask for money. (It’s paid off.) And it’s fast. I can merge, slow down, cut off, and speed up as I choose. Or I can just sit in it in my garage and talk to myself. I don’t need it to commute to work, so the milage is low, and gas-guzzling is kept at bay. I plan to keep it forever.

So, in mid-life, when the road ahead can be bumpy, and there’s a need to put the brakes on it all for a bit, it’s my car that often steers me away for a while.

Do I Really Need My Hip Roadster?

22 Thursday Aug 2013

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Eight years later.

Eight years later.

BY JULIE SEYLER

By the time I turned 49, I had acquired a co-op apartment, and a cat, but no kids. So when I turned 50, I decided to buy myself a birthday present: a two-seater car with a convertible top. It was a really cute car, and I assumed that my body, unlike my face, would never change. (My legs would always possess the supple flexibility needed to get in and out of the car. Ha Ha!) After receiving a diagnosis of bone-on-bone arthritis last year, I was humbled. My brand new hip joint is mighty fine, but I am not sure I would have chosen the same automobile if I knew then what I know now – namely that at some point after one’s 5Oth year, the body becomes less obedient. In any event, the total hip replacement restored my mobility, and agility sufficiently enough that I’m back to jauntily tootling about in my pint-sized roadster.

I didn’t really need a car in Manhattan. I bought it to drive back and forth to Allenhurst, New Jersey between Memorial Day and Labor Day. After relying on the North Jersey Coast Line for 17 years, and arranging with my girlfriend to pick me up every Saturday morning, I was ready to take matters into my own hands. I wanted to enjoy the New Jersey Turnpike from behind the wheel of my car.

So the car only gets exercise for about three months of the year. Otherwise, I don’t drive. In fact I don’t really like driving, and I really detest driving in New York City. The atonal symphony of screeching horns, the zig-zagging cab drivers, the lumbering pushiness of tourist buses and MTA buses, the bike riders on testosterone, and maniacal pedestrians that dart out in the middle of the street – all vying for the same sliver of real estate – leaves me sitting clenched at the edge of my seat clutching that steering wheel for dear life. I am never so happy as when I pull into my garage and gleefully turn the valet key over to the parking attendant.

Given my driving routine, it makes complete sense that the odometer reads less than 28,000 miles eight years after the car was purchased. I cannot consider selling it because based on my per annum mileage accumulation, I will only have 112,000 miles on it by 2030. I can then register it as an antique. Of course I’ll be a bit antiquish by then, but who cares especially if 75 is the new 55.

Hats Off to Me: I’m Leaving the Law for Retirement

20 Tuesday Aug 2013

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Bob chair hat

BY BOB SMITH

I began practicing law in 1984, when I was 29. I’m now 58. One week ago today I advised the management of the law firm where I’m a partner that I’m leaving the practice of law as of October 1. I chose that date because it coincides with the close of the firm’s fiscal year, which will make the settling up of my finances neat and clean. But there’s nothing neat and clean about leaving a career you’ve pursued for half your life.

Most people consider a full-time job something that requires you to be at work forty hours a week. But to a lawyer in private practice, “full-time” means all the time. And perhaps because it’s so all-consuming, the prospect of not doing it any more is daunting – how will I fill up my time, I wonder? While practicing law, my time was so full I couldn’t consider any other activities. Life, it seemed, revolved around my work. Everything I did was defined by the demands of the job – and they are many.

Here’s a non-exhaustive, but nonetheless exhausting, list of the things you have to do to succeed as a lawyer in private practice:

  • Think clearly, write well, and verbally advocate your client’s position.
  • Manage expectations, which means having pointed – often heated – discussions with your clients about proposed strategy, potential outcomes, and of course, expected costs.
  • Train, motivate, mentor and supervise younger associates, paralegals, and other support staff.
  • Bill your time, which means writing a detailed narrative of the legal work done for each client and how much time it took – down to the tenth of an hour – to perform each task. To meet your billable targets, you should account for eight or more billable hours every single working day. Like J. Alfred Prufrock, who “measured out [his] life with coffee spoons,” for half my life I’ve measured out mine in six-minute increments.
  • Constantly seek new clients or new legal work from existing clients, which requires you to do things that most people see as recreation: play in golf outings, attend charity dinners, and take clients or prospective clients out to restaurants, concerts, and sporting events. But the fun fades when those activities start to gobble up days and evenings you’d rather spend with your family and friends.
  • Keep abreast of current developments by attending continuing legal education seminars.
  • Speak at legal conferences or other public events.
  • Do pro bono legal work and donate your time and energies to worthy causes that help your community, both because it’s your duty as a citizen and an attorney, and as a way to “get your name out there,” and develop contacts who may refer work to you or the firm.

