My 2011 Holiday letter

Most of my "blogs" are really essays; this post is truly a blog--a summing up of the year for all my friends, including the ones on PNN for whom I don't have email addresses.

Each year I try to find a theme to the year’s events–a connecting thread–for my holiday letter, as in “The year of the— .”
    Well, I think this year it found itself as I began to think about a year filled with random joys and sorrows, worries and pain, but some fun and golden days. I’m going to skip most of the usual family rundown. My family has become so huge, most of you don’t even know who they are by name, and if I brag about one, I have to brag about all twenty of them. Let’s just say the number stayed stable, and I got to see all the five great-grands at least once. And I’d just as soon forget the falls, injuries to hands and knee, trips to the ER and one hospitalization for gastroenteritis–the point is, I survived, and managed to have many stellar times in between.
    All you really need to know about the year is that I made a difficult decision not to uproot myself and move to Massachusetts, but to stay here near my dear old (and new) friends, the Hudson River, the Walkway Over the Hudson, my beloved writing groups, my amazing aide, my wonderful cooking and shopping assistant, and all my medical people and resources five minutes up the road. Daughter Lisa and her new husband Fran’s move put them much nearer, so it is easier to get to each other now. The worst of the problems in my building ended with the eviction of a couple of tenants. Now again I love living here, with its gorgeous park-like grounds for walking and photo-taking, so when I realized I was just too tired and decrepit to face a move and a new life, I was able to accept it.
    Which brings me to the theme of the year. As you know, I blog on the Elderstorytelling site, http://www.ronnibennett.typepad.com/elderstorytelling/, about once a week. Between responses to that, to my old page on PNN, (no longer active but still readable at http://lynamber.pnn.com/10307-the-front-page ), and on Facebook, it has begun to dawn on me that there is a need for and a shortage of elders as role models for “keepin’ on keepin’ on”– leading active, meaningful lives, in spite of pain and disability. I hear that from many people, younger ones especially, who tell me I am an inspiration and a mentor to them (and believe me, my circle of friends includes several other candidates for stardom in this field–I’m not alone). This year I am being filmed and taped as part of a documentary on people in their 70's and 80's dealing positively and creatively with aging. So my feeling of obligation to be that person has increased, and, recently, I had an epiphany: This IS my purpose in life in this home stretch!
    And there is the title for 2011's newsletter: The year that I found my new and final purpose in life! I certainly had no problem knowing what my purpose was when raising children–there was never a question. Nor when I was singing for my supper for 45 years; nor when I was churning out my three books. But the last few years I have been feeling a bit purposeless, unable to just relax and play with my photography, writing, and reading. All my life I have felt I should be accomplishing something all the time-- “devils nippng at my heels.” My goal is to banish the little buggers, yet still fulfill my newly-realized purpose.
    So, that, my dear friends, is where I am at the end of 2011, eagerly looking toward another year of living, loving, doing and just being. I wish for you a glowing year with good health, good appetites, and good health coverage! I’ll be donating the money I saved on stamps to one of the environmental or humanitarian causes I support, as I have for years.
    I’m enclosing a few favorite photos from this past year–of course, I took thousands, so, if you’d like to look at more, you can do so at https://picasaweb.google.com/114151652976617629600/20111216# Just click on the latest album, click on slideshow to see those all enlarged, then go back up to “Lyn Burnstine’s photos” and it will show you ALL of the albums that you can view one at a time, if you'd like.

Peace and love,
Lyn

Is There Anyone Out There?

I miss the old PNN. I don't know if anyone is still reading, but if you are, and if you can comment (I couldn't on other sites), enjoy these recent photos of my summertime.

The Candy Store

Across the street from my first elementary school was a penny candy store run by an elderly gent. He brooked no nonsense, but if you were well-behaved, he was kind. He probably wasn’t all that old, either; from the perspective of a five-to-eight-year-old, he was.

