Category Archives: Home

Slip-sliding along

Standard

All the preparation in the world will do nothing to lessen the silent explosion that descends upon us the only way time knows how to travel. Defying lasers, cat gut and high end facial abrasion, gravity descends in subtle waves and full-on attack, claiming new territory by the minute.

I began mental preparation when I was 59; a lot of good that did.  By 62, I was in a quiet state of panic.  By 65, denial had become impossible to sustain, even on good days.

I would like to say I made the transition from bud to fading blossom gracefully, but I cannot.  I never judge another woman’s choice for surgical intervention; it simply wasn’t for me.  I’m an old nurse; saving things is what I am trained to do.

Also I am a collector and admirer of junk and antiques, finding comfort in well-worn patinas boasting generous use.  I love chipped paint and rust, and admire the simplicity of unsophisticated lines and primitive art.

I patch, re-purpose and restore, but never refinish.

So treating myself differently than I would an old crate made no sense no matter how much time I spent standing in profile in front of the mirror pulling a cascading chin back to a more flattering pre-menopausal position.

I wrung my hands for years fearing the great evolution would morph my lovely pear into an awkward apple, feeling as if that day would strike like a bolt of lightning, or like a tragedy at sea, the captain of a sinking ship lost to sharks in uncharted sea.

But if anything, passage was silent and endearing as I fell in love with the soft, loose texture of my own skin, and the pinkness of my scalp shining like new planet in an unexplored galaxy of snowy hair. And I was oddly amused by the sound of my voice, the way it creaked like sore knees around words spoken more slowly and with less certainty than before.

Like a memory of the chair I rocked my babies in, I can see our history in my hands.  And I like that.  A lot.  So now I am between a walker and heels.  I never hold my stomach in.  Hate Spanx and the likes.  Wouldn’t wear one even if it was a gift.

In my sewing studio I have a photo gallery of women who inspired me in life.  They have all passed away now, but I see them in my face every day, with my glasses on, of course.  And I want to be like them.  Graceful, full of joy and palpable peace,

a mischievous spark shining in my eyes as I creep toward 70.

Advertisements

the truth about leaves

Standard

I think it’s pretty arrogant of people to think they’re superior to other living things.  We’re all part of nature after all.  Maybe it’s just ego , but maybe it’s something more basic and widespread like social and religious indoctrination/orientation that bloat our sense of standing on planet earth.

Personally I trust dogs more than I do most people these days.

I’m not particularly fond of squirrels but if I see one lying dead in the street, my stomach still drops to my feet, and I feel an emotion akin to lose for the rest of the day.  Make that a dog or cat, and I retch.

So this morning I’m drinking coffee in my favorite rocker on the front porch watching trees sway in a rather brisk breeze, and my brain starts doing its thing.  All of the sudden, I remember having had a light-bulb moment about twenty years ago when I had a moment of absolute awareness concerning leaves.  That’s right, leaves.   I usually keep a running dialogue inside my head with my spirit guide, so I asked DreamWalker if there was any significance to the presence or sequencing of leaves growing on trees or bushes or plants in general.

leaves 1

It’s not like I can hear any voices or anything, it’s just suddenly I become aware of something or another; and in this case, it was an answer to my question about leaves.

So, leaves are the emotional expression in the plant world, it seems.  In spring everything is still a little bit hungover from winter’s sleep but starting to get worked up.  By mid-summer, everyone is singing.  Fall brings a blush of warm emotion as plants remember carefree days of warmer weather while preparing for a long well-deserved sleep.  (Hey, you bake in the sun for a couple of months and tell me how you feel.)  Winter is pretty obvious; it’s about resting and restoration.

