TRY A LITTLE TENDERNESS

Yesterday, while reading a novel set in the early 1970s, I was arrested by a passage describing a man driving his car with his child in the front passenger seat. The father was described as bringing the car to a sudden stop and putting out his right arm to hold his child in place.  I, at once, had a vision of my father (in the days before seatbelts) throwing his arm across my body to hold me back each time he came to a stop sign or red light.* Would his arm have done any good in a crash?  Of course, not. This was an automatic gesture of concern; it was him trying to keep me safe.  

 

My father wasn't someone you would have called tender, but I choose to remember this as a gesture of tenderness.  Look, my father wasn’t warm and fuzzy; in fact, he was angry much of the time.  Yet, I remember that he was the one who would sit up with me at night when I had a stomach bug, bringing me warm water to sip and waiting for the nausea to pass.  And, now, almost three decades after his death, now that my memories of his harshness are fading, it is these memories of his concern, of his tenderness that shine most brightly.

 

In the song from which I took the title of this post, Otis Redding is admonishing a man to “try a little tenderness” when his female partner is weary. But, really, tenderness is not reserved for romantic relationships. 

 

Looking around, I find it everywhere.  

 

I saw it when one of my twin toddler granddaughters ran into another room to fetch a stuffed animal for her crying sister. “Here you go, Charlie,” she said, placing the animal tenderly in her sister’s arms.

 

Or when Charlie asked her twin, with great solicitude, “How are you feeling now, Frankie?,” when Frankie was recovering from a meltdown.  

 

Or a few weeks ago when I got up on our couch to hang a Christmas garland above a window, where our cats would (I hoped) be unable to reach it, and my other toddler granddaughter, Daisy, watching me, said, “Don’t worry, Mimi, I will keep an eye on you.”

 

Be still, my heart.

 

What is tenderness?  Let’s call it kindness, concern, or thoughtfulness.  

 

Here are some examples:

 

A friend buying me a book about trees, not for an occasion, but just because she thought I would like it.  

 

The same friend helping her adult children to clean out her ex-husband’s house and take care of paperwork after his death.  This wasn’t done so much for the ex-husband’s sake, as for the sake of her children.  It was the work of a loving heart.  

 

Two other friends who have stepped up to care for extended family members when no one else came forward. 

 

A friend, digging a trench along a path next to a drop-off outside our house, and lining it with cinder blocks to create a level, walking space.  We could have hired someone, but she volunteered, because, you know, we’re friends, and she had the strength and know-how to do the job.

 

The friends who offered to, and did, take care of our dog while my husband was in the hospital two years ago.  

 

A friend, not a close one – someone I had only spent time with at gatherings but never one-on-one, who left an orchid on my front doorstep after my mother died.

 

I am moved by each of these actions and gestures. 

 

Still, there are those who find it difficult to accept kindness or offers of help.  A friend told me recently that her husband was made uncomfortable by a neighbor bringing him a meal after he had injured himself.  I know that this man would step forward to help a friend or neighbor. Can we be both generous and vulnerable? 

 

We are living in an unsettled and unsettling time.  We’re not going to navigate this time alone.  So, let’s be there for one another on both the giving and receiving ends. 

 

After all, as Ram Dass famously said, "We are all just walking each other home."

 

 

 

photo by Getty images for Unsplash

* Note to any younger folks reading this -- seatbelts weren't required to be standard in cars until 1968.  

ME, THINKING OF YOU, THINKING OF ME

A few days ago, a friend sent me the link to an article, saying it made her think of me.  I was happy to receive and read the article, but here's the thing.  I'm always surprised to learn that someone is thinking of me. 

Why should this be?  

People text or call me.  Don't I know they must be thinking about me in order to do this?  I suppose so; it just isn't top of mind until someone says something like, this made me think of you or I was thinking about you this morning.  I know my life is entwined with the lives of others.  I have deep and long-term relationships with family and friends.  I think about people I know multiple times each day.  Why shouldn't they be thinking about me?  

I don't know.

And if people thinking about me is surprising, imagining them talking about me, is downright uncomfortable. Of course, we all talk about one another. This is usually a benign pastime.  Sharing information or impressions.  You know how it is, driving home from an event and deconstructing the evening or afternoon with whomever is in the car with you.  Sure, sometimes it veers into the teensiest bit of criticism or concern, but I generally trust my friends not to tear me to shreds. 