I’m sure I didn’t go all that often, because the spare pennies were few and far between in those post-Great Depression years. That fact became evident to me in the summers when my mother, my sister and I escaped the stifling heat of a walk-up Main Street combination apartment and photographic studio, by moving to my grandmother’s farm. There we three shared one chocolate bar and one twelve-ounce Pepsi daily between  us. ( I’ll always wonder why my grandmother wasn’t part of that deal.)  I thought the rationing of those treats was for health reasons, and was surprised to learn that my family simply couldn’t afford  for us to  have an entire bar and soda apiece. Thirty cents was a lot of money in those days. They may well have fed us on little more than that, since everything was home-grown. Even two nickels for a daily ice cream cone for my sister and me, when we were in town, was too much, I learned.

What few pennies came my way were saved to shop the five-and-dime store for Christmas presents for family members and an occasional treat for myself. Interestingly enough, I never felt poor or knew we were until I was much older. 

    So during the school season, when I had a few cents to spend, rarely, it made for an agonizing decision: should I choose a Milky Way, candy cigarettes, ropes of licorice,  Butterfingers, Snickers, root beer or cinnamon candy canes, wax lips, little syrup-filled wax bottles, or my all-time favorite–then and still today: Mallo Cups? Oh, the deliciousness! The creamy chocolate cup as big as your hand, filled with rich, smooth marshmallow cream filling. Teeny, tiny bits of coconut embedded in the chocolate was just enough to give resistance to your teeth and slow down the melting process a bit, thereby prolonging the pleasure.

They are still around and delicious. They even make a peanut butter cup that surpasses Reese’s in creaminess, and–be still my soul–they now have dark chocolate, too, but they are all SO SMALL! There’s even a web site that is called, in part, “nothing good ever lasts or the incredible shrinking candy bar.” So, you see, it’s not just my little girl perception or that my hand was smaller then.

My Angels

My Angels

They arrive–heralded,
My two angels.
Once a week for one;
Once a month for the other.

The weekly angel washes, scrubs, vacuums, changes my bed, launders, dusts,
removes dirt and garbage, washes dishes, polishes silver,
throws out cardboard boxes, recycles plastic and glass,
and any odd jobs I ask her to do–cheerfully and willingly.

The second angel cuts, chops, stirs, bakes,
fills my freezer and refrigerator
with yummy easy-to-finish foods.
She takes home peelings and parings for compost,
leaving no mess behind.
She, too, is jolly good company.
Both of them shop for food.

I used to do it all (except for composting)–
while raising kids, a grandkid, doing my own concerts, running
concerts, and teaching little kids.
Oh! And did I mention trying to keep a man happy?
Or even trying to find one?  (An exhausting chore.)
And frequent mealtime guests.
And sewing and crafts projects.
Were there more than 24 hours in the day then?

I met an elderly  man once who had been a photojournalist for a famous magazine.
He always said “I used to be...”
I swore I’d never say that.
But here I am, saying “I used to be...”
And “I used to do.”

I think I’m trying not to feel guilty for my good luck;
for my two angels,
And probably just making sure you understand
that I’m old and decrepit, not lazy.






                    

A Long, Long Story--54 Years in the Making

There has been a plethora of web sites starting up lately about rheumatoid arthritis, as well as other chronic illnesses. Several are on Facebook, and one excellent one among many is RA Warrior. As a member, I was encouraged to write my own “onset” story to add to the others. As often happens these days, I may be the oldest blogger there, and I very well might have the longevity record: fifty-four years. I’ve never talked much about my chronic illness until recent years: too many people have said to me in the past “you’re too young to have arthritis,” then I’d have to go into a tutorial about RA and Juvenile RA. Or, worse yet, as I got elderly and my contacts did, too, I’d mention RA and they’d say “Oh, me, too, this finger was so sore this morning!” I would like to have done more education, but quite honestly, I didn’t know a lot myself, because the doctors didn’t know a lot. Now we all do, thanks to Google, web sites, and sharing on social networks. Those of us with RA are eager to raise awareness. This is a long article, but please read it, and share what you’ve learned about this disease that is so little understood that it is considered one of the “invisible” diseases along with lupus and fibromyalgia and chronic fatigue syndrome. You can learn more on Google and I hope you will. Remember that this is written to other RA survivors, so is a personal narrative rather than a scientific explanation. One of the web sites is called “But You Don’t Look Sick!” Would that it had remained invisible in my case, and others! Here’s my story: 

