The Paradox of Life - Part I

Nice thing about planning a trip is that one gets things done that would otherwise not get done because we can do it tomorrow.

Even though I am busier than before, I manage to squeeze things in.  I was three months behind on organizing and printing my journal.  Somehow, because I was leaving, I caught up.  I have wanted to wash the windows all fall but haven’t found time.  Knowing the warm, sunny days are limited, I washed the upstairs windows one day; the kitchen/family room windows before gym the next; and finished up with all the outside windows and the basement windows and mirrors—scheduling them in my spare time between things.  Now this is a biggie:  I shoveled the leaves; pine needles and even paper from the gutter grate and put them in the garbage can before it was picked up on Monday.  I’ve been going to do that for weeks.  I’m surprised I didn’t get my swimsuit mended that came apart at the seams when we were at Snowbird.  I picked the peppers, chopped and froze 10 quarts; froze broccoli, kale, and squash.  We’d do those anyway, but we might have waited until tomorrow or next week or when it would be freezing cold.  It’s 79 degree daytime weather!  Who know what I might accomplish if I planned a trip every month!
   I almost envied Amy when we finally got everything packed and on the road.  She would be coming home to a clean, organized house this evening.  I wouldn't mind spending a week alone.  If anyone else were here, it would be messed up in 10 minutes.  

The Windmills of Wyoming.

 Not that the Natural Gas station is banned to the boonies or anything!  Rock Springs.

 The sunset in Wyoming.

 I almost got the Lincoln Memorial.

 Sunrise in Iowa.

   We drive through the night spending about 23 hours in the car and arrive in Kansas City around 10:30 in the morning.

“Tell them we’re Mormons,” (referring to Marriott being a Mormon) I jest to DeRay when he goes in to see if we can check in early.  “Tell them we want two double beds and a view,” Ed instructs. 

We hoping we can get in early to clean up before we see our family.   It’s pretty here.  Ed wonders why we came to Tornado Alley but I don’t see any tornadoes – calm and serene.

We swim, clean up, and meet Brent, Jan, Jonathan, Amanda and Naomi at Oklahoma Joes at 4:30 PM.

  Back to the motel, the kids swim and we visit then watch the Royals/Giant game.  The stadium is just a few blocks from their home so we are mandated to be fans while in the area.  Royal Blue.

 The kids stay with us in the motel.  Believe it or not, we sleep until 8:30 – which is 9:30 their time.  Breakfast will be over.  We run down in our pajamas.  They offer us cold stuff.  DeRay orders cold cereal, yogurt, bananas, milk.  $60.  $60???  No free breakfast?  Isn’t this the Marriott?  “That’s Marriott Fairfield. This is Marriott Courtyard.”  Even though we made reservations for five nights, we check out.  Taxes added, one night $125.  We’re outta here.  Jan drops by at noon to pick up passengers.

 Grandpa told Amanda that her truck was parked outside.

 Earlier Brent told us about the Jamesport Inn where he stays when he goes hunting.  It has a big unit that sleeps eight.  We call them, never dreaming it would be available.  $125/night, sleeping accommodations for eight.  DeRay and Jan go shopping.  Amanda and I washed dishes.  With a sprained ankle, she was hobbling around on crutches.  In the simple way little things mean a lot, it was a tender moment to wash dishes with her.  She knew the routine precisely and helped me do it right.  Brent ate.  Naomi hid.  DeRay, Ed, Amanda and I left at 4 PM.  Will they ever get here?  All the groceries are in the van.  We’re off to Jamesport, the Amish town.  Lovely ride up here 1 hr 15 minutes.  Huge room.  One small unstable table, 2 chairs, air chairs for kids to sleep on. A fridge and microwave; but no dishes. No stove.  No closets.  Enough floor space to hold a ball.  I gathered 4 plastic chairs from around the firepit so now we have six chairs.  I walked down the street enchanted.  Clomp.  Clomp.  Clomp.  You know an Amish buggy is coming every so often.  Colorful trees, summer and fall flowers still blooming.  I can’t remember when I’ve felt this excited. 

How did Pancake and Gnocchi get to Jamesport?

