Tag Archives: aging

What’s It All About

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As I reflected on turning 80, I remembered some milestones along the journey, which started when I was a pre-teen, realizing that I would die someday. I    saw a table in the Racine Journal Times that predicted how long you would live based on your age.

“I’m going to live to be 69,” I told my stepfather, Don, waving the paper in front of him. 69 sounded like forever.

          “That’s based on probability,” Don said. “And the war probably affected the calculations. I wouldn’t put too much stock in it. No one knows how long they’ll live.

          I shelved my predicted use-by-date and proceeded to live my life, although I never forgot that number. I wanted to pass it, to live to 100, at least. I once told my grandson that someone has to be the first person to live forever, and why shouldn’t that someone be me. Then, in my 69th year, as I approached my 70th birthday, about to move past my milestone, almost to taunt me, I came down with the flu, and I was SICK. I felt that if I could somehow get to my birthday, I’d get well, be okay. Whew! 70. I made it, and I felt better almost immediately. I’d dodged my first longevity bullet.

          My next bullet was 74, the age at which my mother died. I didn’t think about it—well, maybe a little. I did notice that after seventy, I developed a consciousness about age. Time seemed to speed up, too. I was no longer in those long years of childhood, sitting on the front porch in August thinking school would never start.

Friends started to die, much too young. Seventy-four came and went. But then, suddenly, I was 79, soon to be eighty…and here I am, an 80-year-old. I suspect that after 80, I should take these age goals in smaller bites—I think I’ll try for 82, the age that my husband, Jim, died.

It strikes me that there’s something competitive in setting age goals and then celebrating when I pass them. I tell myself, “Karen, it’s not a race.” And yet it feels like an accomplishment that says to the world, “She ate her broccoli; She didn’t smoke; She got 8 hours of sleep at night”. . . and so on. We are fed a daily diet of strategies to lengthen our lives.

I think about my husband, watching him struggle up the stairs, stop and catch his breath, walk to the car, where he’d hang over the door to catch his breath once again before sitting down, and then drive to LA Fitness where he walked the treadmill. Watching someone work so hard at staying alive while dying, suggests that my time could be better spent doing the things I love rather than things that might help me live longer. Maybe I’ll throw the race and have a leisurely run instead.

Not only does turning 80 make me think about what growing older means for me, it also really scares me. I can’t remember a time in my life when the future felt so ominous. My fears are larger than my own death, which is quite enough to contemplate. I worry about the world that my grandchildren will navigate: climate change and unrest throughout the world. I push these worries from my mind because my time to solve the problems of the world has passed.

In my 20’s, 30’s, 40’s, 50’s, 60’s and even 70’s, I was always planning the next steps in my life. But at 80, my world grows smaller, I feel myself move inward and worry about my own death. I won’t get to choose whether I die from disease or old age.  I’d like to be “one who wraps the drapery of his couch about him, and lies down to pleasant dreams”,  but I have watched death up close and it can be hard.

I recently saw a condo that I thought would be a good place for me to live more simply and freely – where I could stay for a long time. I couldn’t sleep because I was so excited thinking how I would update it, where I’d put my furniture, and how I’d afford owning two domiciles while my house—where I have lived with Jim for over a decade—was sold. It was classic Karen—when life gets stressful—leave it behind—MOVE on. . . and out. Then I realized that that has never really worked.  There is no moving away from what scares me this time.

And so here I am, 80, healthy, riding my bike around the beautiful Minneapolis lakes, renovating my lower-level living space, planning trips, curious about the future — but reluctant to plan too much. What does that leave me? Something plenty big. Life, life itself, the basics.

Winter is here in Minnesota, the wind cuts, the roads and sidewalks are slippery, we retreat indoors. Walking with my daughter outside today we started on the “I hate winter” mantra. “Stop!” I said. “I promised myself to stop saying that all winter long. It doesn’t make winter any easier, and it keeps me from seeing the beauty in winter.”

And I want to see the beauty in all that is around me, in a way I have never wanted to before. I want to revel in the humdrum of daily life, a good book, my annoying cats who hound me when I’m at the computer, a broken valve on the boiler, Apple TV when I’m tired, and a hot water bottle on my feet at night—all of which happened this first week of being 80, all of which I’m grateful for having lived.

Not Just a Car

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Racine bus by the train depot where I used to transfer to go to Sunday school. I loved the smell of stale cigars, with a hint of pee.