Onset of RA, Lyn Burnstine                                              
I always say I got RA in 1956, when I was twenty-three, but reading some of the other stories here of “early warning signs” years before full-fledged RA, I am more than ever convinced that the times when I had to cancel my piano lessons due to sore wrists were omens. At age 19, I left the music conservatory at Millikin University to marry my Air Force sweetheart. The only strenuous parts of that happy, fulfilled marriage and life were doing the laundry– khaki uniforms, bedding and all our clothing– in a bathtub, and playing the piano for ten hours a week for a dance school. I don’t remember my hands or wrists complaining, only my back.
    I had a healthy baby girl at age 21, and another planned pregnancy a year later. During the three  months that it lasted, I had painful ear infections, and near-bronchial pneumonia–that second infection during a long car-trip to move from our Air Force home in Mississippi to New York State. I hadn’t even found an OB yet when I began to miscarry, so, in a panic I chose someone from the Yellow Pages, who falsely advertised himself as a specialist. He was not! He “liked to deliver babies,” and was totally inept, as I later learned. With his full approval, I got pregnant again two months later, and began to have problems almost immediately. The least of my problems was the rapid weight gain, for which I was given amphetamines–“speed.” I kept saying “How can I be getting kicked in the groin and in the belly-button when I’m only four-and-a-half months along? It’s gotta’ be twins!”  There were no ultrasounds, sonograms, nor amniotic fluid tests in the mid-fifties. I was right; he was wrong; and at seven months I delivered twin boys who survived just four and eight days. I needn’t tell any of you where the stress level was at that point. Plus, although by then I did have a wringer washer, it hadn’t yet occurred to me that Upstate New Yorkers didn’t hang their clothes outside in the middle of winter. (I mention these various factors because the cause of RA is still unknown, other than that SOMETHING--maybe an infection or stress-- kicks off an autoimmune reaction and your body begins to destroy itself).
    Normally thin, I had some “baby fat” to work off, so I took a class in volleyball. I came home from the first night’s class with red, swollen, stinging wrists. My husband and I agreed I must have really hit the balls with a vengeance! But the symptoms didn’t go away. By the time I finally got my second beautiful, healthy daughter, two years later, I couldn’t lift or diaper her at night. Her father had to carry her to me to be nursed. Days weren’t quite as bad, but as she grew she had to learn to hold on to me as I lifted her on my  forearms instead of hands. Those were the days of cloth diapers and big diaper pins that were torture for me. She was potty-trained for daytime at seventeen months, but not for nighttime for much longer. I remember sitting on the bathroom floor crying because I couldn’t fasten the pin, and then proclaiming “If you’re going to keep needing a diaper, you’re going to have to do it yourself!” We have a photo of her at three doing just that!
    Somewhere during those years, my PCP (an internist) started me on gold salts injections, and for fifteen years, on and off (off for nine months to have a healthy baby boy), that and aspirin, then Darvon Compound by the handfuls, were all that was available to me. My stress level rose and fell as my husband began to tire of “taking care of a sick wife,” and finally left me and our children. I was lucky to find a loving, caring man to enrich my life, and during his remaining six years before his sudden death from undetected metastatic pancreatic cancer, I went into remission. I was even able to go off the gold salts, dance, play the piano again, and shovel the driveway! People who knew me only during those years were hardly aware of the RA, unless they noticed my bony forearms, puffy knees and fused wrists–it was seldom necessary to mention it unless a contra-dance partner was grabbing me too hard. Two years later, the remission ended dramatically, and the terrible pain returned along with a sunburn on my wrists, the only exposed part of me as I sat and luxuriated in the sun’s warmth on a cold, damp, day on my beloved Star Island in the Isles of Shoals in 1981.
