New Glasses

My kind optometrist took this photo.  Thanks Heidi.

I ordered new glasses. I really like them because they have an unexpected band of white around the edges - and even a little bit of white on the corners. I usually get serious frames.  Hmmmm, let's review. I have rimless glasses from those long ago hippie years, super huge frames from the late 70s, some horn-rimmed frames for that college professor look, rimless again when they came back in the late 80s, more recently, the narrow black ones that were popular a few years ago and the last pair had those frames that you can twist into all kinds of shapes and they spring back (but the lenses also continually popped out - maybe I shouldn't have twisted them so much) - so very many types of serious glasses that now that I use an OLC (old lady cart) and live in a retirement community, I felt it was time to be a bit more playful. Thus my new glasses.

After wearing them for all of one week I have begun to wonder if I could have used them while teaching. Would "teacher looks" still work if wearing playful glasses.

Well, you be the judge. I have numbered them so feel free to add more captions - just let me know which photo they match. 

#1  You dont' really think that essay is worthy of what you can do?

#2  I don't think so!

#3  Good Job!

#4  Just PUT IT DOWN, Put it down immediately!

#5  As if!

#6  Do you think I was born yesterday?  Really?!?!?!

#7 I can't believe you said that!

Thanks, dear sister-in-law, Lynne, for taking all these photos.  It was fun!

Life with my OLC

Chortles? It's laughter combined with snorts and coughs and it makes communication completely impossible. I like chortles. They are, of course, unplanned and the resulting merrymaking can create lean-on-someone-to-hold-you-up-from-laughing-so-hard conditions. It can even create chortles in the listeners. Of course the best were in elementary school because, if they happened while someone was drinking milk from those little waxed containers, the laughter could make the milk spurt out the chortlers' noses. Ah the simple joys of youth. 

My latest chortle was caused by my sister Mary when she caught sight of a new purchase standing near my front door. She glanced at it, stopped dead in her tracks, turned to me and said in a slightly accusing tone, “OMG, tell me you did NOT buy an old lady cart? Not when you have moved into a retirement community.  Really???” 

I looked over at my new sparkling bright blue purchase (see below), went into that laugh/snort/cough combo chortle and, after I recovered, was able to answer, “Never thought of it quite that way, but, yep, I guess I did.”

A typical load in my beloved OLC

I love my old lady cart, or OLC as I now call it. I use it anytime I have more than a handful to carry from my car to my apartment. It is perfection. It quickly goes up the few stairs between the parking lot and the elevator, folds down to easily fit in my trunk, stands upright waiting to be unloaded in my unit - so what not to love? My only regret is that I did not buy one years earlier. All the lost opportunities!

Here it is filled with Wesley's things for a sleepover.

Tomorrow I leave for a month in California and I already see its many uses - carting lose stuff from my car into the houses of the many friends where I am staying; the same to my camp site at Yosemite; even better, carting bags of ice from the small camp store to the coolers in my bear lockers (and  now I can carry ice for other family campers as well) – I say it again, what NOT to love?!?!?  

Okay, yes, you see little old ladies walking down a street hauling their stuff in them, and yes, some of them are homeless, but I now see all of them as wise in their ways. For a mere $28 and access to Amazon you too can have a sturdy, washable OLC of your very own. What a deal. So, yes, I have an OLC and am quite proud of myself. You may want to try one. Believe me, once you try it, you'll never  go back to an OLC-free life. That's how great they are.  

Hmmmm, maybe this is a slight exaggeration.

I am YOUNG!!!

Never, in all my life, have I felt so young. Never have I received so many comments about my age - or lack of it to be more precise. When you are the youngest person in a community, younger by a decade than the average age of 75, it causes comments.

In the first days residents would ask which parent I was visiting. Or, when I asked to join people already seated in the dining room, they wanted to know which new position I had taken on staff. Or they would stop me, when walking down a hallway, to ask if they could direct me somewhere. When I was asked at the Wellness Center (the gym area) for a copy of my medicare card, the staff member visibly gulped when I told her I didn't yet qualify.

I quickly realized that this was a unique opportunity, that this would never happen again, so why not enjoy it? I loved answering, "Oh, no, I'm a new resident. I live in E Wing" and then watch their responses. It was priceless. First, always, a bit of confusion crossed their faces, then good manners surfaced and I would receive a warm welcome with some comment like, "Oh my goodness, you are just so young."

When I entered the dining room in those first weeks I could see messages being communicated among tables, "There she is." The funniest was when a man I didn't know stopped behind my chair, pointed down to me, and said aloud in a delighted tone, "Look how young she is." Whenever I met new people, they always wanted to know why I had chosen to move in when I was so young?

