ON BEING 70

Age 70, the threshold of death decade, brings the joys of snaggled and yellowing dentition, thinning hair, worn-out joints, and last (but not least) mental acuity strapped to a time bomb.  Tick-toc, tick-toc, bam! - where did I put that darn (you fill in the blank).  I am putting off the day when I greet Husband by saying, "Hello there, do I know you?; and we won't be role playing in the bedroom!

Me Practicing Being 70

How Can We Improve This Condition?

Husband is devious about his own disintegration, preferring to claim his life-long prettiness is constant and unchanging.  In his own mind, he was present at the Creation, if you get my drift.  He did however put his shoes on the wrong feet (slipped them on in the dark) and walk boldly into a restaurant;  and nearly ran over himself with his pickup (forgot to take it out of gear).  

Husband  Hard at Work

I believe we are one age eternally, and we get to choose that age.  Realizing this is a strange belief, I am determined to cover all the mirrors in my kingdom with black cloth and be "16" until this show ends.  Any other scenario involving honesty and acceptance is a downhill hot-coal slalom into Hell, a rapid oxidation of ego.  

While I delude myself, I relentlessly deny all signs of aging.  I hitch my plow to the imagination of Lewis Carrol and cultivate the fertile ground of quantum make-believe in Wonderland, along with Alice, all without expensive cosmetic surgery!  Win, win!

Me AKA "The Unknown Blogger"

"Off With Her Head!" Said the Queen of Hearts

WHOLE LOT OF SHAKIN' GOIN' ON

On New Year's Day I ventured forth with Husband on his standard Harrisonburg run with seafood.  At 7 AM we left home for J & W Seafood in Deltaville to deliver oysters to a restaurateur in the bucolic rolling terrain of the Blue Ridge Mountains.

J & W Decorated for the Holidays

After vaulting my 70-year-old body into the passenger seat, I located my seat belt and secured my precarious position  before a windshield which created the illusion of being on a chair ski lift.  Comforting, I thought, picturing a collision.  

The View from the Seat I Occupied

After loading, Husband turned all the knobs and fired up the venerable diesel engine, which entertained us for miles with every conceivable sound that has ever been emitted by man, beast, or contraption.  Some examples:  pshew (air compressor), squeak-squeak, tweet, rattle, RATTLE, gurgle, POP, knock-knock, and hummmmm.  That's right, tweet!  My thought, a family of birds in the Thermo-King?  It was complete sound schizophrenia.

In the midst of all this, I turned my focus from the carnage of carcasses on the road to the more pleasant vista of the Sunday paper puzzles, which I enjoy.  It was then that our vehicle's astute sensitivity to every imperceptible crack in the asphalt became formidable opposition to any pencil trying to make contact with paper.  Thank goodness I wore my heavy-duty sports bra or things could have been even worse.  Husband says a fully-loaded truck rides much smoother than one carrying just 24 gallons of oysters.  He could be right.

Our Truck Being Loaded

In spite of all the jiggling, bumping, and shaking, I managed to finish three cryptograms, a sudoku, and the word jumble, and felt satisfied with that performance under duress.  Husband says I just don't understand diesels.

After violently bounding up and down around the Richmond potholes - tweeting, pshewing, rattling, and knock-knocking, we headed for Charlottesville, Afton Mountain, and North on Interstate 81 to our destination.  At the rainbow's end was the "sweet silver song of a lark"* in the form of "Traditions," an all you can eat seafood buffet in a beautifully appointed dining room on the outskirts of the city.  We enjoyed fried oysters (shucked at J &W), steamed shrimp, crispy fried chicken with all the trimmings for a mere $14.95.  It's a rare treat to be experienced if you are ever in the area.  The owner, Mr. Brian Willi, is to be commended!

After breaking our resolutions at the buffet, we climbed back into our places aboard our frenetic kinetic transport and  headed back home like two weary astronauts on the space shuttle, but knowing our quaking diesel ride would involve far more friction...squeak, tweet, rattle, knock, clunk and PSHEW!

Mr. Kevin Wade's J & W Sign

Good Seafood!

* Lyrics from "You'll Never Walk Alone," a great song from yesterday.