    From there it spread to most of my joints–at one time I counted thirteen that were involved. I had sore feet all my life since a child, but I didn’t connect the dots until my toes began to be deformed and dislocated. My first doctor in 1956 had diagnosed it as fibrositis, but three to four years later he admitted he had lied to “keep me from freaking out!” I remember saying “I don’t care what you call it–call it the creeping crud–just make me feel better!” I still had no positive role models. I knew nobody with RA except an elderly woman I heard about who had been in a nursing home all her life, totally curled up into herself and helpless in a bed-wheelchair. Her story scared me to death.
    It took me decades (and dating an M.D.) to understand that I needed to be seeing a rheumatologist rather than the parade of internists passing through my life. Only then did I get the understanding I needed, but at least the internists had done the right things, even though some had thought the sero-negative classification meant that I didn’t really have RA–spoken as they looked right at swollen, deformed joints. I have tried just about every medicine that has come along in these fifty-four years Only when my HMO threw out all the seniors, ten years ago, was I  able to get the new, amazing biologic, Enbrel,  through my insurance plan. It has literally given me my life back (as part of a cocktail with Plaquinil, prednisone, Methotrexate, folic acid and Mobic).
    Along the way, the inability to play the piano after the first flare had led me accidentally into a glorious adaptive career that I loved, and eventually needed to rely on to support myself after my marriage crashed and burned. In the nearly forty years as a folk singer, with small lap instruments especially chosen to be easier on my hands, I have had five hand surgeries (two to replace five joints, now again broken and subluxed); four foot and ankle ones, reconstructing and fusing all the toes; three cancer surgeries, one with radiation; two pacemaker implants; about nine other unrelated surgeries; and an eventual diagnosis of another autoimmune condition, Celiac Disease. I now have a severe degenerative spinal condition–only partly due to the RA–and neuropathies in both legs, so I have to use a cane or  rolling, seated walker outside of my tiny accessible apartment. I have atrial fibrillation and have had some scary episodes with that— but I’m still here--in spite of the scary statistics about mortality in RA. At seventy-seven, I’m active and productive at writing (three books published since I was sixty-seven), photography (a dozen solo exhibits), blogging on several blogs, teaching memoir writing, attending coffeehouses and concerts (just retired from being the booking agent and publicist for a folk concert series for thirteen years), enjoying my five great-grandchildren, six grands and their parents, and even now and then singing a song with my daughter who is also a professional folk singer.
    I have far less energy than I used to (and the fatigue was always a serious problem), but I also have far less pain–nothing like it used to be. There was a time when I couldn’t sign my name to a check; now I write two or three pages at a time easily. I know how hard it is–God knows I know–and my heart aches for all of you who are brave enough to share your journeys with us, and who are just starting. I’ve done my sharing of mourning and I do allow myself to wallow in it when I need to. I get a certain modicum of peace from finally accepting that this IS my path–for whatever reason–my ONLY life, and I’m going to enjoy the Hell out of it whenever I can. I write a lot about choosing joy, and get great pleasure from all the people who feel inspired by what I write and what I accomplish under almost impossible odds. My thesis is that one can choose to celebrate or mourn one’s lot in life, and there is always justification for either. And it’s going to hurt whether I sit home ,or go out and have a good time. Probably less, in fact. If I can’t make it today, I’ll go tomorrow or the next day. There were times when I couldn’t stand the pain of playing my instruments at all to rehearse, but on stage I felt no pain (until about an hour later!) Me, I like to sing and dance, even if it’s only virtual these days.
    The photo I am enclosing is of me enjoying my latest passion– walking our amazing Walkway across the Hudson River– 212 feet above the river, and 1.28  miles long. I walk it very slowly, with my walker, taking lots of sitting breaks and taking photographs–alone or with friends, or, as on this special golden day, with my son and two new friends who adopted me that day. Cost? I sometimes pay for it the next day, but it’s priceless to me.