Generally people like it when you agree with decisions they have already made so my reasons for moving in at the YOUNG age of 64, pleased them. A few whispered to me, in asides, that they wished they had moved in earlier - they would have been better able to enjoy the amenities and activities. It made me think of my mother who moved to Canterbury Woods in Pacific Grove at age 80 - she enjoyed it but also recognized how limited her abilities to participate were.

Now that I have been here all of 3+ months they are more playful. One staff member recently called out, "Do you have a hall pass, young lady?" A resident asked, "Are you really old enough to have a library card?" They step aside to let me pass as they hear my more rapid steps approach behind them. "Go on, young'un," they will say as I pass by. And they take advantage of me. I am now asked to hand out programs at auditorium events. Or to jump up and get things when needed. But my favorite was when I realized I had been seated at "the kid's table" at a small community dinner. I was the one asked to get up and clear plates! So very funny. When, when, when will this every happen again?

As truly charming and welcoming as everyone has been (no, one exception - a really unpleasant rude woman I sat with at dinner - and quickly realized I was grateful she existed because otherwise I would suspect I lived in Brigadoon!) I have not met as many residents as I would like because I remain so busy. Most weekdays I am either with a grandson or volunteering in Portland. I rarely have lunch here and get home just a bit before dinner. It is, as I had suspected, the same life I had before, I am just sleeping in a different unit. But this time the neighbors are quiet and absolutely charming.

They all adore Wesley (as they should!). In reality, he has 400 additional grandparents. Most days I eat breakfast in my unit but on Fridays (after Wesley has spent the night) we go down to breakfast together.  After all,  says Wesley, "It's bacon and pancake day!" They all know he is coming and greet him when we walk in - residents and wait staff alike. His favorite table is right against one of the windows that look down on the Willamette River. It has become "our table." Last week he graduated from preschool (he enters pre-Kindergarten next year in the same school. To keep things straight, he graduated from their child care section last year - fine gradations here) and was awarded a "gold" medal on a ribbon to wear around his neck and a balloon. He insisted that he wear the medal and bring the balloon to breakfast the next morning. He wanted everyone to see and they responded perfectly - congratulating him quite seriously as he smiled proudly. When he brings a stuffed animal they ask how it is doing. When he fell face first on the dining room carpet they asked if he was okay (and then whispered to me that if any one of them had taken such a tumble, they would be down for the count!).

You know, I think I am going to be a bit annoyed when someone younger than me moves in.

Favorite bench where I sit and read at my new home

Gardening - Again

I thought gardening was over. Forty-one years ago I dug my first garden in the backyard of my husband's best man's mother's garden. Follow that? We moved to Connecticut right after our wedding and Mrs. Hinde was an incredibly generous woman who shared many things with me - her love of garage sales ("tag sales" in New England), redecorating (let's see - she lived in 4 different houses in the 16 years we lived in Connecticut - all charming historic homes that were much fun to explore) but most of all, gardening.  She had a large garden in her house in Westport (where Martha, THAT Martha, also has a house and garden) and rototilled a space twice as big as she needed so that I could "experience the joy of a vegetable garden."  I wasn't so sure about that "joy."

You see, my history with gardening was not good. I was raised in a typical 1950s household - we 3 girls did the inside work, our 2 brothers did the work outside . . .  except for one horrid weekend each spring. We sensed its approach when we were told to not make any plans for the weekend. UUUUUUURRRRGGGGHHHH. Saturday morning Mom would throw open our bedroom doors, flip on the lights and call out in a hideously cheerful voice, "Good morning!  Rise and Shine!" The drill sergeant was on the move and there was no escape.

By spring each year our garden was completely overgrown. The hedge between our house and the neighbor's was probably 15 feet high. Ivy had worked its way over fences and sheds, bushes had grown into each other and were each chock full of leaves fallen from overhanging trees. Weeds grew with abandon in the beds and in the gravel walkways around the garden. It was a mess.

Mom took the best job - she directed. She was so good at it that her nickname in college was "Butch."They had quickly caught on to her skill set. Two of us were sent to deal with the hedge (I still remember clambering up the fence to reach the tallest branches then bending them down so a sibling could hack 'em off). Others were set to weeding, removing sludge from the fish pond and pulling out ivy and rotting leaves. Mom attacked the bushes and fruit trees. She hacked, whacked and slaughtered. Around her grew piles of debris which we dragged off to toss into the back of a truck. It took all weekend and was absolutely hideous. It was at this time that I learned an important skill - work avoidance. I would sweetly volunteer to go into the house to make lemonade. It was a brilliant maneuver. I was left alone in the kitchen to wander SLOWLY about gathering pitcher, glasses, tray, etc. It was cans of frozen lemonade, mind you, but I could drag that process out for 45 minutes - minutes spent blissfully out of dirt, grime and thorns.