Literature

Amy got Eddy reading Michael Crickton books.  Every time he comes in the kitchen, he picks up his Kindle and reads.

  He’s a very fast reader and reads a book in two or three days.  When he was in school, he tested close to 100% comprehension.

Amy was surprised he liked them.  She says they are pretty sophisticated books.  I have never even heard of him so I checked him out on the Internet.

John Michael Crichton, MD (October 23, 1942 – November 4, 2008) was an American best-selling author, physician, producer, director, and screenwriter, best known for his work in the science fiction, medical fiction, and thriller genres.. His books have sold over 200 million copies worldwide, and many have been adapted into films. In 1994 Crichton became the only creative artist ever to have works simultaneously charting at No. 1 in US television, film, and book sales (with ER, Jurassic Park, and Disclosure, respectively).

His literary works are usually based on the action genre and heavily feature technology. His novels epitomize the techno-thriller genre of literature, often exploring technology and failures of human interaction with it, especially resulting in catastrophes with biotechnology. Many of his future history novels have medical or scientific underpinnings, reflecting his medical training and science background. He was the author of, among others,  The Andromeda Strain, Jurassic Park, Congo, Travels, Sphere, Rising Sun, Disclosure, The Lost World, Airframe, Timeline, Prey, State of Fear, Next (the final book published before his death), Pirate Latitudes (published November 24, 2009), and a final unfinished techno-thriller, Micro, which was published in November 2011.

I know Ed read Timeline because I found it on the Kindle for him.

In 1999, Crichton published Timeline, a science fiction novel which tells the story of a team of historians and archaeologists studying a site in the Dordogne region of France, where the medieval towns of Castelgard and La Roque stood. They time travel back to 1357 to uncover some startling truths. The novel, which continues Crichton's long history of combining technical details and action in his books, addresses quantum physics and time travel directly and received a warm welcome from medieval scholars, who praised his depiction of the challenges in studying the Middle Ages.

He also read Sphere - The novel follows Norman Johnson as a psychologist who is engaged by the United States Navy to join a team of scientists assembled by the U.S. Government to examine an enormous spacecraft discovered on the bottom of the Pacific Ocean. The depth of coral covering the craft suggests that it has been lying there for over 300 years and so could only be of alien origin.

The novel begins as a science fiction story, but quickly transforms into a psychological thriller, ultimately exploring the nature of the human imagination.  

Who would have guessed?

My brother, Jerry, loaned me a book he said he had really enjoyed.  I enjoy it too but even though it is extremely interesting, I’ve been reading it for six months and I am barely half-way through.  I only read when I go to bed at night and it’s always too late.  This passage last night caught my attention:

Sacagawea informed him that the expedition’s camp was precisely on the spot where the Shoshones had been camped five years ago when a raiding party of Hidatsas discovered them.  The Shoshones had retreated three miles upriver and hidden in a wood.  But the Hidatsas had found and routed them, killing four men, four women, and a number of boys, and making prisoners of four boys and all the remaining women, including Sacagawea.

“I cannot discover that she shews any immotion of sorrow in recollecting this event,” Lewis concluded his journal entry relating Sacagawea’s story, “or of joy in being again restored to her native country; if she has enough to eat, and a few trinkets to wear I believe she would be perfectly content anywhere.”

“One wonders,” Stephen E. Ambrose, the author of the book Undaunted Courage, writes, “if Lewis was comparing Sacagawea with the young black female slaves he had known, or with white women of his own class.  One wonders too how the man who could be so observant about so many things, including the feelings and point of view of his men, could be so unobservant about Sacagawea’s situation.  A slave, one of only two in the party, she was also the only Indian, the only mother, the only woman, the only teen-aged person.  Small wonder she kept such a tight grip on her emotions.”  Pg 259-60.

I think even Stephen Ambrose missed the point.  I think the sole reason she was discounted was because she was a woman.  Tragic.

The Swimmer?

“Did you used to be a swimmer?” this woman asks me in the dressing room after my swim.  “I was watching you.”

Used to be?  What was I just doing?  I thought I was swimming.  Did she mean “Olympic swimmer?” “Competitive swimmer?”

“No,” I answered simply.

