The Good Old Days

Do you ever miss what you consider “the good old days?” Sometimes, I must confess I do find myself getting nostalgic about how life used to be. Billy Joel sums up those sentiments in the first verse of his song, “Keeping the Faith,” and as he says so well, it’s tempting to get “lost in let’s remember.”

Let’s face it. For many of us, the innocence of an earlier time in our lives can cause a longing for the past. In our memory those days evoke a simpler life style, one in which candy bars were bigger and a half gallon of ice cream was really a half gallon. I can also recall long summer days where getting lost all day, or at least until the real cows—not the proverbial ones—came home, was the norm. All that innocence of an earlier time can make one long for times past.

Unlike some of the images Billy conjures up in his iconic song, I was the “good” girl in the poodle skirt worrying more about whether my saddle shoes were polished to perfection or if that threat of a pimple on my chin would erupt before the Friday night canteen. My sole rebellion was hanging out of my friend, Jeannette’s, window puffing away on a cigarette. That adventure didn’t last too long as neither of us really enjoyed the taste or the smell of Luckies.

Still, I do look back on those carefree and rather egocentric days with pleasure, but I like to think “the past never got in my way.” So, if you think “I'm feeling older and missing my younger days,” read on.

Despite what I now consider some of my shallow teenage priorities, I also recall deep yearnings to live a life with greater meaning and purpose. I just wasn’t sure what path that should be. Deep within, though, I always “had the hunger,” a desire to find out where I was supposed to go and what I destined to do with my life. 

“Keeping the Faith,” as Mr. Joel states so clearly  involves holding onto the “desire” and the “music that “sets me on fire.”

Billy’s wisdom continues when he sings “you can get just so much from a good thing. You can linger too long in your dreams.” That’s what can happen when you believe all the good things in life are in the past. But here, I must disagree with my musical mentor. I don’t think we have to say “goodbye to the oldies but goodies.”

Instead, we need to put those days in perspective, not up on a memory pedestal as we are reminded that “the good old days weren't always so good.” That’s something we need to remember—sometimes social mores can bind us into corners. 

That became so clear to me recently when I found this picture of my husband and I posed on my parents’ porch, for the “Going off for the honeymoon” picture, one of the required photos in the ‘60’s wedding album. I recall that moment so well. I wore a pillbox hat, a suit with long sleeves, nylon stockings with the mandatory girdle though I weighed barely 100 lbs. The day of our May wedding was a record ninety degrees, yet the thought of wearing something cooler never occurred to me because I accepted the rigid social expectations of the times.

Finding this image got me thinking about how much I treasure my freedom now and  no longer have to worry about social trappings like not wearing white shoes after Labor Day or a hat to church. Now I’m completely unfettered, no more mental or physical girdles for me!

How about you? What do you not miss about your younger days? Then again, what do you miss? I do miss getting letters, those hold-in-your hand personal missives that you can feel and read over and over. But that’s a blog for another day…

So, I must finish with agreeing totally with the maestro when he stresses “And tomorrow ain't as bad as it seems.” For despite all the sadness and the turmoil in today’s world, I have hope.

 So, I sit back in my chair and listen, not to my 45’s, but to the music channel on my TV, sip my wine in my new stemless glass and think to myself, “ain’t it wonderful to be alive.” And plan on living as well and as long as I can while “the rock ‘n’ roll plays” and “the memory stays.”

Yes sir, I am “keeping the faith,” one lovely day at a time.

It's all in a word

            Recently a neighbor told me a story about an old man she’d met at a graduation party.

“How old was he?” I asked.

“Old,” she said, “Had to be seventy-five, at least.”

“Oh, you mean he was an old(er) man.”

She looked at me with a blank stare and must have realized that I had to be approaching the age of the man she was telling me about. It was at that moment I decided I would never be “old,” but simply “old(er).” So much young(er) sounding, don’t you think?

 

The word “old” is a word to describe food left too long in the refrigerator. It just doesn’t smell right. Or underwear with holes in it.  Something to throw out.

As I ponder the vast chasm created between these words simply by adding -er, I realize what power the simple suffix holds. After all, who wouldn’t want to be rich(er) rather than just rich, smart(er) rather than smart, or thinn(er) rather than thin. Ah, scratch that last one. I’d settle for just thin since that’s not been an adjective applied to me in too many years to count… But the adding of this mighty mite of a suffix can also have a negative voice too. After all, who would want to be fatt(er) than fat or mean(er) than mean?

Just below that article, I see another headline, "Baby delivered by Atlantic City Policeman." Now there's an age word that conjures all positive images like cuddly and cute. All good unless you happen to be a new parent, then you might add sleepless nights.

I begin thinking of other words that connote ages. Teens, now there's one that definitely has a note of cool to it. Then again, for parents, it probably translates to more sleepless nights. How about middle age? I remember viewing that milestone as the first stumbling block in the world of age descriptors. That term resonated as rather frumpy and indecisive. Looking back, I see it as the approach to the precipice of negative age words.