Ah, horrific memories.

So fast forward to Connecticut - a vegetable garden? By choice? Who knew that I would love it and from that year forward we always had one. I remember digging out the garden at our first little house on a lake in the Connecticut countryside - I couldn't believe how many rocks we removed from that space. Yes, glaciers had indeed passed over New England.





Here is Stephanie, maybe 3 years old, standing by that garden.






Below is the photo I call "Abbudanza" - the abundance of the onion crop at the end of the season.

When we moved back to California in 1987 gardening changed. Pacific Grove has a gentle climate - rarely hot, rarely cold - but not warm enough for a lot of veggies. Instead I grew herbs (until I noticed my dog Murphy peeing on them). And I grew flowers - masses of them. In beds and in window boxes that Lee and Gary built.  I loved it.

The back door

Back Yard

Side deck

Entry

After Gary died I moved to the house on Bentley Street and gardening changed once again. A corner lot, closer to the ocean's salt air, offers challenges. The back yard was tiny - I scattered little gardens around.

One corner of the back yard

The side deck had lots of sun (when sun chose to show itself in Pacific Grove) so that is where I concentrated pots of flowers.

The one thing I never grew were roses - Pacific Grove does not have the right weather. But not so Portland. Here they are everywhere. After all, we are the Rose City.

What to do? What to do? Is it time to have a rose garden or time to hang up my trowel? My community offers plenty of garden space. I can own a patch in which I can plant whatever I want or I can take over a patch in which roses already grow. Hmmmm.

My first thought was to pack it all in - I have done my bit for beautifying the earth - but then spring came and the scent of fresh turned dirt made me itch to get my hands in the soil.

So I set out to discover  what it takes to get a rose patch here in my new home. When I heard the level of commitment I had to laugh. These are rules:


1. You put in a request and are told which plots are available. You pick one.
2. They put a little plaque with your name on it so the world knows these are YOUR roses.
3. If you don't like the roses currently growing you can buy others and the staff gardeners will pull up your old ones, rototill and plant the new ones (THIS I liked!)
4. You weed and water.
5. All the roses are yours to pick - or share with others.
6. If you don't have a rose garden there are rows of plants that are "open cut" - help yourself (well, only three roses at a time, please).

What do do? What to do? While waffling a new friend mentioned that she was having trouble weeding. Her legs weren't quite strong enough. I like to weed (unless it is in clay then never mind) - it is mindless, there is immediate gratification, and it is lovely to sit in dirt while you smell plants around you. When I offered to weed her plot she told me to pick as many of her roses as I want. Perfection. I can now cut roses from her plants PLUS add 3 roses a day from the open cut. Glory be.

I then discovered that if you have a small unit and a small table you don't have a lot of space for large vases of roses - 3 - 5 are just about perfect.

Ah, life is sweet! It is good to have my hands back in the dirt. Next year I will get my own patch but for right now weeding and picking is just fine.

Costco and Me

What I remember most about my first visit to Costco way back when was the canoe for sale hanging from the ceiling of the warehouse. This, I realized, is not your typical grocery store. I also remember thinking I would not want to be inside if an earthquake hit. Interestingly enough, years later, I WAS shopping at our local Costco when a wee earthquake happened and am happy to report that all pallets stayed nicely in place.

Over the years I have filled many many carts - both the normal and pallet sizes - with Costco products and have been happy. In fact, I have grown to love Costco. Not quite like my older sister and my cousin who are passionate about it but quietly delighted that it is in my neighborhood. It is easy, on the most part inexpensive, and the Econ teacher in me is delighted with their corporate culture. You know they treat employees well by the fact that you get to know many of them by name - they don't leave.

I was pleased to discover that the local Costco here in Portland was even closer than the one in Pacific Grove - only about 3 miles away. I shop there probably once a month - the usual toilet paper, paper towels, garbage bags, cleaning products, whole chickens, cheese, frozen stuff, etc. I also found things for my duplex - my favorite being a storage unit for my upstairs attic room.

 Here it is in my new unit

I cantilevered that really heavy package from the cart into my car (first removing Wesley's child seat, then wedging the package so that the last little bit hung out the open window), dragged it from the car onto the front porch then into my living room, took the package apart and lugged the individual pieces up to the attic where I assembled it - along with 2 glasses of wine to get me through the process - and loved it.  Thank you, Costco.

