Staying Home

I recently took a short trip not too far from home. It was mostly a familiar landscape with a few new additions. I was eager to get out of the house, and even familiar trips can offer a different experience: landscapes seen in a new light, conversations with strangers who I briefly bond with; dining at new and familiar restaurants, where I can try new meals; and staying at an old-fashioned motel where our room faced softball fields and an osprey nest on a tall light pole.

It was fun and not too adventurous for an old woman, but I found myself longing to just sit in one place: maybe at the lake with the startling view of the high peaks; or the river where I heard bird songs that were new to me and could watch joggers, mothers pushing baby strollers, fishers, and young and old couples.

Instead my friend and I ended up driving for hours trying to get to the next place, and missing dinner in our need to get home before it got dark. We drove past towering red cliffs and along a wide river; through a lush meadow like I’ve never seen in my home state; and through an old mining town—but it all went by too fast.

When I got home, I was happy to just settle down, sit in the backyard and listen to the birds, continue decluttering the house, and sit at my desk and work on my computer while I paused to stare out at a familiar landscape—the field behind my house and the mountains in the distance. Though I saw many spectacular places on the road, I’m happy to enjoy this one, which is so beautifully familiar.

Is this something that happens as we age? I’ve always loved seeing new places, and I still do, but I’m more content now to enjoy the place where I’ve lived for more than five decades. I know our brains slow down (at least mine has), so it takes longer to absorb the world, especially this fast-paced one.

My friend Elaine, who is 92, is in a memory care place. When I visit her, she’s either lying on the bed or sitting in a chair next to an iPad where photos of her family scroll by. She seems content to be doing nothing or very little. Maybe it’s enough that our brains are filled with all the people we’ve known, the places we’ve lived and our work life (even if we don’t remember them all), and we don’t need anything else. Maybe we just need to sit with our life experiences and absorb them.

My friend John used to climb the highest mountains in the national park, and now he’s not interested even in driving through the park, sitting at their bases and looking up with wonder at the summits. At age 88 he’s got a different routine: reading the night away; meeting friends for lunch in town; taking his recyclables to the sorting station where he enjoys his conversations with the man who staffs it; and, of course, endless doctor appointments. His life has slowed down enough that, he told me recently, he just started noticing clouds.

There’s a pleasure in routines: seeing the first light in the east as I make my breakfast, watching my cat enjoy his first meal of the day; my daily meditation; my afternoon walks on my favorite trails; even trips to the grocery store. I look forward to my weekly Silver Sneakers class and getting together with old friends at our favorite happy hour spots.

When I stop trying to get ahead and rush to the next place, I find a deep contentment of where I am in my life now, a willingness to settle down with the person I’ve become.

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Writing Our Own Eulogy

A friend died recently. I wasn’t able to attend her memorial service, but her sister sent me the eulogy, given by Sandy’s best friend. Or at least that’s what I assumed, as the eulogy was read by Anne, her life-long friend, and it referred to Sandy in the third person. Only later did I find out that Sandy had written the entire six pages. She had suffered from a terminal disease for decades and had been in Hospice for more than a year, so Sandy knew the end was coming and had plenty of time to craft how she wanted to be remembered. Or at least how she wanted to make a final statement about her life.

In the eulogy she enumerated her accomplishments—both big and small–including art director and teacher; waitress; woodworker; novelist; contractor and builder (she built her own cabin in the mountains). Spiritually, she started out as a Presbyterian, studied Buddhism and was drawn to the Quaker philosophy. There was so much I didn’t know about her, and I wish I had.

She chose one story to tell about herself: Before leaving on vacation, she covered her lilac bushes with netting to keep the deer from eating them. Unfortunately, a bull snake got stuck in the netting, but when Sandy returned she figured out a way to get the snake out without hurting it (and herself). The story showed her sense of humor, bravery and love of animals, but I wondered why she chose that one out of all the stories she could have shared with her family and friends after her death.

And it made me wonder which stories I would tell about myself, if I chose to write my own memorial. Out of everything that’s happened to me, would I choose something humorous that would entertain people, or some life lesson that I want to share with my family and friends? Which accomplishments would I list—learning how to kayak? My interview with a famous photographer? Becoming adept at meditating? Just like writing your memoir, writing your obituary makes you look back at your life—hopefully with pride but also a bit of wisdom.

Maybe one of the pleasures of writing your own obit is controlling the narrative, so you can imagine the looks on friends’ and families’ faces—either fondness, sadness or some combination– rather than not having any idea of how you’ll be portrayed.  It’s better than a random anecdote on one’s online memorial page. I can only imagine the stories someone, such as a neighbor, might post. I’m probably not the first person to talk to the animals in my yard but I rather not have my lasting memory be of the old lady who asked the birds if they wanted more seed or the squirrels how they liked the apple pieces I threw out of the window.

