Creating Family

I’ve been thinking a lot about community, maybe because it seems to be fraying across the country, and maybe because this is the time of year when we most want to be with family, whether it’s our biological tribe or one we created.

I grew up in a large family, so a holiday celebration like Thanksgiving consisted of my parents, my six siblings and my grandparents sitting around a large table laden with food. I know there  are families who still get together like that, but most of my friends have created alternatives. If you never had children or your only son lives too far to get home for the holidays, then invite all your friends over—and maybe the next-door neighbors who don’t have any close relatives.

As older people, we share several challenges in creating community. Most of us are retired, so we’ve lost our comrades in labor. As a journalist, I worked with groups of people with shared ideals. That sharing didn’t end after we made our deadlines; often we would go out for drinks after we put the newspaper to bed for the night. But once I retired, that community was gone, although I’ve been lucky to maintain several of those friendships.

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Fear of Falling

In the past few months, almost weekly I’ve been hearing about people in their 60s and 70s who had to be rescued after falling while hiking on local trails. My first reaction was disbelief. How could someone just fall off a trail? Were they near a steep slope and not paying attention?

But then it happened to me. I was hiking on a rocky trail when my feet went out from under me while I was going downhill. One minute I was standing and the next I was on the ground. In the past, when I had started to slip while hiking on similarly steep slopes, I was able to regain my balance before falling. What happened that made this different?

I’m not sure, but something like that makes you lose trust in yourself. Last year I went hiking with a friend who, I could see, had lost confidence in her body. We were hiking on a trail I thought was relatively easy, but the rocky trail was a challenge for her. I had never seen the rocks as an obstacle, but since my fall, I’ve become more wary, especially when the rocks are wet. We take our mobility for granted until we lose it.

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When I Get Old

I’m talking to a friend, a former neighbor, and the mother of one of my childhood friends. Dorothy is 97 years old, an age that most people consider old, yet she starts out most sentences “When I get old . . .” She’s not being coy. She doesn’t feel old and has no serious health issues except when she crochets too long and her hands hurt. She has just returned from a summer in Wisconsin at the family lodge, where she lived alone, although with the help of friends around the lake.

We’re sitting in her living room, the same place I used to play with her daughter some 60 years ago. Dorothy loves knick-knacks, and her small house is filled with them, like the mechanical flower that shimmies when the sun hits it. Her house, like Dorothy, radiates warmth and cheer. Almost every piece of furniture is covered with the colorful afghan blankets she has crocheted over the years.

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