Vintage Bowels...er...I mean Bowls

Aging is sad in many ways. There are things to look forward to of course, but so many others cease to be relevant and no longer bring us happiness. On the other hand, sometimes, a memory and all that goes with it can still bring us that joy.  

My friend thought I was crazy I'm sure. Ever since I can remember, part of our interaction has been about downsizing, minimizing, and de-junking our houses. I have made some, albeit not huge progress. For that, I apologize in advance to any family members who will have to pay for dumpsters after I'm gone. Just know that it could have been a lot worse.

This past week, we (friend & I) had occasion to visit a barn called Craftworks. The lower floor consisted of all the sorts of things people eventually get rid of, donate to thrift stores, and sell at yard sales. The upper level had a lot of lovely new items like furnishings, pottery, knick knacks, and giftware. It's an amazing huge place providing lots of fun and nostalgia, and it's totally worth visiting.

While there, I spotted two items downstairs. Alas, I finally saw the Tom and Jerry punch bowl set that I had been yammering about and actually wrote about in a blog (August 16th, 2019, "Tom and Jerry, Where Are You?"). I had enjoyed the Tom and Jerry drink on a trip that year, but I decided to pass on the set when my friend said, "Our experience was a wonderful memory but we don't need to own something we probably will only use once a year." She had an excellent point, one which I had already realized.*** 

I moved on, eyes scanning the room. Records? Jewelry? Ornaments? Pots and Pans? Vintage Clothing? Furnishings? Then, I spotted it! Excitedly, I made my way toward a large yellow pyrex bowl. Yes, a bowl. I picked it up. I held it. I admired it. I cradled it. I didn't need it. I bought it.                                                      

Why?

When I was between the ages of two and six, my family lived in a couple of different shacks on an island in Red Lake. By shack, I mean...well, shack. They were something that author Jeannette Walls would have considered luxurious. We dragged water from the lake to boil for cooking and washing dishes. 

Entertainment consisted of birthday parties, church, Saturday night dances, and card nights.  Everyone congregated at our home for card nights because it was probably the one with the largest space for several card tables. Not to brag, but our outhouse was also the nicest and we had heat from not only a wood stove, but also a new oil burning one. Those draws, plus the fact that mom always created the most magnificent coffee cakes and tortes were probably the reason for our frequent visitors. Since we had no fridge, it also meant that company had to take home leftovers. 

One night, my parents won a bridge game. The next day mom excitedly displayed her winnings. It was a set of four colourful pyrex mixing bowls, just the thing for an avid baker. They were bright. They were beautiful. They were certainly appealing to me as a small child.

 After that, whenever I helped with the dishes, I begged mom to let me dry the big yellow bowl. I was five years old and the bowl was really, really, big. She'd always give me the smaller red or blue one. I eventually worked my way up to the green, but never the yellow.

I know the bowls moved to Toronto with my parents. They also moved to the suburbs. They were still around when my mom passed away. Then, they disappeared. 

A couple of years ago, I found the red bowl at a thrift store. Now I have the yellow. Not mom's originals, but still...

Sounds strange, but I am making it my mission to find the rest of this set. I'll probably never use them and they may end up at the dump one day, but I hope not, especially since I discovered that the vintage set now sells for between three hundred and seven hundred dollars. My research also unearthed some other cool info. 

Original Cost in the 1950's

Thrift stores and garage sales, here I come!

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*** NOTE - I still have the Tom and Jerry mix that I purchased in 2019 in my freezer. 

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Aging Ain't For Sissies

 Found this blog along with about a hundred others that I started last year but didn't finish or publish. It's from October 2021. Thankfully, all is well with my leg now. I haven't laughed nearly enough these days, although the memory of this incident has helped.

My blogs might be on restart mode. We'll see how this goes. Gone are the days of trip info and celebrations. I don't want to write about bad news, the virus with which some people seem to be obsessed, the latest in trivia, sports teams, or movie stars. I also don't want to make this depressing. I hugely admire "older" female writers like Loretta Laroche and the now deceased Erma Bombeck. In fact, I once took a writing course and told the instructor that I enjoyed the writing style of these women. He looked down his nose at me and proceeded to tell the class about his science fiction, fantasy, vampire, and alien novel which he had completed and was trying to get published.

I knew that laughing is a good tonic (an old person term to be sure). I am going to try to paint some pictures with words describing events in my life. 

 I've always had issues with focus...this is nothing new. I've been called a squirrel more than once, although I think the word more likely comes from distracted puppies who are busy, but then get distracted when they see a squirrel.

Other than things like going down the downstairs to the freezer three times to get butter, and resurfacing from aforementioned basement on each occasion with clean laundry, garbage, and soft drinks, but no butter, I have all the usual aches and pains, a little Sunday to Saturday weekly pill suitcase, and memory farts that most "older" adults develop.

 Yesterday, my moans, groans, and creaking bones, weren't the only sounds emanating from me. I did something which caused me to laugh so hard, I forgot about all my aches and pains.

Part 1

I have some pulled tendons and a tear in the meniscus in my right leg. Add that to the moderate to severe arthritic knee and OUCH. I've gone to physio...fun. Armed with a wad of exercise sheets that I've been attempting regularly, plus icing my leg each day, there has resulted in some improvement. Yesterday morning, after icing my leg, I was feeling a tad chilly and crawled back under my covers. Since I was wide awake, I decided to use my time wisely and pulled out my empty boxes to sort my pills into the appropriate days of the week. I placed them on my nightstand.

Part 2

As I neared the end of my sorting and organizing from bed, I dropped a pill...on the floor. Annoyed, I hung my head and torso down the side of the bed, being careful not to uncover my cold legs...an odd angle but it worked. I located aforementioned errant pill just under the wooden bed frame, picked it up, and proceeded to tell my upper body to get back onto the bed. As much as I told my body to do this, it refused to budge.

Part 3

I tried lifting myself by pushing on the bed frame, and I attempted pulling myself onto the nightstand, but it was all in vain. I was left with the only option I could think of...crawl out of bed, onto the floor. I put my palms on the floor and walk myself forward, being careful not to further injure my leg. As I did this, my pajama bottoms decided they wanted for the most part, to stay in bed without me. I started to laugh and laugh at the absurdity of it all.