I had lots of space in the basement so storage was no problem - I simply opened the basement door and tossed the large non-breakable stuff down where it all landed in a pile at the foot of the steep steps. On laundry day I would move it all to the basement's Costco corner.  Easy peasy.

But everything changed when I moved into my new 421-square foot studio. That wonderful Costco storage unit came with me but it soon became apparent that I no longer had space for all the other Costco stuff. Where do you put 30 rolls of toilet paper, 12 rolls of paper towels, 36 eggs, gallon-size jugs of detergent, 6 tubes of toothpaste, 4 frozen chickens???? Not in my small unit.

It was with shock that I recognized my Costco days are numbered. There just isn't room. But I also now know exactly how long Costco-sized products last. I know this because I know my arrival date (3 months and 10 day ago) and know that I opened many new packages the day I moved in. So, here goes - one large tube of toothpaste, when used by one person, lasts 3 months. I am 3/4 of the way through the original paper towel roll I unwrapped the day I moved in (shows how little cooking I am doing), just started a new deoderant (and yes, I do use it everyday, thank you very much!), and, based on my new projected use of dryer sheets, my large double package will last 5 years!

I also realize how much more space I will have when I finally use up all my Costco multiples - I think I still have 8 sticks of deoderant, 4 large tubes of toothpaste, many quart size containers of laundry detergent (the original size packages would not fit into my shelves so I poured them into empty plastic containers), lots of dental floss, 10 bars of soap, 6 boxes of kleenex, and so on.

But no Costco?  It is almost unthinkable and yet I just can't store the stuff. But oh my goodness. No Costco?  Really? I called last week and found out that my membership cycle stops at the end of this month. I told them to not renew. I now have 21 days left. 21 days. I may go hang out and walk the aisles, remembering. Ah yes, that wonderful cheese (in a 3 pound package that would now fill my small refrigerator), the 36-can package of Diet Coke (where would I store all those cans?), the large box of crackers that Wesley loves (really? In my small cabinets?). Ah, the reality of my new living space. This is going to be a bit traumatic.

Oh wait . . .  I just remembered. Stephanie has a Costco card! I know she will let me come along and add things to her cart. Of course she will. I won't have to go cold turkey after all. When so much is changing it is good that at least one thing can change a bit more slowly. Phew!

Breathing Space

It is over and I can't believe it. What, you may ask? May, of course. What a month. Stephanie returned to work and I stepped in to care for wee Finn - and adored every single second. I also had visitors (enjoyed each one), figured out Medicare choices (what a lot of information to slog through but the clock is ticking on my quickly approaching 65th birthday), continued to adjust to my new life at the retirement community and found time to celebrate spring in Portland. So many distractions and all were enticing.

First and foremost - the grandsons, the perfect grandsons:

Wesley appears to adore his baby brother. I watch Stephanie and Dan adjust to a second child and am amazed at the grace and patience they exhibit as they respond to the circus whirling around them. Oh I remember but do not think I did as well as they do.

Today was a BIG day, a milestone - Finn's first day at childcare. He will go with Wesley two days a week; the other three he remains with me. Wesley led Stephanie (with Finn in arms) into the infant room at childcare and then he stayed for circle time with Finn. I do not know what infants do in circle time but Wesley enjoyed himself regardless. When I picked Wesley up this afternoon he told me that he went over to check on Finn before he himself took his nap. He wanted to make sure everything was going well. It was.

Yesterday Stephanie and Dan invited me along for a picnic at a park prior to Wesley's 30-minute soccer class. I drove Wesley over while Finn rode with Steph and Dan. As Wesley climbed into my car he turned back and called out, "See you at the park, Finn!" I am enjoying my role as witness to family evolution.

Wesley and I still manage to have time together. It is no longer 2 hours a day (after preschool), 5 days a week. It is, instead, the two afternoons I am not babysitting Finn. I bring him back to my apartment and we find lots to do. Today we went to the art studio to make presents for some family members - but, ssshhhh, I can't tell more. Then back to my apartment for a snack and some book reading. Lovely lovely lovely. We manage to have a weekly sleepover as well. Sleeping with an almost 4-year old is an experience, however. He wants to sleep in my bed and it would be fine except - well just look:

I push his sleepy body away a bit, slide in beside him and then, in minutes, he is back hogging the space. It is AMAZING how a little body can control so much of a double bed! I never sleep well but it is worth every sleepless second to have him with me.

I have really missed writing these entries so get ready - they are going to start pouring out. Lots to share.

Love you all.