Still, I'd rather not imagine what people are saying about me.  

(I recall that in one of the books in the Anne of Green Gables series, Anne comments that she does not agree with Robert Burn's line, “O wad some power the giftie gie us, to see oursels as ithers see us.” **

I'm with Anne.)

Finally, there's this.  I never expect anyone to remember me.  If I have met someone once or twice and have occasion to see them again several months later, I assume they don't remember me, even if I remember them.  This only exacerbates my introverted tendency, when with a group of people, to stay in one place and talk to someone I know very well.

Does anyone else experience any of this?  

Please comment below. 

                                                                   Photo by Ginger Jordan for Unsplash

** Translation from the Scots:  Oh, would some power give us the gift to see ourselves as others see us.

IS TELEVISION RUINING ME FOR REAL LIFE?

If you have ever watched Grey’s Anatomy (my guilty pleasure a few years back), you will remember that at least once in each episode, one character or another will step onto an elevator that is empty except for another character with whom they share a story arc.  The ensuing elevator ride will be long enough – quite long, usually – for the characters to have a conversation or dispute that will move the story forward.

 

I mention this because my experience is nothing like this.  There are almost always multiple people on any elevator I enter, and beyond the exchange of a few pleasantries on the occasions where I am riding with someone I know, nothing is raised or resolved.  Indeed, on an elevator full of strangers, nothing is said beyond, “Excuse me.  This is my floor.”

 

So, am I missing opportunities for life-changing conversations or is it just that TV is nothing like real life?  Certainly, Grey’s Anatomy--where surgeons perform MRIs and CT scans, and provide bed-side care following surgery, and where there is not a nurse in sight, except for that one nurse who is always in the OR—bears no resemblance to the workings of any actual hospital.

 

I find that I have a fairly high tolerance for the silliness of shows such as this. Throw in the fact that Grey’s Anatomy is more a soap opera than anything, and I’m in when I need an escape.  

 

I can’t go there, however, when it comes to shows about lawyers.  I was, after all, a lawyer prior to retiring.  I watched one episode of The Good Wife, then tuned out after the main character, who had not practiced law for a decade, was was sent off to try a case her first week at her new job.  Spoiler alert:  This is not how law firms operate.  She would have sat at a desk, doing research and drafting trial memos, for a very long time before setting foot in a courtroom.  But, you didn’t want to know that.  You’re in it for the entertainment, as would I be, if I just didn’t know too much.  

 

I’ll tell you the truth about lawyering as I experienced it.  Most of the time, there is precious little action.  Very few cases go to trial.  Of course, it wouldn’t do to make a TV show that features lawyers drafting contracts or legal briefs– it would be like watching paint dry.  So, I understand the need to jazz things up.  I just can’t watch these souped-up shows when attorneys are involved.  

 

Here's another thing that happens on TV that I never experienced in my working life.  Remember The West Wing?  Great show, where, thanks to Aaron Sorkin, characters were forever walking down hallways, having deep and critical conversations.  No drying paint there.  

 

“Why,” I remember asking a colleague as we headed toward the break room, “are we not having an important conversation right now, like the characters on The West Wing?"  He looked at me oddly, and said, “I just want a cup of coffee.”

 

Fair.

 

And then, there is The Diplomat.  Another great show.  More walking and talking.  Never an unimportant or less-than-clever conversation, even when it is only the main character and her husband alone in their room.  Why, I keep asking my husband, isn’t our repartee this scintillating?  

 

In fact, why don’t we have repartee?  

 

Here’s another thing about The Diplomat.  The diplomat in question—American Ambassador to the UK (played by the brilliant Keri Russell)--never brushes her hair.  Seriously.  Not to meet the Prime Minister.  Not to greet the public.  (She is forced, against her will, into an updo for a photo op, but that is it.). We are meant to understand that she disdains the trappings of the diplomatic life.  We get it.  I’m sure she wouldn’t primp for an audience with King Charles.  

 

So, I have a thought.  If I stop brushing my hair, will my IQ rise in direct proportion to the messiness of my appearance?  Will I become a clever conversationalist?  A mistress of the bon mot?  A quick-witted solver of unsolvable problems?  If it works for Keri, will it work for me? 

It's worth a try, don't you think?