Part 4

As I landed on the floor and turned myself over, still unsure how I was going to get back up, the words from the old commercial, "I've fallen and I can't get up" were ringing in my ears. My pants were around my ankles, I was grabbing for anything that could pull me up, and hubby walked into the room. Without batting an eye at the contorted half clad mess on the floor, he asked, "Are you doing your exercises?"

I laughed and laughed for the next five minutes. He must have thought I was insane. Nonetheless, as it often is, the day was much better after that. 

Stuff, Nonsense, and Thoughts on Puzzles.

I'm not one to tar every feather with the same brush or however the saying goes.  I must confess though, having experienced a lot of adventures, worked at many jobs, and tasted innumerable exotic foods, I'm pretty set in my ways about some, but not all things. 

I'm at an age where I might say, "Why should I go to a restaurant and order frog's legs, when in fact I know I prefer chicken?" By the way, only people who haven't eaten frog's legs say that they taste just like chicken. That's like claiming lobster is exactly like eating liver or vice versa. 

I can also tell you there are certain experiences which I didn't like the first time, and don't need to do again, but that's another blog topic.

I  enjoy word puzzles, crosswords, and the like. In the more recent technological years, Candy Crush was the rage and now, I am playing Wordle along with the rest of the planet (except for Homer Simpson) it seems.  ***(found on facebook but don't know who owns it to give credit)

As with so many things in the age of technology, I kind of miss the hands on experiences. I tried and disliked books on tablets. I'd rather have a bookshelf rife with paperbacks that I may or may not finish reading before the big dirt nap.

Recently, I retrieved a jigsaw puzzle while decluttering my office. Well, this could be ok to work on from time to time I thought to myself.  How hard can it be? It's tangible and I can putter at my own speed. Besides, my brain needs all the stimulation it can get these days.  ***(note - need to try to think to myself more often)

THE PROCESS

DAY ONE - I proceeded to dump all 500 pieces onto our coffee table and examined the box. First, I noted that there was a huge "Art Gallery" banner across the top which covered some essential picture parts. How annoying. Besides that, none of the pieces looked like the colours on the box. In fact, they all looked like brown cardboard. Oops. 

 After spending half an hour flipping them all the right way around, I was done for the day. Jigsaws are exhausting.

DAY TWO - I spent a brief time sorting by colour and potential buildings, bridges, people, water, trees, and so on. Time for another rest.

DAY THREE - Fun. I found some cute little pictures that looked like parts of people and animals and proceeded to assemble those. Then, I automatically started pulling all the flat edged pieces out of the mix, piling them around the edges of the table. 

 At this point, the memories started flooding  back. I remembered all the reasons I hated jigsaw puzzles and have avoided them over the years. It wasn't that I had to turn all the pieces over before beginning. It also wasn't that many of the shapes look the same and no amount of fist pounding gets them to fit into places where they don't belong.  The truth was more complex. 

I remember attempting, and abandoning a few of these with my parents when I was a kid. I was always excited and eager to get started. Then came the first blow. Dad would inform me I had to help make the frame with all the side flat pieces first, before filling in the middle. Ugh...I hated that and usually walked away.   

                                                

As an adult, my years prior to retirement involved working with small bodies, small fingers, undeveloped brains, and many wooden puzzles. I was often frustrated and developed a further dislike for puzzles when, at the end of a work day, I'd find a dozen or more of the dreaded manipulatives with over 100 assorted random loose pieces piled on shelves. Some, were easier to reassemble than others, but I did not enjoy this task at all. Eventually, I realized that fewer options should be made available; that it should be reinforced that the children remove one puzzle at a time and ask for assistance rather than toss them willy nilly back on the shelf; and that there's always that one kid, who is able to assemble these in minutes...that was the one to ask for help.

DAYS - FOUR, FIVE, SIX - I walked past the puzzle several times a day, staring at it with intention. At some point I found a few pieces with words, dates, manufacturer etc. As it happened, those were in a border piece near the bottom left, so I put them together. Again, exhausting.

DAY SEVEN - Hubby had a look and located a few more pieces for edging. Grrr...he clearly subscribes to the "make the frame first" philosophy. I'm beginning to wonder whether there's a reason.

DAY EIGHT - Several people have told me that they become obsessed and need to sit until they're finished a puzzle. Apparently, I don't have that issue. I'm just glad I don't have need of the coffee table in the near future...or possibly ever. Why do people have living rooms anyhow? ***(yet another blog topic)

DAY NINE - A friend came to visit.  She sat on the floor by the coffee table for about five minutes and here's what happened. One edge piece remained missing. She insisted it was lost, not there, never included. Nonetheless, glad that most of the border is done.

So now, it's DAY 10. The plan is as follows. I will continue to stare at and add the occasional piece to this puzzle. I may or may not finish it one day, although I can almost guarantee there won't be another. Odds are good that I'll now work on it with more enthusiasm. After all, the dreaded border/frame, seems to have been miraculously almost completed.

UPDATE

DAYS 15 & 16

I found it! The missing border piece was there all along. I feel so accomplished. Progress is slow and steady. I've come to realize that morning is my best time to sit and search. I have more patience and more light. Honestly, despite the appearance of a little helper, I did it all myself!

FINAL THOUGHTS

I finished. |I completed the puzzle after a mere...oh, let's just say three weeks. I learned something new. Dagnabit ! These jigsaws have a grain. Had I realized this in the first place, I could have turned all the pieces in the obvious directions. Would I have been finished faster? Not likely, but still...an interesting fact that I didn't know about before. Will I do another? Not in the near future, but who knows?

Garden Shows

Sometimes, when I think I've arrived at that point in life where my world and my activity level is starting to shrink, I panic. Then, after giving it some further thought, I realize it really hasn't. What has occurred is that I've become more discriminating and selective. This is possibly a good thing. After all, we want to make sure we use all remaining time on earth wisely don't we?