The list goes on. And the stakes are high: if you don’t do your job right, your clients can lose big money, lose their businesses completely, or be precluded from doing things they want to do. If you make a really terrible mistake, you may be found to have committed malpractice and the firm itself could pay a steep financial price for your misstep, not to mention the personal price you would pay to endure that kind of crisis. In short, you’re under incredible pressure, all the time: to perform, to serve, to produce results.

So why was I so terribly conflicted when I realized I could just get out? There’s comfort in the known, and terror in the unknown. It’s like Hamlet contemplating suicide, and acknowledging that we have no idea what awaits us after death – which ” … makes us rather bear those ills we have, than fly to others that we know not of.” I was afraid to leap from the relative comfort of a demanding, but well-defined career, into the unknown called “retirement.”

bob chair faceBut I’ve done it. I’ve just taken that first leap into the cold pool. And even after only one week, before I’ve fully withdrawn from my life at the firm, I can sense it was the right thing to do. A few months from now I have no doubt I’ll be saying come on in, the water’s just fine.

For now, however, I’m still shivering a bit.

This “Old Lady” Can Be a Mean Girl

14 Wednesday Aug 2013

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meanoldlady

BY MARGO D. BELLER

When I was growing up, and I am sure when you were growing up, too,
there was usually a rundown house in the neighborhood in which lived an
elderly person. In my neighborhood, it was a woman. She lived alone, the
lawn was weedy, and the house needed painting.

We referred to her as “Crazy Mary” or, “the witch.”

I was around 10 years old at the time, and she could’ve been 50 or 60.
Didn’t matter – to us she was old. We’d dare each other to run in her yard,
but ran away when she came out to yell at us. I can’t remember what
happened to her or the house.

Now that I’m in my mid-50s, I know exactly what “the witch” was going
through because there are times I’m the neighborhood’s Mean Old Lady.

My house isn’t rundown, and my lawn hasn’t gone to weeds – quite
the opposite. That is why I get mad when I find children, deer or the
occasional adult, crossing my (unfortunately) un-fenced yard.

I have no children, and until the last few years, my street had few children
on it. But now my neighbors’ kids have kids, and some still live at home.
Three generations live in a house on one side of me, four generations now
live in the house behind, and my last neighbor said the new owner of his
just-sold house has a small child.

In short, I am now surrounded.

Perhaps if I’d had kids I would be more flexible about their random
wildness; the yelling; the running across property lines. After all, I was a kid
myself yelling and climbing over fences, and making messes.

However, I don’t have kids. I know they are capable of wonderful things, but
I rarely see it. To me, they are just noisy at a time when I get more easily
distracted by noise – especially now that I work from home. It has become
harder to concentrate as I’ve aged, and I used to live in some very noisy
neighborhoods in the past. But that was in the past when I was younger.

On occasion I’ve gotten into trouble with kids (and their parents) for
reprimanding them. Embarrassed, I apologize and calmly try to explain
myself. Luckily, we’ve worked things out – at least to the extent that no police
were ever called. I tell myself to leave them alone. As long as they keep
moving, and don’t harm anything, it’s OK. (I think this about deer, too.)

In this era of Facebook, I fear there is a page about a mean old lady with
my picture on it.

My husband and I enjoy the company of our relatives’ children, and when I let down my wariness to speak to some of the local kids, we are friendly to each
other. It doesn’t hurt waving at them, and saying hello.

Still, to them I am “old.” What goes around comes around. When I watch
parents with kids, I wonder about those decisions I made that will come
back to haunt me when I really become old.

My B.Y.O.B.: Bring Your Own Brine

08 Thursday Aug 2013

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Brine

I’m big on brine.

BY LOIS DESOCIO

The younger me has memories of dining with my mom at a restaurant, and her dipping into her purse and spreading two or three Sweet’N Lows on the table for her coffee or tea – just in case the restaurant didn’t carry it. And then there was Mrs. W., who would stealthily drizzle her tupperwared low-cal salad dressing, brought from home, on her salads at the diner. And who among us hasn’t known someone who would order a cup of hot water, and then soak a home-brought tea bag in it?

All behavior that mortified me. How uncouth! Beyond rude! Unladylike!

I’m now them. I would never tote a sweetener, a dressing, nor a tea bag. Never. But when it comes to my dirty martini – after years of imbibing many that are not green enough – I’m considering stashing a bottle of olive brine in my bag, and bringing it to the bar.