 

 

 

 

 

 

THANKSGIVING BLESSINGS

I am remembering a Thanksgiving morning 31 years ago. My then-husband and I had just moved into a new-to-us house.  We had yet to tear up the orange shag carpet in the living room or replace the orange countertops in the kitchen.  Ditto the bordello-red paint on the downstairs-bathroom walls. The yellow plaid wallpaper in the kitchen remained in place, as did the yellow walls with orange trim in one bedroom and the chartreuse walls with royal blue trim in another. We will not speak of the olive drab walls and trim in the master bedroom. To say that the house needed "refreshing" would be an understatement.

 

We had been in the house for only two or three weeks.  We would, nonetheless, host Thanksgiving dinner, shag rug be damned.  In those days, when our daughters were young and we had little nearby family, we would often have twenty-plus people for dinner.  Orphans, mostly, by which I mean friends whose families, like ours, lived far away.  

 

In the years since that long-ago Thanksgiving, my then-husband and I divorced, and my daughters grew up and moved out, The house is now 64-years-old and I am older still. There will, however, be no shortage of guests for dinner tomorrow.  My husband of twenty years and I will host my daughters and two of his sons, along with their spouses.  There will be six grandchildren, and, oh yes, two ex-spouses, his and mine.  They are, after all, the people with whom we raised our children. They are family and belong at the Thanksgiving table.  

 

The shag carpet is long since gone, as are the other decorating horrors. My daughters will prepare the feast, with contributions from other family members.  The four grandchildren aged three and under will provide joyful chaos, while the two older grandchildren will bring a welcome touch of sanity.  

 

I don't know about you, but Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday.  I don’t view the holiday as a re-creation of the first uneasy coming together of settlers and natives. For me, it is simply a celebration of gratitude, a time to gather with family and/or friends to share a meal and appreciate one another. 

 

And I love that there are no gifts involved.

 

Look, it has been a tough year politically, but I'm not going to let that stop me from finding things to be grateful for.  Here is a partial list of my current gratitudes:

 

Family

Friends

Community

A warm house and hot, running water

A functioning body and brain

Books

My garden and my writing projects

Hope, however guarded

 

(Would it be frivolous to add chocolate?)

 

I hope you all have much to be grateful for.  And I hope we can find ways in the coming year to assist those who are lacking some or all of what I have listed above.

 

Namaste and Thanksgiving blessings.

 

                                                   Photo by Debby Hudson on Unsplash

STILL SLIDING AND GLIDING: Some Thoughts on My Recent Birthday

 

Sometimes I forget how old I am. 

 

I don’t mean that I can’t remember the number.  It’s just that sometimes I will be with 40- or 50-somethings and will think for a moment that I am one of them. And then I will find myself confronted by a mirror.  

 

My memory is quickly restored. 

 

Here’s the thing. Although I turned 75 last week, my psychic age, as I have written before, is 45 or 50.  You can see where the confusion comes in.

 

There was a moment, though, last week when I was starkly confronted by my age.  My husband and I were preparing for a trip to Hawaii to celebrate my birthday.  The day before the trip, I found myself uncommonly tired while packing.  The travel day was long, and on our first full day in paradise, I was horrified to find myself too exhausted to do much of anything.  I was beside myself.  It seemed that upon turning 75, I was falling off a cliff straight into decrepitude.  Were my traveling days over?  

 

Happily, the next day I woke up with a cold.  Happily?  Well, it wasn’t that I wanted to be sick; it was just that I was delighted to realize I wasn’t on the doorstep of assisted living.  Soon, the blessed sun dried up my cold, and I was back to feeling like myself again.

 

So, I am pleased to report that I am still feeling pretty good.  Can I make this time last?  Is there an elder equivalent to the teenage years, I wonder?  A last fling before the doddering years?  I intend to find out. 

 

Still, there is no doubt that time is passing quickly.  Five minutes ago, I wrote a post about turning 70, and now I find that I have, improbably, turned 75.  In that earlier post, I quoted from James Taylor’s song, The Secret ‘O Life.  Please indulge me while a re-share a few of the lyrics:

 

       The secret of life is enjoying the passage of time

       Any fool can do it

       There ain’t nothing to it

       Nobody knows how we got to

       The top of the hill

       But since we’re on our way down

       We might as well enjoy the ride

 

.  . .

 

       Isn’t it a lovely ride?

       Sliding down

       Gliding down

       Try not to try too hard

       It’s just a lovely ride

 

. . .