It's that time of year again, Spring. I'm grateful for each new one I get to experience. Although the threat of forecast snow for today does not thrill me, I know that there are those obsessed gardeners who are getting very restless if not frustrated. I'm not one of them. That's not to say I don't enjoy and appreciate pretty yards and flowers because I do.

Last month, I attended Canada Blooms at the CNE grounds in Toronto. Since I went with a friend, we had a wonderful time as we always do, taking advantage of photo ops with giant costumed bees and and staring at each other with curiosity and puzzlement over the garden club creations. Our enjoyment had little to do with the show. In fact, we found the exhibits to be huge, over the top, and unrealistic for the average home gardener. It seemed more suited to owners of greenhouses, lawn care specialists, landscape designers, and people with their own professional gardeners. Then there was the amount of walking, walking, and more walking...a huge facility with lots of trees.

On the weekend, hubby and I attended the Peterborough Garden Show. We've been in the past and have found it to be compact and useful. It takes place in an arena and all space is used efficiently. One of us cleverly suggested purchasing advanced tickets so we did so at a local flower shop on our way to the show....a wise move. We got in quickly at opening time and avoided long lines waiting to purchase tickets. http://www.peterboroughgardenshow.com/

We moved through the facility easily, finding many fascinating displays and people more than willing to answer questions. There was something for everyone...exhibits for the beginner and for the avid gardener alike. There were displays of vegetables, flowers, garden ornaments, conservation, and much more. It was terrific and it was manageable. There was even a man dressed in lederhosen to advertise the upcoming OHA convention taking place...where else?...in Kitchener.

Even the food, in this case cupcakes (second last photo), looked like lovely flowers. The socks, were colourful and the pairs did not match...loved them so much I bought a some. Wish I'd purchased more. I laughed at the whimsical items that make people happy. The floral arrangements were colourful, simple, and obvious.

Finally, there were the signs. There were indoor signs and outdoor signs. Signs seem to be the modern way of expressing one's opinion and of sharing truths without really saying anything. These two signs caught my eye. One reminded me of a family member, and the other is obvious. If I am available in April, the Peterborough Garden Show will definitely become an annual event.

Summer To-Do List Revisited

At the beginning of the summer, I made a list. ( My Summer To-Do List 6/29/15).

 I also wrote,

I can't see making a list of ridiculous, time consuming things. But then, who am I to judge someone else's interests? If someone really feels they want to have a weed picking contest, or a frozen t-shirt competition, go for it. Perhaps others will think my list is silly.

A few days ago, I went to a friend's cottage for a short visit. We sat and gabbed. At some point, as all good friends do, she pointed something out.  Interestingly enough, what she pointed out had already settled into my thoughts. She told me that my summer to-do list seemed very small and ordinary for me. My lofty, grandiose schemes, creativity, spontaneity, and adventures no longer seemed to be a part of my persona. To a point, she was correct.

After recently reviewing my summer list, I decided that I in fact made a list for the sake of making it. Most of those things were not anything I really wanted to do, plan to do, or need to do. I was desperately clinging onto something. It's true that I didn't want to fritter away the summer. Winter gets frittered away enough through bad weather captivity. By using a list,  I thought I was planning a direction, a guideline. I wasn't.

What I actually accomplished was to come up with mundane things that some people might be happy to complete. I made a list of "safe", old lady activities. Has it come to that? Have I become fearful of creativity, spontaneity, and adventure? Am I so old now and so in tune with my own mortality, that I feel my ship has sailed?

I've come to realize that eventually, our world gets smaller and smaller. There's the joke about regressing to an infantile state....soft food, drooling, crib like bed, diapers, when one gets old. Actually, if you think about it, that's all pretty true. Senior years for some become more and more like infancy.

My dad and stepmom moved to a condo full of older adults. Their world was pretty much contained in that building. Everything from friends, to entertainment was right there with little need to think, plan or venture out without a preplanned tour. Of course there were some people within those walls who were freer and more willing to live a larger life.  I'm not saying there's anything wrong with either choice. It happens. Some gain comfort from knowing what each day will bring, rather than having to deal with uncertainty. This lifestyle offered the best opportunities, safe opportunities until death. Some people's worlds become even smaller if they end up in a nursing home or are hospitalized. Their community becomes the community of doctors, nurses, orderlies.

So my point I suppose is this. At this present time, I am very fortunate that my community continues to be the whole world. I have to stop living as though it isn't. I don't need to be tied to a place of safety and comfort where I can enjoy myself on a miniscule scale until I die. I need to stop making ridiculous lists that contain baking and berry picking as highlights.

 I don't imagine there'll be many more activities crossed off that list this summer, unless it's something I really want to do....like bubble blowing!

We Get Too Soon Old and Too Late Smart

I went to university in an Amish area. In fact, my children's grandma Rose came from a family who was shunned for having a rose painted on their horse and buggy...not on the horse, but on the buggy. Perhaps their fondness for roses explains her moniker.

The community members had a slight accent which actually baffled me since many of their generations had been born in Canada. I always enjoyed the story about an uncle who went to a shop and said "Can I please haff a pound of budder?"

To his bewilderment, the sales clerk proceeded to give him half a pound of butter.

While at school, I picked up a few oft used expressions. Although the wording seemed somehow twisted, the sayings always made sense. For example, when sitting down to dinner, who wouldn't understand "eat yourself full"?

For financial matters, they might have resisted the temptation to spend money impulsively or frivolously with a line heard early in life. "I went to town and bought myself poor."

Rushing to get a task done, or preparing too quickly for an event often can often cause problems which create the opposite effect. The Amish have an expression for that too. "The hurrier I go, the behinder I get."

One of my favourites, which is of more relevance to me now is "vee get too soon oldt und too late schmardt"...easily translatable. This rings more true with each passing day. It's particularly the case when it comes to health but certainly works for money, jobs, relationships, and life in general. I think the Amish have many things sorted out.

Why does it have to take us until it's too late to figure out a healthy lifestyle? Who amongst us hasn't been told to drink plenty of water each day? Are we ever told why? How about don't look at the sun, at an eclipse or any other bright phenomenon?  Or, don't drink alcohol when using certain medicine and don't take too many aspirin, tylenol, or cold remedies and definitely don't combine them with alcohol. Again I ask. "Why?" We were never told.