When is a 1992 Ford Tempo the grandest car on the road? When you are 48, and it’s the first car you’ve ever owned. Mine was black, and I was convinced it passed for a BMW with its plain grill, sleek lines, faux black leather interior, and silver trim. Every Saturday I’d drive it through the gas station car wash, then dry and shine every inch of it. I also didn’t drive it much because I was in graduate school and my bicycle was easier for getting around the U of Minnesota campus.

Growing up in Racine, Wisconsin during the 50’s, I never got a ride anywhere. If I asked my stepfather to take me someplace, he’d say, “No,” followed by, “If you want to go bad enough, you’ll figure it out.”

I did. I took the bus, rode my bike, or walked. Once a week, I’d travel by bus uptown for my music lesson at Gosieski’s Music Store. I had to transfer, and to deal with the boredom of waiting for that second bus, I memorized all the car makes, models, and years, so when I grew up and could buy a car, I’d know which one I wanted—a Chevy Bel Air or a Packard Patrician or maybe a Ford Fairlane? Someday I’d have a car of my own, and I’d drive everywhere—no more waiting at bus stops, bicycling, or walking home late at night, scared. And I’d give people rides, too!  I would not be stingy with my beautiful car.

As it turned out, I waited a long time to achieve my dream. In my undergraduate years, my main transportation was a Dunelt three speed (that precursor to Raleigh bikes now lists on eBay for $2600).  Then marriage. Though I finally learned to drive, I was usually at home with two young children because my husband needed our only car for work. But I wasn’t easily deterred. I quickly initiated my children into cycling, walking, or taking the bus. I remember standing on the side of the highway in Minnetonka Beach (exurban Minneapolis), next to the lake and across from St. Martin’s church with two young children to take the bus into Wayzata (a closer-in suburb) or the city. I never let a lack of transportation stop me from doing what I wanted to do.

We divorced in 1991, and in January 1992 I bought my first car, that snappy Ford Tempo. It spoke freedom to me, not having to wait interminably for a bus, not being dependent on someone else’s availability for a ride, or riding my bicycle after a long day. I could go where I wanted when I wanted. The American dream, finally accomplished.

My years of waiting and wishing and that Ford Tempo planted the seeds of a love for cars. Shortly after I bought the Tempo, I met my second husband, who convinced me to trade it in for a Mazda RX7—something sportier. I was off on my journey of newer, better cars—as often as I wanted. Now it’s the latest technology and design that catch my fancy—don’t you love the new powdery colors on the 2024 models—like “Cosmic Blue Pearl?”

So here I am at seventy-nine. When my husband suggests making do with one car or using the bus more, I am adamant: I spent nearly forty years riding the bus, walking, bicycling, or sharing a car. I want my car and the freedom it gives me.

But that fierce position is threatened—I am aging.  Although I feel sharp with good reaction times, I know I’m not the person I was in my 40’s—the age group with the lowest accident rate. Weaving in and out on a freeway often feels treacherous to me—more so since I was rear-ended by a semi a few years ago. So I stay in the right or middle lane and accept that I’ve slowed down.

When I looked up the average age that older people stop driving, I was astonished when one website claims that it’s 75! (The National Institute on Ageing states that is not possible to calculate this number). I read on to find out all the reasons people stop driving—arthritis, making it difficult to grip the wheel, eyesight issues, diseases and medications. I suddenly felt extremely lucky not to have these issues.

For all the hype about dangerous older drivers, The National Institute on Aging states that “Therefore, we must be careful not to judge the safety of one’s driving solely based on their age;”  it’s the millennial drivers who have the most accidents. The 75+ group has the fewest, although they are more likely to die from an accident because of other underlying conditions (remember Covid?).

So when should I stop my ongoing love affair with cars? I haven’t experienced the behavioral indicators, like stopping when there’s no stop sign, not following traffic signals, side swiping, etc., but it’s helpful to know these. Yet, contemplating not driving is almost as scary as being told I’ll have to stay home and watch TV the rest of my life—which is the nightmare I conjure up when I imagine what would happen if I stop driving.

All this aside, I don’t think society does much to help older drivers. Right now the push in Minneapolis is to get us all on bicycles – like the Dutch, who give up their bicycles only when they are consigned to a nursing home. I ride my bike recreationally, and I’ve started doing short errands on it. I want to be part of the solution, but I’m not sure that bicycling to the grocery store when I am 90 is realistic. As one of my friends put it, “It’s not if you fall, it’s when.” For now I’m happy that I’m driving and can still ride a bicycle— and walking, well, my knees don’t love it, but I subscribe to my stepfather’s words, “If I want to get there bad enough, I’ll figure out a way.”