So this morning I took it a step further by comparing myself to the trees I was watching.  And within a few minutes I could see another similarity, this time concerning the seasons of trees.  Spring is to a tree what childhood is a person; it’s that amazing time of life when everything is beginning.  Bud by bud, we begin to expand the perimeters of our world.  Sometimes we find bees or spiders, scary, but that’s only a tiny bit of what turns out to most often be flowers.

leaves 2

Summer is late adolescence through the latter part of mid-adulthood.  By then life has proliferated beyond our wildest imagination and we are bursting with emotions, positive or negative.  By fall, later life, we’ve grown quite reflective. This is definitely a time of beauty and preparation.  By winter, we need more rest so we spend time watching sunrises and sunsets, being thankful or remorseful, depending, and waiting for whatever comes next.

bare tree

Ahhh, it was a good cup of coffee.  And so enlightening.

sweet innocence

auntbeamephoto

 

Standard

After some pretty significant health problems the past few years, I’ve spent a great deal of time trying to find a good balance between what I want to do and what I can.  I’m more Fall Chicken than Spring Chicken as an aging Baby Boomer, but my bucket list is still pretty long.  And while I won’t see the Aurora Borealis in person, there are many other goals I’ve made throughout life then set aside for whatever reason seemed pertinent at the time.

There are promises I’ve made myself and then dismissed as too grandiose.  Even worse, from time to time I find I’ve limited myself using the excuses that some of the dreams I dream are selfish or silly.  Just thinking that makes me nauseous because I’m not one who buys into the Selfish Guilt Trip Philosophy society sometimes uses to restrain us from reaching for the stars, rather than keeping our noses to the grindstone, asking no questions.  Also to say a goal is silly is to diminish personal potential and only shows I have more work to do in regards to self-esteem.

dandelion 1

Maybe no one out there knows I’m a somewhat of philosophical rebel; if not, that’s because I haven’t spoken up.  What I have done is share one aspect of my life, keeping the rest under wraps because it’s easier that way.  That’s a back track on my behalf.  In 2000, I quit approaching life from a non-adversarial vantage point, deciding direct attack was a more effective choice.

It was during that particular revolt I changed my perception of the word selfish, exchanging the word with the more gentle term: self-is.

Things got a lot easier for me after shifting that perspective.  By ditching an overused word and altering its definition, I removed the negative implication.  Although a rather simple concept, it was necessary for me to overcome my overwhelming tendency to make choices dependent on pleasing others, rather than considering my own needs and wishes.

Like any habit, practice is involved.

I recently received notice from WordPress it’s time to decide whether or not I want to renew this account.  I’ve given the question a lot of thought and decided, Yes, I do want to continue Aunt Bea Me, but I want to come at it from a different point of view.

It’s almost as drastic as Betty Crocker saying she’s decided to produce shoes.

I have another WordPress site, ittymac, it presents a different side of me; but without realizing it, I seem to have been sharing a tamer side of myself there too.  I think I slipped into such a good place after marrying Richard and experiencing unconditional love, I got a little lazy.

No one likes conflict.  Well, maybe some people do, but I’m not one of them. And as I mentioned before, I waver a bit when it comes to issues of self-esteem.  Even so, I’m stepping out of line and drawing a bit of attention to myself.  I’m not trying to save anyone.  I’m not trying to steal the spotlight either; I’m not trying to do anything.  I’m just opening my mouth and letting all the stuff inside come out.

bee 1

 

 

Under my Skin

Standard

The face staring back from the mirror looks as perplexed as the one peering in; both convey a deer caught in headlights expression.  Confusion verses the well-oiled gears of an efficient woman, hesitation challenging certainty, and a few lingering questions that can unnerve even the most self-assured person.

another kitchen failure

While it’s difficult to accept the premise that I remain as self-assured today as I was twenty years ago, it is impossible to pretend I feel incompetent in any way in spite of the aftereffects of time.  While the burden of physicality has required a definite down-shift in energy and stamina, the resulting changes have done nothing to deter my positive senses of self-perception and attitude.

In all honesty, I must admit that when Rome first began to crumble and fall, the tendency was to bemoan my losses; however, because I have spent a great deal of time developing a healthy level of self-esteem and self-love, I weather the storm and resist any urge to wallow in self-pity.

crumbling with time

I’ve fallen and I can’t get up: that’s a load of dirty laundry!  I may need a helping hand from time to time but I can still manage.

What lies beneath the skin is the essence of the soul and the soul is circuitously wired to the brain whether or not that brain functions at preferred levels of activity.

Gratefully my brain appears to be in sync with expected norms for my age, but that hasn’t always been the case.  When my brain fell far short of scientific/medical neurological projections and measurements of expected activity, my soul persevered, and its presence and influence perfectly reflected the embodiment of my true and unique identity.