Moms were always best at trying to give us reasons. An example is the ever popular "don't look at the sun, you'll go blind". In fact, as young boys will attest, the "you'll go blind" line was used for purposes other than staring at eclipses. Nonsense and we knew it.

Mom told me not to sit on the ground, on cement walls and the like. "You'll get hemorrhoids",  she announced for all to hear. I was five. It sounded ominous but nonetheless, as we all now know, abdominal pressure of varying kinds causes these problems. It has nothing to do with cold concrete.

How difficult would it have been for someone, (preferrably a doctor in our early adulthood) to tell us,  "Drink plenty of water. It flushes the salts out of your system and keeps your blood pressure down."  or  "Wear sunglasses and don't look directly into the sun or you'll develop cataracts at an earlier age." or  "All medicines are processed through your kidneys or your liver and adding alcohol to the mix can harm those nearly irreplaceable organs." Why aren't we given these simple explanations?

Yes, it's true. We get too soon old and too late smart about so many things in our lives. We remember all our failures and imagine how we could have done things differently. We think about much and often daydream about what it would be like to have a "do over". Those "what ifs" seem to fly around our heads as we have more and more time to obsess about them in our senior years. All we can do is begin from here and do the best we can with the time that's left. It's not too late to be smart even if we are older.

Now,  I believe I will outen the lights und have a nap.

I QUIT !

I have become a quitter. Yes, I admit it. I am a quitter. The beauty of it is that I am actually finally able to quit. I'm not doing anything that's required for my livelihood. I'm no longer supporting a family with my activities.

During this past week I sent a letter to the local newspaper. Part of it looked like this.

     I have appreciated the opportunity to write columns for your newspaper during the past year and a half.

     At this time,  I wish to suspend my writing to pursue other activities.  If possible, I might like to send a guest submission from time to time.

Interestingly enough, I received a response which included regrets and confirmation that I can send them anything at anytime. I received no offer of a pay increase. The good news...I'm able to cross this off my bucket list. I've been published.

My volunteer hospital job, has also fallen by the wayside. I've lost interest. I have not as yet officially quit, but I plan to do so. It occurred to me, that obligations, such as regular work shifts and column deadlines, do not fit into my current lifestyle. Substitute workers are hard for me to find each time I have company, go on a trip or want to do something else on certain days.

The last time I was at the shop, I jokingly suggested that I should come back in ten years when I have nothing else to do but stay home and volunteer. Sometimes, we are far too fixated on doing what we think we ought to do. Often we see things as obligations, when they should no longer fall into that category. In the process, we miss opportunities.

So now, I'm down to five desired or essential activities (in no particular order). Housework is not on the list, 

One, is ukelele group. It's undemanding. You show up or you don't. I like it. I need to practice more but it's fun, costs nothing and is pressure free. My tante gave me some money and told me to buy myself a gift. I now own a ukelele.

Number two is blog writing. I've severely neglected this of late and I actually enjoy it and am hoping to take more time to get back into it. This is today's. Tomorrow's is also almost done.  

Thirdly, it seems, that you get to a place in life where visits to various doctors, optometrists, physiotherapists and the like take over. Suddenly, appointments are your excursions, your outings, your social life. I believe I'm getting close. I don't like trying to schedule these around other things. Time to simplify.

Fourth is to spend time with whatever friends and family I chose to spend time with. We can do things, or do nothing. We can bake, dance, sing, act foolish, dine out, mall walk, or just hang around and reflect on our lives.

Fifth and final is working on achieving my bucket list...and my new (soon to be published) bucket list add ons. I've already missed one opportunity. (Honest Eds is gone, so no lining up for turkey). Wouldn't want that to happen again. I don't want regrets.

A friend recently said something like this to me. Getting old is like waiting on the edge of a cliff. You never know when that final push will happen and, the older you get, the closer it will likely be. You only have so much time left. You only have so many books left to read. You only have so many vacations left to go on. You only have so many meals left  to eat. How do you want to spend that little time? Do you want to go on doing what you're doing or do you want to change? Do you want to make that time worthwhile for yourself? The answer is clear.

Pants, Where Art Thou?

This post title is not referring to Madonna's lack of lower body attire at the Billboard Music Awards.  Looking at her, however, I was wondering whether she is beginning to develop problems similar to mine.

Yesterday began like any other typical day in the life of...well, me. I got up, had breakfast, walked the dog along the lake, went to the bank machine, watered the outdoor plants and headed for Curves. Since I planned to do more errands after the gym, I took my clothing along. Shirt...check, jacket...check, shoes...check, belt...check, makeup...check, jewellery...check, pants...check. My purple bag was packed and ready.

After the usual thirty minute workout, I went to get dressed. The change area was a tiny, dimly lit space with a bench for peoples' belongings and a modesty curtain. As I removed each item from my bag, my mind wandered. I remembered and longed for my favourite silver earrings. These, along with so many of my possessions have disappeared in recent years. I often envision a huge crevasse...someplace in my house wherein my treasures have taken up residence thus enjoying their own retirement. After all, how else could we explain the odd socks, the missing keys and documents, the jewellery and more?

I began to change my clothing. Shirt...check, jacket...check, shoes...check, belt...check, makeup...check, jewellery...check, pants...er...pants? Panic attack. The bag was empty and there were no pants. I searched through each item again. No pants. I turned the bag upside down...no pants.

"Where are my pants?" I heard myself saying all too loudly. "Drat, I must have left them on the bed."

I received a few odd stares as I strode out of the change cubicle wearing my shirt, belt, blazer, jewellry, makeup and spandex shorts.

Home I went, back into the bedroom only to find...nothing. There were no pants on the bed. I rechecked my purple bag...no pants. Another mystery. I tossed on an alternate, less stlylish pair and went about my business.