‘Tis the Season: Graduation

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Last Saturday my granddaughter, Luisa, graduated from high school. She’s the youngest of my grandchildren, which reminded me of the passage of time, starting out as babies and now one out of college, two in college, and Luisa soon off to college. Thinking about graduation makes me realize what a shared rite of passage it is. Karen and I have skirted around the notion of rituals, probably because there are no well-defined rituals as we age—some people have retirement parties, but it’s not a given, and certainly a funeral is a ritual for the living, not the departed. Reflecting on the joyful event later, I noted the. . .

Changes in Our City and Schools      

Luisa is the only one who attended school in Minneapolis, so it was my first big urban school event. As we took our seats in the large auditorium, the first thing I noticed was the diversity. In fact, the school is 60.4% white, 21.3% African American, 9.7% Hispanic, 3.9% are of two or more races, 3.7% Asian, with 0.8% American Indian, and 0.2% Pacific Islander. The Somali families immediately stood out because of their colorful dress and larger families — grandparents, siblings including children and babies, and moms and dads. Minnesota has the largest Somali population in the US, with most of them living in Minneapolis. The women wore the traditional head scarf and the baati, a long overdress, and many men wore the macaawiis, a sarong, and the benadiri kufia, a cap. But that doesn’t do justice to the gold jewelry, glittering fabrics, sculpted make-up, and spectrum of colors. The women seemed to glisten with their beauty, and the men stood tall.

The Graduation

Once we were settled, the graduates marched in with the band playing Pomp and Circumstance. I teared up as I watched the students walking down the aisle and parents standing on seats to get a picture—aren’t smart phones wonderful! The trappings were all there — the school band’s terrific rendition of the National Anthem, the choir singing Stephen Paulus’s The Road Home, and the articulate student speaker, who was a young Somali woman.

Before awarding the 441 diplomas, the principal practically begged us not to make a lot of noise or to be in the aisles as each graduate’s name was announced. The silence lasted very briefly.  Somali names like Abdi and Ali clustered at the beginning, and the families were so excited to see their students walk across that stage that they went wild, jumping and cheering and blowing vuvuzelas—so much for quiet. I suspect that in some families these may have been the first high school graduates.  

I loved the excitement, though not everyone loved the ruckus, possibly because we live in a newly multicultural city, originally dominated by less effusive Scandinavians. I believe in honoring the different ways in which we celebrate. I also noticed that the cheering settled quickly and we could still hear the names. By the time Luisa crossed the stage, her brothers decided that it was okay to make some noise. Sitting on either side of me, they jumped and shouted. Ironically, on my video, you can only hear her first name being called; their celebratory noise blotted out the rest.

Intergenerational

After the graduation, the auditorium lobby was filled with families and graduates, everyone taking pictures. It felt like family because many of the graduates knew my son because he’d been their principal in middle school. It was joyful to see former students reconnect with him.  I was not left out: a former student of mine recognized me and gave me a big hug, telling me that his daughter had just graduated. The father and I also overlapped at the U of MN, when I was in graduate school, and he was an undergraduate.  When we met, walking across campus, he would say “You’re my inspiration!” What a circle; what an intergenerational experience!

Which brings me back to the roles that we play as young and old. Yesterday, struggling out of a store with a heavy box of kitty litter, my other granddaughter, Maggie, grabbed it, insisting that. “I can do things to help you, and you listen to me and give me advice and help me.” There it was, from the mouth of the next generation, how the generations support each other when we are not celebrating rituals. Sometimes I am sad about growing older, but her words reminded me that I would experience none of this without growing older. My older self is also a bundle of memories going back to post WWII, the 50’s, 60’s, etc. I have a perspective to share that can enrich everyone my life touches.

Through the entire graduation, I was awed by the stretch of generations, from grandparents in wheelchairs to babies crying during the ceremony—how we are all one, especially in the rituals that celebrate life passages. Luisa, too, reminded me of how generations stretch across the planet, because she was born in Guatemala. As her grandmother and a former teacher at the graduation, I represented all the grandmothers, parents, and educators throughout the world who love and support the next generation. We are all connected; we are all family.

When Will I Be Ready to Shift into Shrink?

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My husband was in one of his “move everything around” moods, so I had to clear some shelving in the master bedroom. He was moving it into his man-cave. I can’t believe at 79 I’m married to a man-cave sort of man. I thought that was a younger generation affliction.

I also couldn’t believe all the things I’d stashed away in that shelving unit. Besides two shelves of cookbooks, there were assorted threads with needles, several sanding sponges, knitting needles and yarn, workout descriptions ripped from magazines (which I’ve never done), two cameras, charging cords for whatever—I won’t bore you with the rest of the list. Take my word for it, I’ve used that shelving as an “out of sight, out of mind” receptacle.