So here I am, still, and always, Aunt Bea in my heart of hearts.  And while I may have had to exchange those cute little granny shoes with the 2 ½  inch heels for a pair of supportive flats, I can still move forward.  No one can be a better me than me.  No one can hold a candle to the intention of my heart and the determination of my hands.

sensible shoes

I know I came into this room for something…what could it be?  Oh, now I remember!  I wanted to look in the mirror and thank myself for being the best I can be today, under the circumstances, knowing what I know and being who I am.

Thanks old chick!

Now I can lose the goofy deer in the headlights look and get back to doing whatever it was I was doing before I decided to drop by my beloved blogging site and do a bit of light housework.

Maintenance, you know, and timing.  And pearls and a nice jersey dress.  And clean underwear.  Always.

FB blog photo

 

 

 

Sitting with myself….

Standard
Sitting with myself….

OK, so it seemed like a good idea at first…I saw it on Pinterest.  It had worked for the pinner.  How yucky could it really be?

So I sent Rich to Walmart to buy duct tape.  He came back with two rolls…that should be enough, but it was glow-in-the-dark YELLOW!  What-ever.

yellow duct tape

So I dig through my drawers and find the perfect skin tight sleeveless tee shirt…it’s black.  I put it on.  Rich is taking his part in this little project quite seriously; I knew he would, it’s the meticulously compulsive part of his personality.

So now he’s in charge of everything… What-ever.

I’m glad I’m wearing my old lady orthopedic shoes since I have to stand in the same place for a good hour.

“Can you breathe?”

“Of course I can breathe!”  Okay, maybe I snapped a little when he asked, but in my defense, I was trying to stave off this creepy claustrophobic feeling that was building.

When Rich leaves to find a pair of scissors, I inch my way across the room to a mirror.   OMG! I look like the Oscar Meyer Hot Dog Truck.  I’m wrapped chest to hips in glow-in-the-dark YELLOW duct tape, I look ridiculous but how else would I look?

hot dogs

He’s back.  “Okay,” he says, “now comes the tricky part.  Stand still while I cut this down your spine.”

“OH MY LORD! WHAT are you using to cut me out of this electric mummy wrap?”

“A utility knife”, he says, as if it’s EVER okay to cut your wife out of glow-in-the-dark YELLOW duct tape sausage skin with a utility knife.

He looks serious but he’s laughing.  I can’t imagine anything remotely funny at the moment, but I bite none-the-less. “What’s so funny Vincent?”

“Huh?”

“Vincent, Vincent Price.”

vincent

“Oh,  I get it.  Well, it’s just with those black shoulder straps sticking out you sort of look like a bumble bee.”

“Ha. Ha” I say, knowing  it’s true.

“Couldn’t you find the scissors?”

“Yeah, but they’re not gonna cut through three layers of duct tape, honey.  You’ll be okay; I promise.”

The next five minutes were excruciating and twice I felt the tip of that torturous utility knife touch the surface of my skin.  And you’d better believe I made a real show of it!

“All done”, he said, relieved to be leaving the room.

So here’s the story; this is how it began, and why.  I wanted an exact replica of my body to put over a dress form that in no way resembles my body any more.  How can I expect to make clothes that actually fit without a non-subjective method of perceiving the raw truth?

This project wasn’t a decision I made blithely; no, actually I was quite terrified.  Through the years I’ve grown comfy with looking at myself from the chin up…all the other parts seem woefully unimportant to me these days.  But sewing patterns aren’t what they used to be.  They never match actual dress sizes, so I had to find a way to start.

I can sew accurately for anyone but myself. Everything I make to wear is either pixie tiny or circus- big-top.  Repeatedly I fail self-perception, miserably. I think I need a precision aid to help find my way across my bountiful ego into the brutally difficult realm of reality.

So now I’m sitting with myself, literally, in the sewing room.  I shift uncomfortably in the chair.  Headless mannequin stares straight ahead wearing a long sleeve tee.  When I find the courage, I’ll stuff one of her arms till it matches the scary dimensions of one of my own.  (I’ll have to involve Rich in that measurement process, because I tend to cheat.)

blobby dress form

I breathe in deeply through my nose, exhale purposefully from my mouth.  Silence fills my brain until my head feels stuffy and light at the same time, like a cranium crammed full of popcorn.

“Far out”, I whisper.