HOW I SPENT MY CHRISTMAS VACATION

Our House on Christmas Eve

In elementary school, we were usually requested by Teacher to recount our holiday experience by standing at our desks and presenting the details.  Even though my parents were at the low end of the prosperity scale, I always felt guilty about how much it seemed I got from Santa compared to my classmates.  Or perhaps it was my being overwhelmed by all the many small wishes I had fulfilled.

Christmas 2011 was similarly bountiful, with all family members in attendance and even our son-in-law, who made everything better.  And lo, and angel of the Lord must have blown a horn in somebody's ear because my Christmas Eve birthday present was ideal - a new "Huffy" bike!

Bright and Beautiful and All Mine

Its whiteness even stirred the interest of Gustav the Goose, who admittedly is easily aroused.

Gustav Takes Stock

Husband and I were thrilled when a guest at my birthday seafood dinner gluttonarama phoned to compliment our family as being one of the few around who have good times together.  We appreciate that and hope we get to have a few more.  Happy New Year.

The Red and Green Room at Our House

THUNDERCLOUD"

In the seventies, our family were the befuddled recipients of a feisty black pony with prolific mane and tail, and one large splash of white on her left side (hence the name "Thundercloud"); a white star adorned her forehead and one patch of mane was white.

Thunder in the 1970's

She was an audacious statement of equine good health and ability and stirred her new owner's dreams of being conveyed in this new way by this new friend.  Oldest daughter was attentive to Thundercloud, whom we called Thunder for short, and soon the new acquaintance grew into something more exclusive.

It Was Love and It Was Real

Soon it was safe to plop Baby Sis up and ride off.  What she lacked in pedigree, Thunder made up for in intelligence.

Thunder Loved Pleasing Her Children

When Homer the neighbors' big palomino horse escaped his confines, he always headed straight for Thunder, who would jump her fence and show him to our garage where the sweet grain was stored.  Traditionally this occurred in the wee small hours when hunger seems to trouble everything.  The giveaway was "clip-clops" in our driveway in the dead of night.  It was my responsibility always to correct this situation.  Soon our neighbor Gordon would appear in excited pursuit all apologetic and ready to reclaim his bad boy Homer.  It got to be so routine that we hardly recognized each other not wearing pajamas.  

Homer's Favorite Playmate After an Outing

What a great gift she was to the children and how we all cried when she died in 1989.  Up until she came to us, the family beast of burden was only cooperative sometimes.

Taken Before Husband's Back Gave Out

  

AUNT VIOLA

I remember Aunt Viola as always behind the wheel, not figuratively but physically.  In gear, hair blowing, and biting her bottom lip.  She was on her way and in a hurry.  Her appearance was instant readiness compared to my mother's long day's preparation into intended perfection.  They were polar opposite sisters, or twisters as they called themselves.

Viola and My Mother at the Beach

Viola had naturally very curly hair, wash and wear, and was a makeup minimalist, until her eyebrows thinned.  At that point, her expressions relied on her artistic prowess of that particular day.  Each visit we were met by either the surprised, quizzical, diabolic, or exasperated Aunt Viola, depending on the artistic brow liner rendition.  No matter what, she came off pretty.

Viola in Her Twenties

My mother's middle sis was always laughing and causing laughter, everyone loved her.  She was the one who caused the black friend taking the girls (as children) fishing, to lose his temper at her moving about the boat:  "Stay where you damn am!" he commanded, and they carried that hilarious admonition with them until they died.  Without life preservers, his concern was understandable.

Viola at About Age 10

  

My Aunt was the one who took me swimming with her son Gene at Saunder's Beach in Ware Neck.  Those outings were pure joy to a lonely, only child.  She would go in with an inner tube and in her dress, laughing and smoking a cigarette!  It was our little heaven.

As a young adult, I bleached my hair and the result was frightening.  Aunt Viola drove me to her beautician for emergency repair.  On the ride, I covered my effervescent locks with a big fuzzy hat that made me look like a Buckingham Palace Guard.  When a man on the street stared at me I lamented, "Boy, he'd really stare if he could see what's under this hat."  She screamed laughing and so did I.

One of the last times I visited her she said, "There's my baby!"  I was 50 something at the time.  She adored her husband and two sons and lived her time loving and pleasing them.  How we miss her.

 

Viola in Her Eighties with Me and Grandson Sam

FLAT IRON

I came into the world while my parents were living and working at Flat Iron Service Station, one of many prototype convenience stores of the Forties, mom-and-pop-stop-along-the-way places providing gas, small inventory groceries and meats, and even lunch items made by proprietors.