Writing

I haven't been writing here much since PNN has become inactive, but I am still enjoying having my page and archives here to which to refer people. I am on The Elderstorytelling blog on a regular basis--a wonderful spot of over-fifty-writers, edited by the incomparable editor and writer, Ronni Bennett, who writes her own daily blog, As Time Goes By. I heartily recommend both to you.

I live in a postage-stamp-sized senior apartment so my office is in the corner of my tiny bedroom. But the southeast view out the window at the treetops is gorgeous year-round, in the day time and framing the moon at night.

My wonderful quilt, made by my mother using scraps from four generations of clothing, wraps me in fabric family history. The framed awards certificates on the wall remind me that I have made a difference in my almost 80 years.

A look to the left at photos of my children, grandhildren and great-grandchildren together with their spouses - a grand total so far of 19 - make that little corner of technology a place of warmth and love. I keep up with their lives online from that cozy little spot, sharing my writing and photography with them and with old and new friends.

Trees

As  you might guess, looking at my photos on this page and in my archives, I have a love affair with trees. The first tree I remember being so attached to was a persimmon tree in my grandmother's back yard in whose branches I perched and played my ocarina. There were other trees on her farm that I was fond of, too: a big oak in the pasture where hung a regular high swing and a maple in the front yard that held an amazing merry-go-riound horse, lovingly restored with new, shiny paint and hung so that it dipped as it swung. Other homes came and went, bringing different varieties of trees--live oaks festooned with Spanish moss, magnolias, dogwoods, and finally evergreens when I moved to the Northeast. I now sit under Beechwood trees to write, in the summertime. I've now lived in the same area for over fifty years and have claimed many local trees as my favorites--some for their brilliant fall foliage, and some for their graceful shapes, stark against a winter sky.  Here are some pictures of my favorites. I had hoped to post some new ones, but PNN won't allow me to--just to re-post the old ones. I hope you enjoy getting to know them, too.

Sacred Places

I hold many places sacred, both in my memory and in my present existence. One of them called to me today. Yes, I was already in the vicinity for a haircut; yes, I had been feeling deprived of my beloved, healing photography since being hospitalized last week and only slowly regaining my strength. But there are many beautiful parks and lakes and river views near where I could have chosen to spend time. I have thousands of photos of Vanderbilt Mansion grounds. I didn’t need one more. But I did need to revisit my life–my memories.

Last night I learned of the serious illness of my most elder friend, who even under the best of circumstances won’t be around forever. She is ninety. I also faced awareness of my own mortality last week when my body once again showed me its vulnerability due to powerful destructive meds that I am forced to take if I want to have any life at all. This week, I learned that the only solution to a recent heart development is a very dangerous drug, and that the solution to not ending my days in a wheelchair may require a scary and dangerous surgery I was determined never to have. It has not been a good week, folks! Try as I might to come up with positives, it’s harder than usual.

I guess the reason I needed to be at Vanderbilt’s is that it’s always there. It never changes, except seasonally. I have photos from all four seasons and half-way between all of them.

My history with Vanderbilt’s is varied and intense. It was a part of my children’s lives growing up in Hyde Park. They rode their bikes there, hung out with friends, and neighbors. I took my youngest, Alan,  and his neighborhood buddies on “Ranger Rick” outings there to read the brass plates on the exotic trees the Vanderbilt’s had imported; Laurel, my eldest, often rode her bike over and talked the guards into letting her go in and pretend she was the princess-owner of this elegant grand house, gliding up and down the stairs in a revery. We attended concerts on the grounds, weddings, and I may even have sung there. Yes. wait. I did! And of course, every out-of-town visitor we had from 1962 until the 90's had to be taken to see its splendors.