 

Everything I feel about turning 75 (along with the full lyrics to the song) was included in my post about turning 70. Things haven't changed much. I may be on the downward side of the hill, but as was the case five years ago, my life is rich and full. In fact, it is fuller, as I have gained four grandchildren in the intervening years. They are helping me with my sliding and gliding skills, and keeping me young, even as they wear me out. They certainly know how to put everything into the ride.  

 

And so may we all, regardless of age, and in spite of the many challenges along the way, enjoy the ride.  And may we lend a hand to those who are finding the ride bumpy and rough. 

What else is there for it?

                                    photo by Getty Images

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

OF DECIDUOUS TREES AND PIZZA

What, you may be asking yourselves, do deciduous trees have to do with pizza?  Allow me to explain.

These are two of the things (along with people, of course) that I miss from my early years in New Jersey.

 

In truth, I am happily ensconced in the Pacific Northwest, and don’t think much about New Jersey.  Still, there are a few things I dearly miss, and deciduous trees and Jersey pizza are among them.  

 

A number of years ago, while my husband, Bill, and I were visiting New Jersey, my brother and his wife took us for a stroll around the Princeton campus.  It was winter.  The trees were bare, and I walked around exclaiming over the beautiful, symmetrical shapes of the branches against the winter sky.  

 

My brother and sister-in-law thought I was nuts.  Bill was also a bit perplexed.  

 

Earlier this month, we visited Indianapolis to visit Bill’s siblings.  I once again spent a lot of time oohing and aahing over the airy profiles of deciduous trees. I was delighted by the openness of the views.                    

An Indianapolis street view

 

It’s not that we don’t have deciduous trees out here.  We do.  On our property, in fact, we have a weeping cherry, two maples, a Japanese snowbell, a Korean dogwood, a clarodendrum, and a winter hazel.  

We also have six enormous Douglas firs (“Doug firs” to locals). These majestic trees are over 150-feet tall and over 100-years-old. They house birds and squirrels, and give our back yard a park-like appearance. I am deeply grateful that whoever built our home (and the other homes in our neighborhood) 60 years ago chose to leave these trees standing, rather than taking them down as is so often the practice.  

 

Here’s the thing, though.  I love the Doug firs, and they are problematic.  They make our neighborhood what it is, and they are dangerous. Every year, at least one major windstorm comes roaring out of the Columbia River Gorge and takes out one or more Doug firs in our neighborhood.  One came down in a nearby yard a couple of winters ago, landing on and uprooting an enormous big-leaf maple in an adjacent yard.  A huge chunk of the maple landed in our backyard, killing several bushes, and creating a huge mess.  

 

It's not the danger or the mess that is bothering me lately, however.  Being surrounded by these trees is worth the risk.  I’m also happy with the evergreens on our property, intermixed as they are with deciduous trees, shrubs, and flower beds. It’s something else that is bothering me (and I hope my saying so won’t get me in trouble with my PNW friends).  Come winter with its gray skies, the endless lines of evergreens on the horizon can feel a bit, well, lumpen--a bit depressing.  Here, for instance, is the view beyond our front yard from an upstairs window.  

 

I don't wish to be rid of our evergreens; I just wish for more deciduous trees to open up the winter skyline.  I prefer the ratio of deciduous trees to evergreens that I grew up with in New Jersey.  I suppose that’s what comes of uprooting oneself. If I had grown up here, my heart would likely swell at the sight of an unbroken line of Doug firs.  

Ok, enough about trees. Let’s talk about pizza.  Jersey pizza. I have eaten healthier pizza – is that an oxymoron?  Heck, I have made healthier pizza. But, give me a Jersey pizza, thin-crusted and drenched in so much olive oil you have to pat it with a napkin to take off the excess.  

 

Now that’s pizza.  I make a bee-line for it whenever I visit my home state.

 

I wasn’t always a pizza afficionado, though.  I didn’t grow up eating it.  My British parents eschewed it, and, never having tried it, I assumed I didn’t like it. Hah! My first close encounter with a pizza was at the home of a friend over 50 years ago.  We were young enough to still be living with our parents, and this friend’s parents had a pool in their basement, where several of us had gathered to swim.  Someone ordered a pizza, and I, getting out of the pool without looking where I was going, stepped squarely on the poolside pie.  Was that mortification what finally got me try a slice the next time one was offered? I don’t remember.  Whatever it was that got me started, I have been a fan ever since. 