“That’s an old lady in front of me.  Whoo-eeeeeeeee.”  Slowly the sound of my voice disappears in the void the sewing room has become.

I can’t say how much time passed, but I found myself smiling at the nonmistable me across the room.  And feeling a real kinship.

“Can you remember”, I asked, “climbing those trees with Sue and Dale when we were a little kid?  Their legs were longer than we were tall”….Then I remembered dancing with a nice variety of young men, my hair trailing in the air as I swirled in ever widening circles.

girl climbing tree

In time I was walking down the aisle in the church chapel, Father at my side, my heart pounding so loudly I could barely hear the organ playing.

And now I’m having one baby and then another, and there is so much love I can barely breathe.

I can see myself playing in the park with my daughters, experience the radiance of their bright, beautiful shining faces; and remember how I knew from the inside out that nothing would ever be more important to me than they were, and that the cycles and patterns of all my life would shift around their own, and that in the end, after having had children of their own, they would share the same amazing feelings as me.

mom and daughters

Even the darkness, as it came, was surreally beautiful, divorce and tragedy, death and endings, because the silver lining was quick on its tail, whisking tears away, replacing them with understanding and peace.

Then Rich was before the two of us, and all the joy he brought to our lives burst in brilliant colors, and when I laughed aloud, I wondered if mannequin me had laughed too.  Then each of the grandchildren, my siblings and parents all walked into the room, but before I could say anything I was tubing down the river with my children.

There was fishing in the Gulf of Mexico and bursts of wonder at the fourth of July fireworks over Clear Lake.  There were friends and amazing relationships.  And the paunchy body across the room had shared all of this with me, each perfect step juxtaposed serious gravity while time took its toll on human flesh.

What a beautiful evolution my life has been, and how many more miles I plan on walking, or skipping.  How many days I plan to hug my grown daughters and marvel at the good work they’ve done.  How many more times will I hear a grandchild ask for Nonnie?

Oh, this was an excellent project.  It healed scrapes and scratches I acquired along the journe, although that wasn’t the reason I’d done it.

profile dress form

All I wanted was a decent fitting blouse,

and yet, I got so much more.

Little Life: When what you dread is exactly what you need

Standard
Little Life: When what you dread is exactly what you need

Dinner last night was a success, although I didn’t eat much having worked myself into somewhat of a tizzy over a series of small annoyances: the kitchen was hot, the pizza dough unusually difficult to throw, and of course, these new meds.  Rick heard my huffing and puffing all the way in the living room and rushed in, his white-knight armor gleaming, offering, no, insisting on lending a hand.

The new recipe was A.O.K. for diabetics and the Classic French Salad Dressing was really good too.  I was in a mood so mostly I ate salad.

Today it’s a different kind of mood.  Rich is in the doctor’s office for his quarterly cardiac and diabetic labs, and as for me, well, I’m sitting in the car writing this blog.  Rich has already telephoned once with questions concerning signing the new HIPPA papers and which pharmacy we use.

Now he’s called twice.

old man on cell phone

This isn’t something I didn’t expect; paperwork is generally my territory; Rich hates doing it.  But this time, I begged off; I’ve spent so much time with doctors lately, I just couldn’t make myself go in.  I only came along for a free meal; we’re going to breakfast at a favorite Mom and Pop cafe when Rich finishes.  Once he clears the paperwork and medication review, I know he’ll do fine on his own without further teleconferencing.  Then I can rest.

It’s starting to rain and the wind is picking up now.  A murder of crow just descended into a groove of trees surrounding the car.  They sound like old men complaining.  Maybe I shouldn’t have said that out loud; the remark must have been offensive because two crows just pooped on the car.

pushy crow

With all this silence, my mind takes off.  If all goes well, I’ll get a couple of loads of laundry done today, and maybe pull a few weeds in the herb garden.  I’m hoping there’s fish at the market later this morning because  I have a tenative menu set in my head already, and I hate revisions!

A thousand little thoughts swirl through my brain; it’s nearly impossible to focus on any single thing anymore.  The older I get, the bigger everything seems.  It’s like climbing mountains or running against the wind, only it’s all inside my head in succcssive waves of angst and concern.  My once big life seems to have splintered into a million tiny pieces, losing itself in mediocracy, and too often I don’t know where or how to make sense of it all anymore.