It was the site of my biggest heartbreak–I saw the only hard evidence of my husband’s suspected cheating and betrayal when I drove through with my daughter, Lisa, and her friend, and caught him snuggling with someone who was our “friend”–his more than mine, obviously: Lisa and I never talked about it–ever, nor did her father and I. The marriage effectively ended the next day. Years later, I had several wonderfully romantic liasons, healing in themselves, and especially healing because they happened there. Somehow it meant more to have my desirability confirmed there where I’d seen proof of no longer being desirable to my husband of 20 years.

Years later I spent one idyllic spring day lying in the grass being serenaded with poetry and song by a lovely “black Irish” man, an artist and musician. I was treated to a champagne, fruit and cheese picnic by another suitor who was romantic beyond anything I’d ever experienced. I spent other days there soaking up the warm spring sunshine, in the gardens and on the riverbanks, with other male friends who later became lovers for a short time.

During my short career as an activity director, I took the clients of a group home there to enjoy the view and the outdoors: some of them had been institutionalized their whole lives, and two told me they hadn’t been in a car for 30 years. I picnicked with friends, played Scrabble at the tables down by the river, and spent lots of time by myself, learning to love my solitude. I talked to rangers sometimes; I met an amazing woman on the path once who seemed almost magical to me with eyes like ice-blue marbles. We spoke deeply and personally of common interests in nature, and never saw each other again.

I took my grandchildren there and my first great-granddaughter. My grandson, Grahm, scared me by suddenly rolling down a steep hill with no warning. I stood at the top and called down “I hope you can get yourself back up–there is no way I can come get you!” A generation later, his oldest child, Maybelle, just starting to walk, hugged a tree for the first time, and her mom and I marveled over what that must be like for her. I lay on my back with my knees bent to relieve my back, feet waggling in the air, and she toddled over and bit me on the toe. I felt like I had joined an exclusive club–that I was “in” somehow. Down by the river, I had learned long ago that my stomach lurched when any child, not just my own, went close to the water, so that day we were far away, up on the overlook immortalized by every artist and photographer that ever passed through the grounds, and usually named simply “Hyde Park.”.

Like most people my age, I am experiencing much loss– of friends, abilities, interests. I work very hard at seeing the half-full cup–looking at what I still have and can do– and not obsessing about the losses. Today was a good reminder of what is unchanged and still there for me–even if someday I have to be driven and have to take my pictures from the seat of the car! Excelsior! 

And if you want to see more--MANY MORE--you can go to this web site and navigate from album to album by going to the top and clicking Lyn's photos, then left double-clicking any of the albums to open it. https://picasaweb.google.com/grammylyn1/VanderbiltSJune2011

Golden Days

Golden Days

I’m working on a new attitude. I’m also working on a new response to the question “How are you?” They are not unrelated. There is a thread that binds them together–maybe several.

I’m realizing more than ever, that with five active chronic illnesses, several concomitant syndromes, and over a dozen prescription drugs, I am probably not ever again going to be truly well, as in “I’m fine.” That is realism, not pessimism. On bad days I’ve been saying “I’m hangin’ in!” On relatively good days, I say “I’m having a good day,” or “I’m still here!”
    My recent favorite has been “All things considered, I’m doin’ pretty well.” I figure if that person knows me, she will know what I mean by “all things considered,” and for the rest, I don’t really care if they do, but it’s not as apt to start the dialogue that I call the elevator talk.
HER: “How are you?”
ME: “Fine, how are you?”
Ten minutes later, you manage to get away, knowing more about her body than you ever wanted to. I like my answer, because it’s honest, but not cavalier. Now with a new attitude, I need a new response that reflects it.
    My new attitude–awareness is probably a better word–is that I’m willing to do almost everything I can to be healthier and prolong my life– as long as the ecstacy outweighs the agony. That, by the way, at this age–nearly seventy-eight– takes about sixty per cent of my time and energy. What I’m not willing to do is sacrifice any of my joys or passions for even one more day on this earth. I know I overdo and overstress on the “golden days”– the days of following my bliss by going on photographic jaunts, especially with friends, walking our fabulous Walkway over the Hudson, and driving to see my family. I’m willing to set aside the next day to recover–as I often must these days. But I am not going to give up anything I love that’s still physically possible for me to do. If it kills me, so be it! I will have had the golden day– complete with chocolate.