And now, I’m really feeling unnerved by this whole age quantifier. I decide to check out some of the experts’ views. Erikson, that’s where I’ll start. During my graduate counseling courses he was always my go to guy for a psychosocial theory of development. Each stage of life, he believed, involves a particular task in order to move on to the next stage of life. I consult my number one research tool: Google.

Definitely, a downer. Strange, I think, how as a forty-year old student, I believed he was right on target, totally hitting the bulls eye of life. Now I’m not so sure. I read on and see I’ve reached the eighth stage of development. The point at which I must answer the question,  Did I lead a meaningful life?

 

Wait a minute. I’m still in the midst of that meaningful life, busy trying to do all the things I never had time to do. No time to worry about the past. Maybe lat(er)… I read on and see that according to my former counseling super guru I am also at the final stage, the last step on the stairs, of my earth journey. That sounds so final. And according to Erikson, this stage started at age 65. I don’t let that number get to me, though, because a lot has changed since he developed his thesis sometime in the ‘50’s. 

 

     I continue reading and see my present life task is all about reflecting back on my past life. Well, I have to grudgingly admit he may have a point there. I do find myself thinking about my former experiences from time to time and I know my children and grandchildren get a glazed look in their eyes when I repeat stories they’ve heard a gazillion times. The word “gazillion” is one of their words, not mine. And so, I guess I must admit that I am in that place. Sort of, but not totally. 

But more than I think about my past life, I think of the present and the future with hope for what is ahead. Instead of focusing on reflections of past accomplishments and misdeeds, my efforts include tasks like finding a place to dance—before 11 PM to music I love. And if not, I can always dance in the kitchen with my lov(er), the old(er) man who’s danced with me for the past 50 years.

So, I will continue to grow old(er), but never be old.

  

psychology.about.com/od/psychosocialtheories/a/psychosocial.htm

Flowers of Winter

God gave us memories that we might have roses in December.  ~J.M. Barrie, Courage, 1922

 

Every December, as Christmas approaches and the end of the year draws near, for me, is a time of reflection, a looking back. Generally, this contemplative time begins after the shopping and mailing of packages is completed. But this year, my annual life review threatened to sabotage the necessary tasks that come with the holiday.  Daydreaming replaced concentrated, organized gift selection!

I blame the change on my neighbor, Harry, a consummate gardener whose talents we enjoy all summer from our front deck. The day before Thanksgiving, he brought over brought over an armful of roses from his still flowering garden. We were enjoying a wonderfully warm fall, even eating lunch in the sunny protected corner of our porch. "Hard to believe they're still growing," he said.

"Yes," I answered. "Hard to believe, but wonderful, too." I clipped the stems and placed the bouquet in a green vase on my dining room table. In the next few weeks, I passed by the roses a lot. Each time I did, I thought how comforting it was to see them bloom this time of year.

As the temperature dipped and we moved further into December, Harry's bouquet brought to mind Barrie's wonderful quote and my thoughts turned to how increasingly important the role memory takes as we get older. Not that I'm done making memories—not by a long shot, I hope! After all, I'm only seventy now. I still cling to the autumn years of my life, with their wonderful lingering warmth from my summer season.

I like to think the winter of my life is still far from away, but based on how rapidly my life has gone thus far, I know the approaching winter of my life is much closer than I want to believe. Sometimes, I wonder about what it will be like once my winter fully arrives.

We visit a senior center once a month to do a program entitled, "Remember When." These seniors (older than I am, of course!) are firmly entrenched definitely in the winter of their lives. They prefer sharing their memories, memories evoked by old the movies, events, and songs of their summer years, mostly the forties and fifties, rather than their later years. I learn from them that the days ahead can also be filled with joy and laughter, but most of all, bolstered by the memories that keep us warm.

Here's a few nonscientific things I've come to believe about how memory works as we get older:

• Memory is fluid and dynamic, ever changing. Each memory takes on a different hue, tone, and meaning when we view it from a distance created by time.
• Memory is a way of holding onto the things we love. It tells us who we are in our innermost self, and is tied to things we never want to lose. As a result, it only a natural evolution that we find it holds so much a larger part in our lives as we age.
• Memory is the book we write in the silence of our hearts. And like writers, we can discover the freedom to alter our history and tell it a little more like we wanted it to be. Have you ever noticed how the fish in any fisherman's tale gets larger with each telling?
• Memories, like the proverbial fine wine, improve with age. And as we get older, we gradually may become the only one who is the memory keeper of our family. An awesome, but joyful thing to contemplate!
• Memory is selective. As Austin O'Malley notes, "Memory is a crazy woman that hoards colored rags and throws away food. Nora Ephron speaks of this in her new book, "I Remember Nothing." Have you ever searched your mind for details of some neamingul event in your life and come up blank, yet you can remember an incident that would appear to have no significance whatsoever in the broad schematic of life?
• Memory, like the sea glass we find on the beach, holds fragments that we treasure without reason. Or as Cesare Pavese (The Burning Brand) says so well, "We do not remember days; we remember moments."
• Memory of our childhood remains imprinted in our memory bank for all of our lives. Sometimes, I ask myself why I remember all the details of my elementary school yet scarcely remember the hallways of the college I attended when I was forty years old?
• Memory of bad moments come mostly in the middle of the night. Have you had any of those moments when what you failed to do or did haunt you?