Flat Iron in the Forties

They also sold alcoholic beverages to be consumed off premises and installed the pinball machine and juke box, completing the trinity of depravity.  Into this cauldron of sinful consumption I was born, not realizing any of it.  I danced for patrons to the strains of "Pistol Packin' Mama" and was rewarded with money by my fans.  Mother thought I was the next Shirley Temple.  I didn't play the pinball machine, but watched teens bump and whack the thing to influence gravity.  William Johnson used to buy a pack of peanuts, pour them in his cola bottle, shake the mix and watch them explode (I guess the salt reacted with the carbonated water).  I was fascinated by this feat.  My father fumed.

  

Mother at the Counter

On either side of Flat Iron Service Station, there was Grandfather's shop and his home.  I could choose among my living quarters (two bedrooms, kitchen, and living room); Grandfather's shop (men painting cars, pounding hot metal, welding, or trimming horses' hooves); or Inez (my step grandmother) and her daily household chores.  It was a rich variety and opportunity to learn diverse information.

My First Steps with Aunt Nellie

I tripped about clutching my doll or a vendor-supplied blow-up Jolly Green Giant, courtesy of the canned goods company.  I had a blast with that inflatable playmate.  I kicked him, force-fed him food I didn't like, and ran hand-in-inflatable-hand across the yard sharing joyful play.  He was better than nothing and I miss him.  

Living behind a grocery store had extreme benefits.  We sold Ice cream by the scoop, soft drinks, penny candy, and anything else you might require.  Old men seemed to favor BC Headache Powder (pulverized aspirin), pipe tobacco, and chewing tobacco, which intensely aroused my curiosity.  They really seemed to appreciate Apple or Brown Mule Plugs and I thought it must be delicious.  Being prepared to experiment, I pilfered a plug and hid under Inez's back porch to savor the grown-up pleasure.  If not delicious, why would men stain their mouths and chins so unbecomingly?

One bite was a complete education in people, myself included.  Spat that out and formed the conviction that there is no understanding people and what they do.  While curiosity kills cats; it just makes most smarter.  At least those who lived at Flat Iron Service Station.

Aunt Nellie and I in the Sunshine at Flat Iron

  

MEMORIES OF INEZ

After my grandmother died in 1933, Grandfather married his second wife, Inez.  She had a sister named kate, whom I never met.  They wrote each other regularly and were close.  One December when I was about 5 years old, Inez presented me with a beautiful beaded bag, sent to me as a Christmas gift by her sister.  I was astonished that someone who never met me would be go generous with such a rare gift.  I felt reluctant and undeserving of such a kind tribute.  I still have it and keep it with another belonging to my grandmother.
 

The Beaded Bag from Baltimore

My Grandmother's Beaded Bag

Inez was entertaining as a storyteller.  Two of my favorites were "The Pears" and "The Tragedy of the Titanic," which I alternately requested each day.  She never refused and honed her stories for maximum dramatic effect.  I experienced the crescendo of hysterical expectation  when the children, Inez and her siblings, would beg their father for a bite of the forbidden pears ripening in a trunk in the hallway of their home.  Those pears daily grew more irresistable as they blew forth sweet fruity breath seducing everyone into olfactory madness.  "Please, Poppa, please may we try the pears?" was the repeated stanza in her heightening, frenetic childhood autobiography.  I delighted in it every time and squealed with laughter when they finally fell upon those pears.

"The Titanic" was a sad tale of all the many good people who perished on the doomed ship.  It was our little quiet ceremony of remembrance.  It gave us distance from tragedy and gratitude for that, but respect for its ravaging effect on living humans by the sheer numbers.

The Picture on Inez's Wall Used to Tell the Story

When I think of Inez, I think of feeding chickens, picking wild asparagus and making biscuits in a wood stove.  I think of the day her rooster spurred her on the wrist causing massive bleeding; I was there and ran for help.  I remember looking at the sun with my eyes closed and seeing the many colors the light became under my eyelids.  She believed in everyday magic and smiled big when I showed amazement.

She didn't wear makeup, wearing her long, graying hair back in a tuck, but fragrant floral-smelling powder always dressed her cheeks when she went out.  I don't think I will ever quite find that sweet scent anywhere again.  This is just a big thank-you to her for taking time to amuse a child.