 Some recent spectacularly Golden      Days and Nights!

On the right: those are crows in front of the moon.

Memory

I write a lot about memory; I talk a lot about memory. My Tuesday morning writing workshop ladies have learned what I told them from the beginning “the more you remember, the more you remember!” They are amazed to be discovering I was right-- that memory is a skill that can be developed. It is like energy, in that “energy begets energy.” It is appropriate, in their cases, because their prime purpose in meeting together is to write their life stories so their offspring will know better who they really were, aside from being Mom.

This week, I have started a mammoth re-organizing of family and friends’ photographs–thousand’s of them. I have decided that albums take up more space than photo boxes. Since hardly anyone ever looks at them anyway, including me, I’ll label and sort the photos in chronological order in  the boxes, as I have done with my professional print film samples, only by categories and seasons..

It would be far better and wiser to have them all on flash drives,  but at the rate of speed I am currently operating in, it would take at least 5-7 years. So I’ll do the best I can with the boxes, for now. Meanwhile there are piles and heaps sitting all around the living room, awaiting decisions. My granddaughter arrives for a “pajama party,” Thursday night. (That means, I’m a cheap motel en route to wherever she’s going down this way–a half-point stopover, and the party will consist of me watching her sleep, probably, but hey! I’ll take anything I can get!)  As I write this on Wednesday night, I still don’t know where the stacks will go to make room for her foldout bed. I can’t put them back the way they were; I’ve got to move forward.

Most of those pictures are ones I’d seen within the last few years, so at least I still remember who they are. If I hurry, I’ll be able to label them before I forget!

But alas, in the box of old love and fan letters that I’m simultaneously sorting, I find names I don’t recognize at all. Who the hell was Connie? I must have written her a lovely sympathy letter that she answered in beautiful, cultured letter-writing style. Oh, and there are a couple of letters from a once-potential beau I’d forgotten about–the man, not the letter. As is my habit, I immediately went to Google to see if he was still alive. Nope! Another man done gone. About the only ones left are the heavy-smoking alcoholics. Kinda’ makes you wonder, doesn’t it?

The purpose of this interruption of one sorting job by another is to acquire another large handsome box for the pictures. It has been a total failure. I have painfully parted with less than two handfuls of cards.  How can I throw away handcrafted cards by artistic friends I love, and letters telling me how wonderful I am, or my music, photos and  writing are? Having always been publicly visible, I have gotten more than my share of those.

And here’s the point: I didn’t remember most of them--receiving them or reading them. They are indeed a box of memories. How could I possibly throw them away? If I live to be very old–VERY old–and someday wonder what my life was all about, I can re-read them and remember. Even if I can’t see, I can have my great-grandchildren read them to me and say “See, I DID make a difference–to some folks, anyway
So, I’ll keep my memories–in my head or in those boxes in the closet.

Photos by my son, Alan, and my friend,Cathy Bala, circa 1980ish

Daddy's Girl

The acrid smell of hypo will always be “music” to my nose. From the time of my earliest memories until I was about nine, my father had a photographic studio in our home. I loved to follow him around; I especially loved to perch on a stool in the darkroom while he developed film.
    The greatest benefit, that I’ve come to appreciate more and more in later life, was that my daddy was home. To have both parents near and available was a luxury very few children had in those days, unless they were farm dwellers. Today it is rare but not unheard of. Among the legions of families who are redefining men’s and women’s roles are my own daughter and son-in-law. My granddaughters have also enjoyed their daddy being home, but at the cost of having their mother gone as much as fathers historically have been. With them, as so many others, it’s an economic necessity--not a  choice.
    As life has dealt me its frequent hard knocks on the head, I often think that my coping and survival strengths came, at least partly, from that wonderful bounty of my youth. That little girl who felt welcomed and valued, as she shadowed her gentle father through his working day, grew into a woman with steady, solid feelings of self-worth and self-esteem. I would wish that for every child.