Unlike my predecessors in gaucheness, though, this is not about my health, or frugality. It is all about sniff, sip, swallow … and salt. You may recall, that for me, it’s that first mouthing of a martini that counts the most, and can make or break the drink. It’s crucial that, “the lips greet the glass with precognitive delight.” And I need to assure that, “that premiere swig” will “always deliver.” Lately, I’ve come to have too many “first swigs” that don’t “deliver.”

If I sip, and my teeth clench, or if my tongue recedes, or worse – if I sip, shiver and shudder – that means the balance of vodka to brine is off-kilter. Sometimes I just suck it up and begrudgingly drink it anyway. Especially when the barkeep smiles proudly, upon delivery, at his or her perceived success at delivering my requested, “filthy, extra-extra-dirty” martini.

But I’ve decided that I can’t take it anymore. What it’s come down to, is me, with a galvanized stare (not unlike a mother teaching a child), explaining to the uninitiated bartender that, “I like it dirtier than most – like the Hudson River.” It borders on begging. Some get it; most don’t.

So, I’ve begun to take back my martini. I will now meekly (always with an apologetic smile), push my glass away from me, and back towards the bartender, with an Oliver Twist(y), “Please sir, I want some more.” Brine, that is.

To which I’ve been admonished (usually with an astonished smile):

“Ew.”
“This drink is a travesty.”
“Why bother with the vodka?”
“Let me see your ankles – they must be swollen.”
“You took the last of it – and you need more?”

But I’ve only taken one personally:

“Why don’t you just bring a bottle of brine with you, and drink that?”

OK, I will. In the tradition of my mom, Mrs. W., and all the tea-bag toters, I guess the older me has earned the right to have it right. The next step is to bring the brine.

So, I’m imagining once I find a travel-size bottle of brine (maybe I should just tupperware-it?), that I will then begin to send back those puny, pea-sized olives that often garnish martinis these days, and ask that my drink be properly topped with big, fat, juicy (bleu-cheese, please!) robin-egg-sized olives. Or I’ll bring my own.

It’s Only Rock ‘N’ Roll, and I (Don’t) Like It

02 Friday Aug 2013

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the fountain of music copy

BY JULIE SEYLER

When Mick Jagger turned 70 on July 26, it seemed the entire population on the right side of 50 screamed, “Happy Birthday!” In unison. The “King of Rock ‘n’ Roll” remains a compact, sexy ball of youth.

But not only were we toasting him, somehow it became about us. If he is living proof that playing in a rock ‘n’ roll band de-fertilizes the creeping, creepy vine called “Age,” we post-50-year-olds are a testament that being faithful listeners to rock ‘n’ roll keeps us springy in spine, and open in outlook. The message came over loud and clear to my high school class, or at least to those of us who are planning to attend the party commemorating our departure 40 years ago from the hallowed home of the Spartans.

The reunion e-mail chain erupted with anecdotes about the healing and restorative power of rock ‘n’ roll, and the days when it ruled our lives. One women recalled that after seeing Black Sabbath at Convention Hall in Asbury Park, she had no choice but to bring her favorite Black Sabbath record into typing class. Without a whimper from the teacher, it seems the class learned the keyboard listening to “Fairies Wear Boots.” The advice was non-negotiable: revisit the musical landscape of the 1970s, or be doomed to overripe maturity!

I felt despair. I never really cottoned to rock ‘n’ roll. Perhaps my downfall was not taking that typing class. I figured I was about 99 years old on the chronological youth chart. I did not even have one good rock concert up my sleeve. While everyone else was (and still is) drinking from the bottomless pit of the greatest guitar hits of 1973, all I have to rely on are memories of endless hours listening to Billie Holiday sing Gershwin tunes.

I was lamenting my old age dilemma to my friend Lucy “Jagger,” who happens to be on the right side of 60.

She said, “Fear not my friend. I can help you rehash some of the greatest moments in musical history, and thereby start you on the path to reach the fountain of youth.”

She promised me I could borrow her greatest rock ‘n’ roll moments if I promised to watch only Mick Jagger videos on YouTube, and give up Richard Burton. Only kidding. She adores Richard Burton as much as I do, but would never be caught watching a YouTube video. But she did treat me to the vicarious thrill of her:

• Watching Jimi Hendrix play guitar at a Syracuse University frat party circa 1966-67.
• Attending the concert where Bob Dylan played electric guitar for the first time.
• Screaming her head off at the 1965 Beatles’ concert in Shea Stadium.
• Showing up at practically every single Rolling Stones concert that hit the United States in the ’60s.