Having no where to go with the junk, I moved it into my office, thinking I could transfer it to the shelving there—which, when I apprised it, was already full. This wasn’t going to be an easy relocation chore. And I haven’t read—nor do I want to—Marie Kondo’s The Life-changing Magic of Tidying Up. Unlike Karen Rose, who has downsized and confronted clutter twice in the last decade, my moves did not require ditching anything more significant than a dining room table that was too large for our current house.

THIS has to go. . . . . . . . . .
HERE

Just as I was looking for another place to stash my junk—rather than dealing with it—what showed up on Facebook but an article by Ann Patchett called “How to Practice,” which is about clearing out her stuff in response to contemplating death. Was the universe trying to tell me something? I sat down to write this blog—anything to avoid dealing with the mess on my office floor.

*****

After taking a break, I came back to the mess. What could I possibly get rid of to make room for the things I want to keep? And what are the things I actually want to keep, surely not all those sanding sponges? Then I remembered my Aunt Selma (she was a reluctant step-grandmother who preferred to be an aunt). Selma and her husband, Uncle Earl, had a tiny duplex in my hometown of Racine. They lived on the main floor in a fortress of mahogany furniture trimmed in brass. Two pictures I loved adorned the living room walls, peacocks made from feathers in different poses. Their son, Don, my stepfather brought them from Japan after WWII.

As I grew up and as an adult, I watched Earl and Selma age. First they moved to a smaller apartment—gone was the mahogany dining room set. Earl died from Parkinson’s, and Selma moved to another small apartment. She gave my husband and me the mahogany bedroom set. She eventually landed in a Lutheran Home (for the elderly) with only those two pictures, a bed, and a couch. When she died at 99, she had a bed in a nursing home with one of the peacock pictures hanging over the head of the bed. Selma’s life kept shrinking. She knew it, she’d rationalize it, telling me that she no longer liked caring for a house.

So here I was, wondering what to get rid of and whether my life was also shrinking. When do we shift to reverse and instead of accumulating, start donating? When is it time to start shrinking our lives?  I pondered the stuff on my office floor; I noted how crowded my office is, and the books I no longer read (mostly about Piaget or other child development theories – along with and the various – previous and sometimes forgotten — crises in education).

Then I perused the stuff on my shelves. Among them, a replica of the Anne Frank house, which I bought on my first trip to Europe; the clock my colleagues at Lehigh University gave me when I moved back to the Twin Cities; a crystal bird I won for scoring a birdie in the golf league I belonged to as a stay-at-home-mom; a framed card about death that I found in the last book my husband Gary read before he died (It was about J. Edgar Hoover. I kept telling him to read something more uplifting.); and a cut crystal cat that belonged to my mother, my children and I picked it out together for her. These items weren’t just stuff!  They were symbols, memories of life stages, places, and relationships—these were the stuff of love

How could I possibly let any of these items go? Karen’s life in stuff! I thought about our last blog—which apparently didn’t inspire our readers all that much—about legacy. These were part of my story, my legacy, and I wasn’t ready to let go.  Well, maybe I could ditch some of the books and a couple of the sanding sponges.

Taking stock of all I’ve accumulated reminded me of the many conversations my husband and I have about moving some place smaller—I’d have to deal with these things. That brought me back to Aunt Selma and the shrinking life. My life would and will shrink. These thoughts led inevitably to death, knowing that I, too, will die, and it’s coming sooner than I expected when I was in my 40’s and 50’s. I used to tell my grandchildren that someone has to be the first person to live forever, why not me? But I’ve stopped saying that.

For a brief minute I pictured my children sitting around cleaning out my office after I die.

 “Why do you suppose she saved this?” they would wonder, holding the Lehigh clock that no longer works or the cheap crystal birdie. I don’t know what they’d say about the sanding sponges. Maybe I should put a little label under each item describing its importance—might help me, too, if I go senile.

I thought of something Karen Rose’s husband says, “if it is smaller than a brick and has sentimental value, keep it. Otherwise, seriously consider giving it away.” Whew, I was off the hook. Most of my mementoes are smaller than a brick, although the embodied meanings are more than sentimental. I’m not ready to let go. For the time being, I won’t do anything until I get tired of walking around the mess on my office floor. I’m not dying yet, which leaves me wondering how long will it take until I reckon with death and move one more iota towards acceptance? For now, I’ll continue to treasure my artifacts of memories. I’m just not ready to shift into shrink.

Used by permission of the white board it was posted on.