Sandy isn’t the first person I know who crafted their own eulogy. After my former neighbor died, I found his obituary in the local newsletter: “By reading these words, you’ve probably figured out that I’ve left this life and am headed to my next destination.”  Dan wrote about his childhood growing up on the family farm and what it meant to him, his work as a pharmacist, and the last few years of his life doing volunteer work, including at a shelter that cared for the homeless and where he donated his truck. He ended his piece in his characteristically folksy manner:

Well I could go on for a bit more, but, frankly, I’m really tired and ready to get outta here. Time to git ‘er done, if you know what I mean. Much love to all that I cared about and cared for me in return. Y’all have been great. You made my life good to the end.

What’s the best way to take a bow out from the world? Leave them laughing or crying?

One of the last sentences in Sandy’s obit was “If people say upon my death that I was essentially kind, then I’ve lived a good life.”

That seems like not much to ask for. May we all be so modest in our obituaries.

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My Town Is Gone

Looking for some distraction on a winter day, a friend and I went to the popular and historic shopping district in our town. I’ve lived here long enough—more than 50 years—that I remember these streets when they were a plain commercial district, with ugly 1950s storefronts. But it’s not the same.

Over the years, I’ve seen lots of changes, of course. Back in the old days, Pearl Street had only a few restaurants. One of my favorites served mainly hamburgers and mac and cheese, and the owner entertained customers with folk songs (sung badly but with heart). Now there’s at least 50 restaurants offering everything from sushi to tapas to vegan selections. Instead of a lone folk singer, TVs noisily broadcast sports games. And, of course, there’s a café on every block. In my youth, coffee shops were called bakeries, where you would get a cinnamon roll, and your choice of coffee was black or with cream, none of this fancy latte and chai stuff.

Of course, lattes are a welcome improvement, and yet, as I’ve gotten older, and most of the world younger, I’ve felt increasingly like a stranger in my town where I’ve lived since the 1970s when I was a student at the university.  But now it’s mostly young people, a different generation, who cruise the mall in stores that are unfamiliar.

On that day, we stopped at a small coffee shop that was mysteriously also selling kitchen and bedroom items, so we enjoyed our drinks sitting among pillows and plates. In a gift store, I was struck by a poster of an “antique” map of the USSR, especially because I was in school when the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics was still a nation to be feared. Now I’m the antique being crushed by younger people moving so fast that I can’t get out of their way without being pushed into the table of candle holders. In a clothing store, I couldn’t differentiate between the sections for male and female clothes—mostly athletic–and I’ve learned not to ask so I don’t show my ignorance or age.

And yet some of the stores were oddly familiar. The poster store had reproductions of music posters from the 1960s and ‘70s—what we would have called psychedelic posters with crazy colors and jagged lines. It’s almost disorienting, as if I had gone back in time. I studied the one of Janis Joplin; were younger people familiar with this legendary singer, or were older people buying this to cement their own youth? I had a quick thought to tell the manager I had seen Joplin sing in San Francisco at Golden Gate Park in the ‘70s. Why did I feel a need to stake my claim in this world where I don’t belong anymore? 

In the last few years, vinyl records have become popular again, and at the store downtown, young people were thumbing through albums just like we used to do, when we were excited to find the latest Beatles or Bob Dylan. Maybe if you live long enough, everything comes around again, like bell-bottom pants and long hair.

Downtown my friend and I ate at a restaurant that mimicked one from the 1950s, where the tables, booths and chairs are plastic in colors of turquoise and orange, with the star-shaped patterns I remember from my youth.  I guess you don’t have to miss your youth if it’s coming back to you, resurrected by a younger generation that perhaps longs for the more stable life we elders had so long ago. The world has gotten confusing—new mixing with old. And this renewal feels disorienting, as if I’m in a TV show where life is simpler, happier and father always knows best.

But I don’t want this fake world. I want my town and youth back, where, after we finished our shift, my coworkers and I would retreat to our favorite hamburger joint. I know you can’t go home again, not the least of reasons that Tom’s Tavern has since been replaced by an upscale restaurant that serves “wood roasted octopus, with curried carrot purée, candied bacon, roasted turnips, asparagus, black garlic aioli.” Since Tom’s closed I’ve become mostly a vegetarian, but if the tavern were magically resurrected, I’d beat a path to their door to enjoy their hamburgers and fries, while sitting in a booth and watching the shuffleboard players. Just for a while, it would feel like home.

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