As a cribber of Lucy’s tales of rock ‘n’ roll, I felt younger already. Whew!

Having My Cake and Wearing it Too

30 Tuesday Jul 2013

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frank belly

Frank Terranella Presents.

BY FRANK TERRANELLA

You may recall, “Alfred Hitchcock Presents,” Alfred Hitchcock’s television show from years ago. It started with a silhouette of a man with a large stomach, and Mr. Hitchcock coming onscreen to fill out the silhouette. Hitch was not ashamed of his girth. He flaunted it. It was his trademark.

sweets

No gym needed. I do enough heavy lifting.

I have come to understand that point of view. It’s sort of like, “I earned this large middle from years of good living. I don’t apologize for enjoying food and hating exercise. That’s just being human.”

Personally, I would prefer to be slim. Clothes fit better, and it’s certainly a lot healthier – or so my cardiologist tells me. But the reality is that I love sweets, and I have not seen the inside of a gym since high school. Years ago, when I was 123 pounds, I was talking with a guy from Georgia who had migrated north. He had a huge gut, and when we kidded him about it he said that when he went home to Georgia, his family was pleased with his size. They would tell him, “You look like you’re doing well up there in Jersey.” His girth was the look of prosperity to his family.

The truth is that I was a skinny kid, and never had to worry about my weight until I hit 40. Then my metabolism slowed down, and my appetite for candy, cake and ice cream did not. Soon I was 20 pounds overweight, and it was up to 30 pounds by the time I had a heart attack when I was 47. That got my attention weight-wise, and I lost 20 pounds. But after a few years, I put it back. I found that all diets were like that. You lost some weight, and you put it back. The whole diet thing seemed unhealthy to me.

So now I have forsaken diets. I have taken to the treadmill to burn off calories, and I have cut back on sweets. Notice that I say cut back, not eliminate. I still enjoy my cake and ice cream occasionally, but it’s now a special occasion. My weight goals are more modest than they used to be. Losing one pound a week is the plan. But I have come to accept the fact that for now I have a stomach to rival a pregnant woman. But I know that someday that will change. For now, I am embracing the Hitchcock look.

Where Are They Now? Check Facebook

23 Tuesday Jul 2013

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Sandpiper%202[1]

Even the high school yearbook has become, “so yesterday. ” Photo by Lois DeSocio.

BY JULIE SEYLER

My, and for that matter Lois’s, 40th high school reunion is coming up in September. Ten years ago, invitations went out by paper, so I walked into the party ignorant of my classmates’ lives. Not this time. While we sped along from 48 to 58, Facebook popped up. Even if I haven’t seen someone since 1973, I will know who is having a ball with the grandbabies. No need to rely on the generic, “What’s new?” Facebook, my hyper-local source for all news good and bad, has clued me into weddings, births and, sadly, deaths.

And then there is e-mail. When we were on the left side of 50, invitations for the reunion arrived by snail mail. These days details of when and where the party begins show up in my inbox, and those responsible for organizing everything (and a thank-you to you if you happen to be reading) can send out a general e-mail blast asking us to “please tell us if you are coming.”

In mid-July, in response to one of these gentle reminders to RSVP, someone e-mailed that she wished she could come, but it would not be possible because she was taking care of an elderly parent. Someone else responded to her with kind words and sympathy, and a brief synopsis of his life over the past 40 years. And someone else chimed in as to how great it was to hear from him, and the e-mail floodgates burst open.

Weigh-ins on the days of yore, and the days of now, and the hellos, and surprises, and the memories of the way we were just kept bouncing like ping pong balls from North Carolina to Texas to California, and back to New Jersey. Far be it from me to divulge the reminisces of our 18-year-old selves, or the fascinating revelations, and fabulous successes of so many people. But I admit to opening my e-mail every day with a tinge of anticipation, because it was fun to read about the past antics and present accomplishments of my high school class.

The flurry of communications has since died down. I guess we are all busy with summer, and sort of wanting to wait until we see each other face to face before more news is exchanged. But it seems this brief trip down memory lane was very healthy.  According to this recent article in The New York Times, which came out exactly when the e-mail chain was at its pinnacle, there are great benefits to indulging in nostalgia.

Research shows that a romp in the past enhances bonhomie and good cheer, and makes “life seem more meaningful and death less frightening … people (whom) speak wistfully of the past … typically become more optimistic and inspired about the future.”

So I guess as the Class of ’73 congregates, schmoozes, slugs a few cocktails, and trades tales of the good-old days, when we knew 58 was really old, we should also be patting ourselves on the back for engaging in such a healthy pastime.