Today, I picked up my empty purple bag. Inside, I saw them...pants! There, were the black pants as obvious as could be. There they were as if to say, "I've been waiting for you." I was baffled. I was stumped. Apparently, they returned from the abyss after having changed their mind about joining my other missing belongings in their retirement.

On the other hand, perhaps it was as simple as being unable to see black items in dim light and in a bag with a black lining.

Looking in the Rearview Mirror

I can't tell you the exact moment it happened. It just did. It was like a switch flipped. I was suddenly looking at life from the other direction, from the latter years. I was no longer viewing the world, its wonders, it problems, its possibilities, its craziness, in the same way. Rather, I was seeing it from the perspective of a mature person with an arsenal of life and experiences behind her. I was looking through the eyes of a person who is closer to the end rather than the beginning of her existence.

Don't get me wrong. I don't have a sudden urge to sport the obligatory gray permed hair, stretch pants and flora or fauna motifed sweatshirts. I'm also not sitting around waiting until I die. I'm not even anywhere near the end of my bucket list (I recently went back and actually crossed off a few items). My imagination, my childlike curiosity and my sense of adventure still exist. It's just that I sometimes spend time looking back  At this point, there's more behind me than there is likely to be in front. When I do this, I dwell on that which I should have done differently. Sometimes, but not as frequently, I celebrate my achievements. This makes me sad.

She's Not Getting Older, She's Getting...

Iris Apfel is my hero. For those of you who don't know who she is, this is Iris.

Photo by Martha Camarillo taken in the 70's

Iris Apfel is a 91 year old New Yorker and long time interior designer. Her wardrobe is so eccentric, flamboyant and memorable that parts of it have been displayed at the Metropolitan Museum. During recent years, I have been impressed by interviews with this very vibrant and intelligent woman. I am also awed by her daring style. She has become so well known in her later life that she refers to herself as a "geriatric starlet." Her best fashion hint for anyone is to "accessorize". She clearly doesn't believe that "less is more", but rather, the bigger, bolder and brighter, the better. 
I suppose what appeals to me most about Iris is her zest for life. I'm reminded of a quote by Loretta Laroche, "life is short, wear your party pants." Iris always seems to wear her party pants. She lives life more fully than some people half her age.  

"In The Gloss", January 2012, quoted Iris as saying, "Getting older ain’t for sissies...You have to push yourself when you’re older, because it’s very easy to fall into the trap....I think doing things and being active is very important. When your mind is busy, you don’t hurt so much."

Words to live by.

So now, Iris is "pushing herself" with lines of cosmetics and eyeglasses, by lecturing at a university and by selling jewellery on a home shopping channel. Way to go Iris!

Some time after retirement, I disposed of my thematic shirts, socks and jewellery. The style I once had could best be described as "early primary teacher" and was now no longer appropriate. Gone are the penguin socks, the scarecrow shirt, the carrot earrings, the duck necklace....well, maybe not the duck necklace. I noticed that my former fun and playful clothing items were being replaced by somewhat dismall looking dark and dreary clothing. Short of running out to the dollar store, buying a red boa and tossing it over whatever I wore, (something on my bucket "to do" list), I began to consider. How could I become more trendy, if not vivid? How could I better present myself in a way that matched what's inside my head?

I looked around at some young people in the hopes of finding direction. The droopy drawer pants style wasn't for me. Neither was I interested in becoming ***" The Illustrated Man" or in this case, woman, despite the overabundance of local tattoo parlors. Spikey moussed blue hair was a possibility, but why push it? It'll be that colour soon enough. Piercings? I have some those and I'm not good with unnecessary pain. Besides, these are fads which masses of people follow, all the while claiming that they are trying to express their individuality. As Iris says, "If you don't dress like everyone else, you don't have to think like everyone else."

Finally, I made a decision. I will make over my wardrobe one piece at a time. I will adopt the Iris Apfel "rules"...do not go sleeveless when you're older, mix, match or mismatch everything, add texture. Cheap clothes are just fine BUT you MUST accessorize!
  

Thanks Iris. I believe I have found a new me. What do you think?

Hilde Von Apfelkroft

***a book by science fiction author Ray Bradbury, penned sometime around my birth year

Reality Check

Have you ever had one of those weeks where life, truth and reality smack you in the face? I believe I had that this week. I looked in the mirror and I saw my grandma staring back at me. Not that there's anything wrong with that, she was a vibrant, intelligent and attractive enough "older" woman. There's the thing I guess. I have come to realize that I am in fact...gulp...old.

I should consider myself fortunate I suppose. I have already outlived my mom by six years. In fact, I've outlived a lot of people. I hate to admit this, but from time to time, I find myself looking at the death notices in the newspaper. I check birth years to see how many people around my age have died while I'm still here. It's almost like winning a lottery...almost, not quite.

On Thursday, I went to a local chain drug store hoping it was Seniors' Day. It was. I could tell instantly by the offensive and excessively loud blaring music. "It's my party and I'll cry if I want to, cry if I want to..." 1963...Yuck. Did anyone really enjoy that fifty years ago? Was this some store manager's brilliant idea to make seniors feel more comfortable when shopping? The "music" was distracting and annoying.

I selected my items quickly and as I checked out, I asked the cashier, who was about my daughter's age, how she could stand listening to that. "Isn't it horrible?" she asked.

"Yes," I responded. "I must admit, I really like all the modern stuff...Train, Flo Rida, Pitbull, Fun,Wanted, LMFAO". I thought my list might impress her and make her think I was "hip" or whatever the 2012 equivalent of that word is.

"Wow, " she said, then gave me a further response that I could have lived without. "You're just like myyyyyyyyyyy grandma. She likes all those too." I picked up my senior's discounted shopping and left.

Last week, my hairdresser was unavailable and I was therefore rejected for a desperately needed hair appointment. I sent a "Help" email message that explained how my current coiff can only be described as the look that would occur if Clay Aiken and Phyllis Diller had a baby together. I then decided that my sylist is not old enough to know who Phyllis Diller is, so I went on to confess that I had resorted to nail scissors and had trimmed my own bangs. She really shouldn't always leave them so long that they grow down to my upper lip before my next scheduled appointment. Wait, perhaps those aren't my bangs. On the other hand, the bangs do cover up my runaway eyebrows. Why do my formerly non existent eyebrows feel the need to grow and be so unruly all of a sudden?