Bob Hope always finished his performances with a song called, "Thanks for the memories." Yet, memories are the flowers of our winter and it would be a very cold time without them. And like the roses of winter, they keep us warm. They're what we're made of and what we're left with.

In Search of Shampoo

"How can I control my life when I can't control my hair?" Author Unknown

It all began innocently enough last January. We were getting ready to head south for the winter and one of my last tasks was my usual haircut. I'm not sure why, but I asked the hairdresser, "Do you think I should consider changing my hairstyle?" Maybe it was the cumulative effect of seeing myself in that hairdresser dull drape with the same short hair style for nearly fifty years. Is it time for a change?

"A bob," my hairdresser said, "it's a cut for all ages. You'd look good in that style." She said it would take about seven months to complete the transition. Being away seemed the perfect time to start. The first couple months were uneventful, with an occasional shaping to keep it in some semblance of order.

As my style change advanced, I began to realize a woman's relationship with her hair can be a complicated thing, and I begin to question whether how one chooses to wear it says something about where she is along her life journey. My daughter, Christina, believes a woman who never changes her hair is leaving it in the era where she was most happy.

Hmm. That's interesting. I first cut my hair short when I started nursing school (see picture). I know I'm much less serious these days than I was then, much more content with life, but let's face it, age 19 is a pretty exciting, carefree time in our lives. Or is that I'm merely older and less passionate about life now? I hope not.

In 1985, Hubert de Givenchy wrote in Vogue magazine, "Hairstyle is the final tip-off whether or not a woman really knows herself."(for more hair quotes, go to http://www.quotegarden.com/hair.html)  Sorry, Hubert, but I don't want to believe that. And yet...

And so, I began my pilgrimage of growth. Hair, that is. In the past, I paid little attention to my coiffure. Once I combed it in the morning, I figured it was on its own. Suddenly, I now find myself checking every mirror to make sure the ends are smooth, not sticking out in all directions. When I wake up in the morning and sit up in bed, I can see myself in the large mirror directly opposite my bed. My hair is definitely beginning to look just like that of the caricature on the vase my granddaughter, Julia, gave me about five years ago. Does she have some sort of forecasting power, I wonder?

                   
I'm noticing the color, too. Again, something that never concerned me before. It's white, has been since I was in my 30's so I've never seen white hair as part of my own aging, but now, I notice some yellow tinges creeping in. Not blonde, much more like slightly used dish water. Most likely it's due to the annual flushing of our water lines here on our island, but somehow, that never bothered me as it does now. This hair thing is getting more and more complicated.

So I trek over the bridge to the mainland in search of shampoo, the kind for silver hair. I've seen it before, even bought it once or twice on sale. Funny how they never call it shampoo for gray or white hair. Another sign of ageism in advertising. That discovery is reinforced when I notice even the lady getting into the tub with the side door on the TVadvertisement is younger than the real women who need this assistive device, as are those lucky ladies on the Viagra commercials.

See how this whole hair thing is mushrooming. Ah, if only my hair would grow as fast. I am beginning to ask myself: why a change now?  Is it to prove some sort of flexibility point or only my exceptional stubbornness in not knowing when to fold this whole hair quest?

Back to my search for shampoo. CVS has lots of shampoo, as does Walmart. None for white, excuse me, silver hair. Target wins the variety award, hands down. More than one long aisle is full of shampoo – for coarse, curly, fine, oily, limp, dull, dry, damaged, stressed, or straight hair. Flavors, too. Lemon scented, strawberry, watermelon. It's possible, I think, to end up smelling like a fruit salad just by shampooing your hair. Such variety, but no shampoo for silver hair, none to get the yellow out, though, lots for blonde hair that needs a lift.

As I drive home from my fruitless shampoo search, I wonder whether my quest is really for shampoo or a new style. The journey, for sure, has led me to a greater awareness of how women perceive themselves and how self image and worth are affected by our image driven media.

I think about all the brave women who have shaved their heads in defiance of the impending loss of hair as a result of chemotherapy for breast cancer. I think of my granddaughter, Grace, who at age 13, grew her hair long enough to donate it to Locks for Love ( http://www.locksoflove.org/).  And the absolutely beautiful young woman with alopecia who is running for Miss Delaware. She definitely has a strong sense of self.

Their courage in the face of  adversity inspires me, and I think, perhaps my search for shampoo isn't really that at all, but a seeking for something much more than a simple bob.

For more information on how to donate hair for women and children with illness, go to: http://www.pantene.com/en-us/beautiful-lengths-cause/default.aspx.  or http://hair.lovetoknow.com/Donating_Hair_for_Cancer_Victims