 

Here are a few other things I miss from my home state:  

 

Thunderstorms.  Despite the many thunderstorms you may have seen on Grey’s Anatomy, intended to convince you that the show is set in Seattle, we hardly ever have thunderstorms here in the Willamette Valley.  

I love a good thunderstorm, as long as I am indoors and out of danger. Every time I am back east, I wait in vain for one to appear. Sadly, I seem always to just miss them.  I well remember the way the New Jersey summer sky would turn an eerie almost-yellow, followed by, thunder and lightening and drenching rain. (Wait. Was the yellow sky caused by pollution?  This was before the Clean Air Act.)

The Jersey shore.  Sure, it often took my friends and me four or more hours to drive to the closest shore points, a trip that would have taken less than two hours if the Garden State Parkway hadn’t been perpetually bumper-to-bumper. (I can only assume the trip is more arduous now.) But, it was so worth it to bask in the sun (before I understood about skin cancer) and to swim in a swimmable ocean.  (The Pacific ocean off Oregon and Washington is, to put it mildly, rather chilly.)

 

Proximity to New York City.  No explanation required.  

 

Listen, I know Jersey gets a lot of bad press, but as you will have surmised, I believe this is quite undeserved.  It’s true that, after so many years on the west coast, I won't be moving back, but I am glad I grew up there and got to eat that delicious pizza under a deciduous tree.

 

 

THE YEAR'S LAST, LOVELY SMILE

(The poet William Cullen Bryant called autumn “the year’s last, lovely smile," and, as I can’t think of a better description, I hope his soul won’t mind my stealing it as the title of this post.)  

 

Hooray! My favorite season has arrived.

 

Well, not officially, but it's in the air.  And yes, this photo, taken in October of last year, is aspirational, but it’s keeping me going. 

 

Sure, there's something to be said for each season.  Winter has its charms, at least until after the holidays.  And I love spring with its lengthening days and explosion of blooms.  (I'll get to summer in a moment.) 

 

But it is autumn that has my heart, autumn that suits my soul. And it's not just that I am in the autumn of my life.   I have loved this season for as long as can I remember.  

 

When I was a child, autumn signaled a new school year, new school supplies, new clothes, and – in those days before such burning was illegal – the smell of leaves going up in smoke.  As an adult, I love the rituals of getting out sweaters, preparing the garden for winter, and planning indoor projects.  I love the chill in the air and the change in the light, as it slants low across the late afternoon sky, showing scarlet and orange leaves to their best advantage. I welcome the early closing in of each day.  I feel called to turn inward myself, to allow the introvert in me to prevail.  

 

 

This year in, particular, I have been longing for autumn since July, so, please bear with me while I detour to address what has become my unfavorite season.  As I trudged through midsummer this year, I heard myself saying more than once, I don't like summer.  I was surprised.  And then I wasn't.  It wasn't a case of hyperbole.

 

I meant it.  

 

Before you start in on me, let me explain.  I used to like summer. I liked it until four or five years ago.  Here is the back story.  I left New Jersey almost 50 years ago, in part to get away from the miserable heat and humidity of its summers.  

 

Moving to the Pacific Northwest was a good choice.  Such a temperate climate.  Maybe one snowstorm and one heat wave a year here in the Willamette Valley.  Yes, it rains in the winter, but summers are dry, and all that rain means we are living in a paradise of greenery.

 

Well, we were.  

 

This beautiful place is changing.

 

Instead of one heat wave a year, we now have several.  And then there's the smoke from forest fires.  Not here in the valley, but close enough for it to come our way.  I am now running two air purifiers whenever the smoke starts to drift in.  

 

And don’t get me started on watering.  Oh, the watering.  As noted above, our summers are dry, and for reasons unclear to me, I have never installed a sprinkler system in the 31 summers I have lived in my current home.  Watering was a chore in the past, but now, with episodes of extreme heat, it is overwhelming--my garden beds and large trees are facing an existential crisis.  Our native flora is no longer suited to our changing climate.

 

But enough about summer and its discontents. 

 

Give me autumn, with its occasional rainfalls.  Give me changing seasons, especially this one.  Let me exchange summer’s toils for the year’s last, lovely smile. 

 

And allow me to leave you with these words, put in the mouth of her young heroine, Anne Shirley, by the author L. M. Montgomery: “I’m so glad to live in a world where there are Octobers.”   

 

Me too.  So very glad.  And grateful.

 

How about you?