Anyhow, I suggested that if she couldn't fit me in for an appointment next Friday, I'd have to use one of my free samples of  mystery colour hair foam to disguise the current state of my "mature hair". Humph, mature hair. Who am I kidding? It's gray. Gray around the gills as the expression goes. Perhaps I should go "au naturel". Maybe I should get one of those cuts and perms. Then I'd have short, curly gray hair like other old women. Five minutes later, I received a phone call. Friday morning 11 a.m. it is. Okay, I won't go for the senior look just yet.

While I was shopping with a friend, I shared some information with her. I said that someone I haven't seen for a number of years thought I "had work done".  When the laughter subsided, my friend asked, "What was her first clue, your sagging neck, your jowl or that giant wrinkly line that runs down your face? I hear they always leave some things like that to make plastic surgery look more authentic." She chuckled again.

Yep, that was it. Reality check. That was the moment. Isn't it great when you have friends that tell you the truth, whether you want to hear it or not?

Quest for Coffee

It's once again time for that annual national event called "Rrrrrroll up the Rim" at Tim Horton's. This marks the 25th anniversary of this particular contest and reminds me of a time when I too became a member of the Tim Horton's fan club.

I started drinking coffee at some point during my 50th year of life. Before that, I had no idea what would possess anyone to consume such a foul smelling and tasting brown mud. When I turned 50, as if by some evil spell, it became just a tad more difficult to wake up in the morning.  Moving as quickly as in the past became a challenge. In fact, I had no interest in rushing. My car pretty much started going the speed limit. If I annoyed the young nintendo game playing drivers behind me, so be it. I got there when I got there.

Someone at work suggested a boost of caffeine to help me face the day. I did not own a coffee pot, so I bought some instant coffee. For awhile, I gagged down one cup each morning and it seemed to do the trick. Occasionally a bottle of "Jolt" took its place. One day, a friend aked if we could meet at Tim Horton's after work. I had seen lineups at this donut shop and was always curious as to how every street corner in town could sustain such a facility. I agreed to go and selected an adulterated form of coffee beverage called "french vanilla capuccino". Since I've long been a vanilla addict, I quite enjoyed it.  From that point on, I was hooked. I too picked up the occasional coffee treat from Tim's.

There are those who claim there's an additive in Tim's coffee that has turned an entire nation into sheep. A ridiculous suggestion. I started to join the "drive through" generation..."baaaaaa".  I eventually substitued a lower calorie large, double milk, double sweetener, a lower calorie option for my french vanilla. I too began to pick up my Timmie's on my way to work, several mornings a week.

The following spring, I discovered that Tim's customers sometimes had the additional incentive of winning valuable prizes....cars, money, barbeques and the ever popular free coffee or donut. It was that time of year again. One year, when it got near mid April the cups started to run out.  Since I had not yet won a major prize, and since I'm a stubborn only child who at that time still had an overwhelming need to win, I became more determined than ever. I dedicated my days to locating any Tim's within a reasonable distance of home or work, seeking these magical containers. The most congested traffic areas naturally ran out of the cups quickly. As I was about to give up in disgust, I remembered a little known Tim's in the town where I worked. It took me an extra 20 minutes to get to my destination on that day, but it was worth it. As I drove through, I ordered my usual large, double milk, double sweetener. Oh no! I got the old brown cup. Then I spied it through the window! The most magnificent sight I had seen in days...roll up the rim cups in size extra large. My spirit soared. My head started spinning. After regaining my composure, I realized that there was only one option. I would not be dissuaded. I parked my vehicle.

I got out of the car, went inside and gleefully ordered "extra large, double...er...triple milk, double sweetener...to go". With my familiar. size large, brown, drive through cup in one cup holder and my brilliant red and yellow extra large in the other, I triumphantly drove to work. I also consumed more than my usual amount of caffeine that day. 

The famous cup

 I did never did roll up the rim of my final cup. I was worried that it would say "Try again" and I knew that I couldn't. Besides, as long as I didn't know, I hadn't lost.                                        
So now, it's "Rrrrrroll up the rim" season again. I haven't gone to Tim's much since my retirement. I think I'll have to do that one of these days, for old time's or maybe old Tim`s sake.  

My Dad Said...

As with many elderly, particularly those with certain medical conditions, my dad occasionally said strange, random and even a few offensive things during the months prior to his death. This was most surprising since all through his life he chose his words almost too carefully. He was usually kind and tried to be tolerant and as accepting as possible of everyone...well, except for those with tattoos, piercings and droopy pants but that's another topic. As a younger man, he mentally edited and censored his thoughts ad infinitum. In fact, he used to joke that by the time his clever comment or interjection was ready, the countries of the world had changed their borders and all the maps had been reprinted.

I suppose we've all had that happen. "Why didn't I say that?" or perhaps the opposite, "Why did I just let that come out of my mouth?" I'm not certain which is worse although in my experience, no amount of backpedalling can erase the latter. Trying usually makes matters worse.

After he'd had a few mini strokes, only some of what dad said made sense and words could often be construed as random and angry. Like a small child seeking approval, he'd repeat his comments and await a response. We tried to ignore improprieties. Sometimes he spoke in tongues...well, German and it was a bonus if there were people close by who actually understood the language. But dad was always still in there. The wheels were turning.

What a struggle it must have been to connect the ideas with the words. Occasionally, when he spoke, his thoughts didn't match the topic of conversation and his comments trailed off in mid sentence, leaving us dangling or scrambling to fill in the blanks.

On days when he was completely lucid and aware, there'd be his familiar grin followed by a zinger which, as always caused us to double over laughing, tears streaming from our eyes. To his credit, dad was able to chuckle at himself as well. I remember the day I offered to move a pair of overstuffed electric armchairs out of the corners of his condo.

"I can do it. I don't need your help. I can move them myself." he said.

To which I responded, "Dad, you can't even move your own self."

We both laughed.