But as daunting as it can be, CHANGE is in the air because we’re going home; we’re moving back to Texas.  We’ve lived in the small, sleepy town we’re headed back to, so this move will be somewhat of a repeat performance, except that this time, we are far more vulnerable than before.

Old age did not come gracefully.  It did not sweep gently around us easing us into the next phase.  For Rich and I, old age was a speeding train ramming us without explanation or apology.  It was an instant tsunami of subtraction that just kept taking assets away.  Recognizing what was happening, giving it a name, and mustering a little respect for it all, was a humbling experience that brought us to our knees.

There is no way to blithely accept this kind of sweeping change.  Fighting is useless, and  bargaining is a waste of precious time.  For all things there is a season whether you’re ready or not.

Eventually the process altered the ways Rich and I see and interact with the world.  We didn’t see that coming but as a result, we’ve down-shifted and actually began smelling the roses instead of always planting and tending more.  So far it’s working.

In the most unexpected way, I feel like someone turned off the blender and I crawled out of frappe’.  It’s time for the next party, the party attended by children and grandchildren and the timing coulndn’t coouldn’t be better for these two old folks.

Look out Texas, here we come!  Aunt Bea-Me is ditching the polyester jersey and moving toward a more casual look these days….

well not quite

well, maybe not so much

.

sweet innocence

A New Chapter in an Old Book

Standard
A New Chapter in an Old Book

Heelllooo!  Having circled the drain for months, I am back as strong and stubborn as a Borax and liquid Dawn resistant stained shower stall!

dirty shower stall

 

Let me start by saying I’ve absolutely NO intention of returning to health-worry purgatory ever again!  As miserable as it’s been, I must admit I have learned a great deal about myself, and others, while suspended in the goo of uncertainty amidst approximately a million gloom-and-doom predictions from a team of expert bearers of bad news. 

grim reaper

 

I won’t try to fib here; it wasn’t easy trying to find a way to turn this level of manure into something less offensive, but long story short, we did it, and almost as soon as we did, we discovered Rich DOES NOT have ALS, in spite of about a million and one contradictory diagnostic indicators, and a million and two test results supporting that miserably serious contention, and about a million and three earnest specialists working diligently to prepare us for the fact that he did.

 

And, oh by-the-way, that coronary artery of mine, the one the cardiologist punctured during a stent insertion three days before Rich’s tentative diagnosis, is healing nicely now, and every day I feel a little more like my old self, (except that now I’m living 100% in the world according to itty).

burst pipe

 

When the whole drama began I was living life through a lovely filter, and during the Four Month Wars I came to appreciate the benefits of having chosen to do so many years ago.  Throughout the ordeal, I successfully fine-tuned the comforting perimeters of my mental Mayberry existence by using the greater world’s insensitivities and arrogances that spin like tornados as motivation.

 

Surprisingly, I discovered real peace in the horrible truths that scalded Rich and I almost daily, realizing and embracing there was nothing, absolutely nothing that anyone could say that could change the time we spent together.  Whether time is spent playing or meeting the physical needs of one another, it remained time spent together.

 

There are consequences to every life lesson, and Rich and I have emerged with a short  list of Things to Do resulting from this slight twist in our path through life, (and beyond), together.

loving old couple

 

Morgan, our granddaughter who lives with us, is moving into an apartment on her university’s campus to finish her senior year, and Rich and I are down-sizing for an eminent move to Texas where our children are waiting with open arms.  Morgan will join us all later, doing her graduate work there.

 

I am so excited to get to share this new adventure with my readers!  I’m even more excited about life in general these days.  Back on the home front, Aunt-Bea-Me is comfortably sitting on half of the double recliner, rose-colored-lenses in place, the Food Network murmuring softly in the background, as she compiles a list of details necessary to pull off yet another glorious life-style change.

 

In the kitchen for tonight, a new diabetic friendly recipe for Orange Chicken!  And two loaves of wheat bread rising.

 

Lord-of-mercy, my friends, it’s good to be back.

 

happy face

 

Aunt-Bea-Me’s Pearl of the Day:  Sometimes it’s necessary to deafen your ears to the roar of the storm, and instead to appreciate the soft breeze slipping through imperfect window panes.