OUTHOUSES I HAVE KNOWN

My Beautiful Town

Everyone laughs at the name of my town--Poughkeepsie. It may sound funny, but it's beautiful.

The Teddy Bear Lesson

    He was just a small, stuffed honey-bear,
    Not even very cuddly--bristly, really,
    I loved him so, but he didn’t belong    to      me,
    He belonged to my sister.
    She allowed me to play with him and hold him--sometimes.
       
    I would whisper in his ear, “I wish you were mine.”
    She allowed me to knit a wine-red sweater vest
    for him.
    She didn’t allow me to give him a haircut,
    I did that all on my own.
    The lesson I learned that day--for the first
    time--was this:
    Just loving something doesn’t give you rights of possession.

    A golden-haired baby daughter looked up at me,
    With her two fists clutching the two parts
    of what had once been one whole seagull figurine.
    With lower lip trembling
    (that lower lip served her well for years)
    she said, “But I just wanted to love it.”
    That day she learned the teddy bear lesson--
    for the first time.

    I forgot the lesson, more than once,
    To loves who no longer loved me, I clung and cried,
    “But you’re mine!”

    I gradually remembered the lesson--as my
    children left the nest, one, two, and three.
    On my fiftieth birthday, my last fledgling
    gave me a teddy bear:
    big, cuddly, soft, gray like me--he’s all mine.
    And I have no desire to cut his hair.

LISA BETH

She greets me with joy--this child of my body, my heart, my soul. In her cozy kitchen with the old-fashioned stove, we sit--drinking coffee--and catch up on the news (not much to catch up on when the phone calls come so often).
    Lisa greets her three sons, Grahm, Tyson and Danny, as they arrive home from school, managing to give each one exactly what he needs. Later, in just a few efficient moves, while we continue talking, she prepares a healthy and delicious dinner. My pride reaches the bursting point.
    My “wise woman” daughter: among her other skills is an incredible insight that makes her the one we all turn to for advice and clarification. Was it all those years of doing things the hard way? (She once gave me the greatest gift: years of guilt melted away when the almost-adult woman said, “Mom, you couldn’t have done it any differently. I had to learn things for myself in my own way. Thanks for letting me do that.”)
    I see in her a long line, reaching back, of strong women, coping women, survivors all--her foremothers and mine--and I bless them all for their contribution to this day, to this moment, and to this amazing daughter.

Silly Cheese

If my children ever ask what I did for them, my answer is ready: Silly Cheese. One of their fondest memories of childhood revolves around a frequent meal served at our family dinner table that we labeled “silly cheese.” It was requested any time I’d ask what they wanted for dinner. I learned not to ask too often. Why? Because I HATED Silly Cheese night. Not the food itself. Silly Cheese was simply a cheese fondue served from an electric skillet set in the middle of the table and attacked with long metal forks holding the chunks of French bread. It was delicious, and usually served with a big, yummy salad. What made it Silly Cheese was the game that had evolved, probably started by my husband, the biggest child of them all. It went, over time, from a spontaneous “grab” for the cheese dripping from somebody’s fork as they reached across the table to an all-out strategy of war, but a silly, giggly war of seeing how many bites of other people’s bread chunks you could steal. Of course, it was dangerous at times; obviously it made awful messes to clean up (guess who got to do that?); but, mainly, I think, it was proof that I am just not, nor have I ever been, a silly person. Funny, yes, and fun-loving to a degree, but not silly. But I loved them, and I wanted them to have fun. They never knew until recently that I hated Silly Cheese, a major one of what we called “new-old traditions,” like the Hanukkah bush–a large, bare branch decorated with glittery Christmas balls for after the fir tree lost its needles, and the same branch festooned with hand-decorated blown eggs for Easter.