Once in awhile, he'd mutter and make one of his all too familiar mind boggling comments. I'd stop in amazement to hear yet another valuable piece of insight into the state of the economy, the environment, the election, space and planets, evolution, the Japanese work ethic, the string theory or matters of spiritual significance. I would nod my head smiling enviously, wishing that I had been fortunate enough to inherit a larger portion of that brain power.

My young adult children recently mentioned that they found it unusual that their Opa commented on a new hooded robe that we gave my stepmom last Christmas. "Remember when Opa asked if it was a hoodie? Nobody his age usually even knows that word or what it is."

"Yeah, that was cool," they repeated in unison. "He called it a hooooooodie." And we all chuckled at the memory.

One Saturday this past summer as dad sat in my kitchen reading his "Scientific American" magazine, he sadly admitted, "I can't do it anymore. I once could have written this stuff myself and now I have to read it over and over and I still don't always understand it." It was as painful for him to admit that as it was for me to hear.

Some of dad's insights were simple and to the point. Some were based on a lifetime of experiences and some were a result of his newer more recent day to day life as an elderly person with certain issues. On aging, he shared, "Getting older sucks. Each year you find yourself doing more socially unacceptable things." I'd quietly hand him a tissue and he'd smile appreciatively, and wipe his drippy nose without need for further communication.

Dad knew things. He always knew things. He made it a point to know things. Even when he had trouble remembering, connecting and processing, he still knew. I could see it in his eyes.

Near the end, of course, he was no longer hiding behind the veil of social acceptance. He did what he could and said whatever he wanted. I liked his bluntness, his jokes and his opinions and I liked learning what he really thought. It certainly wouldn't have knowingly been his choice, but it was what it was. And what it was, was 80 years of honesty, stored, saved up and broadcast to the world during his last two years of life.

The Trees of Life

When my children were very young, it became necessary to have two Christmas trees. The lovely homemade crafts and school offerings were so bountiful, that they deserved a separate artificial tree. Our other tree, the result of an annual hayride and forest trek, contained more traditional ornaments such as Mickey Mouse replicas, Star Trek space ships, spinning ballerinas and model ponies.

Although I enjoyed letting the little hands help decorate our trees with the aforementioned homemades and collectibles, I must admit, I admired and envied the beautifully trimmed trees in specialty stores. I looked forward to the day when I would be able to have a "grown up" Christmas tree. Eventually, that day came.

I always adored the sparkle, the shine and wealth that the colour gold represented, so I began to purchase my own beautiful ornaments. I had just one tree, my tree. It was fairly expensive, life-like but artificial. Each year, I added one specially sought out new glass ball. Sometimes they were simply extravagant indulgences but occasionally, they had a special meaning to my life. Before long, my tree began to resemble Fort Knox and as my son pointed out "could probably be seen from outer space".

I moved to a smaller home and I needed to purchase a more fitting tree. It was still quite large to accommodate my collections, but narrower and space saving. My now young adult children convinced me that it was time to add a little colour. My choice was red. The tree looked even better. It was classy. It was tasteful. It was spectacular!

Three years ago, I set up my tree for the first time as a married person. I spent hours decorating it in my annual loving fashion, admiring it and moving things around in order to make it look just right. As I prepared to put on the finishing touches of gold tinsel, I suddenly realized that I was not alone. Hubby appeared from our storage room having unearthed a box of his ornaments. He then proceeded to hang blue, green, silver, PINK and other assorted colours amongst my gold and red treasures. My mouth gaped. "There. Don't those look nice?" he remarked. He interpreted my stunned silence as approval and moved away, quite pleased with his efforts. Of course, I had to be fair and change my thinking. It was his tree too. Strange thing though, I noted that over the course of the next few weeks, the "odd" coloured ornaments gradually and mysteriously edged toward the back of the tree and under large branches.

This past week, we concluded that because of the nature and locations of this year's Christmas celebrations, we would downsize. I agreed to a small tree on a table in our living room window. It was easy to assemble, quick to decorate with small wooden carved people and angels since it came prelit with cranberries and pinecones. It's quite nice, but I look at this tree sadly, wondering how long before we are headed toward a twelve inch seniors' coffee table tree or possibly, no tree at all.

While staring at the red base of our new Canadian Tire tree and imagining how much better it would look spray painted gold, I have reached a decision. I'm not ready to give it up yet. Next year, it's back to two trees. The small one will remain in the window. The other will be large, glittery and auspicious in our rec room. After all, what better way to celebrate Christmas than with a sparkling artificial tree next to a blazing electric fireplace?

What you talking about?

I talk to myself. This is a skill which I have perfected in my later life. I noticed that I have been participating in this activity more in recent years. Perhaps it's not a skill at all. Maybe it's just a lack of caring what people think anymore. It works well for me. What used to be thoughts in my head are now thoughts for all the world to hear. Not all of my thoughts get out there, but I usually don't regret the ones that do. Sometimes, I mutter and sometimes I just give voice to an idea. I don't think I'm the only offender but then that might be wishful thinking. After all, I wouldn't want to imagine that I'm the only strange person around.

I'm not certain what brings on this sudden need to share my thoughts with the produce in the vegetable aisle of a supermarket, or sing along loudly to the store's Musak, I just do.

Sure there are those jokesters who say that when we talk to ourselves at least someone is listening. Or, you're not crazy as long as you don't answer yourself. I've noted that there are even articles, albeit on the internet that's say it's healthy, another form of mental stimulation. I wonder whether those words of wisdom were written by other self talkers.

This morning, I was wandering outdoors. Since I am currently in Nassau, I went onto the resort grounds to enjoy the scenery, the stillness and the air. It was lovely. Palm trees were wafting, waves were rolling in, the sand was undisturbed except for the footprints of a sandpiper that scurried toward the sea and the water was turquoise. Peaceful. "Exquisite", I heard myself think, then say as I extolled the wonders of this paradise.

Seagulls squawked and hovered, despite the resort's efforts to keep them away with numerous plastic owls. I found myself wondering. "Hey you stupid seagulls, don't you know that you're supposed to be fearful of owls? Hmmm....Caribbean seagulls and owls? Must have been some terrific salesman that conned them into buying those plastic monstrosities." Ooops....I realized I wasn't wondering I was once again speaking aloud.

Perhaps there are just things that we appreciate more as we age. Perhaps we're more observant. Perhaps our life's experiences have taught us to see more, do more, feel more and say more. At any rate, I like it. By using another sense, hearing, we affirm what our thought was. Probably a good way to stick things into our elderly heads that might otherwise disappear. Or maybe, it's just fun.

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

There are probably more than a few folically challenged men who have looked at old photos of themselves and longed for, or at least remembered the days when they had....well, hair. They are not alone. As with males, there are only some women who actually develop the lovely thick salt and pepper tresses as they age. As for the rest of us, there seem to be two choices. Option one is having gray, yellow, blue or even red permed curls cut close to the scalp. Option two is the thin, lifeless, flyaway strands in a style that appears to have been created by one of grandma's bowls and some nail scissors. I confess that have thrown in the towel and fallen into the latter category. Here's my story.

During one of my more recent decades, after my hair had passed its prime but my vanity was still hanging on for dear life, I decided to invest in some hair extensions. By definition "hair extensions" are strands of human hair placed onto a person's head in order to elongate or thicken existing hair. Seemed like a plausible solution to a distressing problem. Nobody told me that I would be spending an amount of money that could have paid off a small country's national debt. Nonetheless, I had these things melted onto my head all around the bottom and underneath my existing hair. I selected several shades of my own colour which then gave the illusion of streaks. I had hoped that the extensions would make the sides so thick, full and beautifully highlighted that they would provide a distraction from the thinning top of my head or the enviable recent sprouts on my chin.

All was well for a number of weeks. I proudly sported my new head of hair. However, hair grows and as the hair grows, so do the extensions. Eventually, pieces which had not originated from my scalp, began sticking precariously out of my head in 27 different directions. Not only that, most of the escapees were a brownish colour. This gave the illusion of antlers, although I'm fairly certain that no self respecting moose would agree to have his head mounted on a restaurant wall looking quite like this. I remembered being told by my hairdresser not to use cream rinse as it was very bad for extensions. So what did I do in my desperate attempt to remove the offending hair? I emptied several bottles of Pantene onto my head trying to free myself from this Medusa-esque appearance. At this point, I was able to tug, fold, spindle and mutilate them further, but sadly, not a single one came off.

While stressed and stuck in traffic one night, I unwittingly mauled the extensions and managed to get some of them to release their fierce grip. As an environmentally conscious adult, it occurred to me that birds' nests might be a perfect use for my newly removed locks. The traffic picked up and I disposed of at least 30 pieces of these real, yet fake clumps, allowing them to be sucked out my driver's side window. I wonder how many commuters received "surprise" windshield deposits as I happily freed dozens of extensions from my sun roof and windows during my next few days of commuting.

When I was certain that they were finally all gone, I gave a sigh of relief and a chuckle realizing the truth of the quote, " The only cure for vanity is laughter, and the only fault that is laughable is vanity." Oh, and yes, it would have been a great help if someone had only told me that hairdressers have a tool that removes extensions as easily as they were originally attached.

Ole Ladyyyy Whooooooooo.....

Being more of a suburban type girl, I have found it an adjustment living in a small town. It's usually an eventful day if I have an excuse to go to Walmart or to the bank. Coupled with the lack of excitement is the fact that this place has the highest percentage of seniors of anywhere in Ontario. It's true. With each excursion, I've made it my mission to see if I can find someone who does not have the definitive female hair, gray and curly or male hair, gray and straight. Should I detect someone bald, of either gender, it's always a bonus.

Yesterday, I made my weekly trek downtown and I use the term "downtown" loosely. Bank day. The traffic was particularly heavy and it took me 4 minutes instead of the usual 3 to get there. I hate rush hour. I felt a sense of deja vu as it were, very "Groundhog Day". In this case, it was the repeat of any similar trip I've taken over the past 2 years. I sought parallel parking on King Street. Murphy's law was at work. There were parking spots on the opposite side of the road but not in the direction I was driving. I proceeded to the next intersection, turned around and by the time I got back 30 seconds later, the spots I had seen were not only gone, but there were now spaces on the original side. I gave up and abandoned the van in a makeshift bumpy gravel lot, aka potential condo site across from city hall.

After walking into my financial institution I took my place in line. Woohoo, third! I soon learned, third assured me of nothing. I stood. I waited. I shuffled from one leg to the other. I stretched. I looked around dreamily. I stared in the overhead "robber identification monitor"wondering where the camera was hidden. All the while I was turning, squatting, waving, stretching and making faces to entertain myself. Everyone was oblivious, which, now that I think of it was probably a good thing. I had an idea. I yawned loudly. This did nothing to rouse the employees or speed up the process. In true small town fashion, pardon the cliche, someone was sharing the latest gossip with teller Leanne. Another person showed 100 of the newest photos of her grandkids to teller Leona and a third customer was sharing accounts of his recent surgery with teller Lynne. Curious. Is an "L" name perhaps compulsory for a job at this bank?

Ten minutes later, there had been no movement. I studied the two people in front of me. For some reason they were unperturbed by the fact that they had made no forward progress. I noted that for the 5th time this month, I saw someone (a woman, lest there be any doubt) with the same style purse as mine. Was it actually possible that I crossed paths with the same woman five times? Or could it be that I saw five different women with the same purse? Could my thoughts get any more fascinating? As I yawned yet again, for real this time, no longer all that happy to be customer #3 in the line, I took a notebook out of aforementioned "Stepford" purse and wrote a message to myself. "Ditch the brocade bag."

Notebook still in hand, I took advantage of the time to jot down some potential story ideas. At the very least I thought I might develop characters by describing the appearance and characteristics of people I'd observed that day...hooded quilted winter jackets, black gloves, elasticized waist pants in a wash and wear fabric, loose fitting shirts, white socks, sensible shoes. Yikes!

It was at that moment that I realized it. My description sounded all too familiar. I was turning into one of THEM.