I thought of the guy I met in the swimming pool at SunRiver.  He was bragging that without any practice, he entered the Senior Games and won a Gold Metal.  Talking to him further, I found out that he was scheduled to swim in the Summer Olympics that were cancelled in 1944 because of the War. 

When we were kids we swam in the sluice.  After they sluiced it, it was very deep but only about 10 feet across.  Our other option was the reservoir that usually was about 3 feet deep, most of it slimy clay.  I didn’t learn to swim until after I was married and took lessons at the University of Utah.

No, I didn’t used to be a swimmer.  I don’t know what you would call what I do now when we go swimming.  But, hey, I just remembered, at age 67, I certified with the American Red Cross as a Life Guard for two years until I let my license lapse.  I didn’t save one life but I was prepared.

My Own Practice

The headlines in an insert in the newspaper one recent morning read:

EXCLUSIVE:  Parents Overpower Peer Pressure

As I walk into the house studying the headlines, it struck me forcibly that all parents, without exception, were once teenagers.  Been there; done that.  Not so long ago either.  We sorta remember what it was like.  Even though times change, it gives us an inside track as to what teens are thinking and feeling.

Unlike old age.  Those who are dealing with nurturing and taking care of elderly people have never been old.  You get old and then you die, taking your wisdom (that is ignored) to the grave with you.  My 85-year-old sister wrote in an e-mail:

"I didn't dream the world would be as it is now in the closing days of my life."

I thought she meant the little world that she lives in now that she is more confined.  Good thing I called her to clarify.  I should have known, she’s always been political and fiercely patriotic.  She meant the outside world:  ISIS, Ebola, things like that.

These are the things she said:

“It’s been a challenge getting used to being old.”

“We were around a lot of old people but you didn’t ever hear anything about what they did all day long.”

So I asked her what she does all day.  (She said she doesn’t like people to ask her that question.)

“After last election I made up my mind I wasn’t going to listen to news.  It’s too depressing.”  (A staunch Republican, she could not bear that Mitt Romney lost.)  But then she decides she needs to pick up on what is going on out in the world so she’s watching TV again.  “It is surprising to me how much people changed.  They looked much older in just that short time.”  She reads:  “My eye sight isn’t quite as good as it used to be but I usually read after I go to bed.”

“I get a ‘down’ feeling from about 4 to 8 at night, then I kind of revive; have more energy.”

“I don’t want to travel because I don’t want to be out on the road and die.”

“Each year you just get a little frailer; don’t have as much energy.”

I asked her if she felt respected.  She’s garnered quite a few honors in her little town.

“Hearing loss isolates you,” she said.  “Most people in the Ward now wouldn’t know me.”

So even though I originally misunderstood the quote in her email, I’m still fulminating over the disregard in our society for the venerable elderly.  If not total disregard, then loss of respect, esteem, and understanding.  It’s obvious they haven’t been there or done that.

Gradually, we lose everything:  Our autonomy; our hearing, sight, speech, mobility.  Even without Alzheimer’s or dementia, we forget and can’t express ourselves.  We can feel people laughing at us and feeling sorry for us; condescendingly. We repeat ourselves.  We are slow. Everything hurts or doesn’t hurt.  It doesn’t matter.  We’re not going anywhere.  

Jan posted this on Facebook, no doubt thinking of her mother and father who are deceased.

For a while now, I’ve been thinking that we should be old before we are young;

Die before we are born;

Be grandparents before we are parents;

Parents before we are children.

Maybe F. Scott Fitzgerald was on to something when in 1922 he wrote the short story “The Curious Case of Benjamin Button,” which was made into a film in 2008 starring Brad Pitt and Cate Blachett.  It tells the story of Benjamin Button, a man who starts aging backwards, being born old and dying an infant.

I actually practice dying every day.  Yogis claim it should be a pleasant transition; a serene, glorious experience.  In Yoga, the pose is called Shavasana or Corpse Pose.

Shavasana is perhaps the most important part of yoga practice.

Lie on your back. Stretch your backbone on the floor, helping with your hands. Straighten your legs, your toes relaxed and pointing outward. Put your arms along your torso with your palms up, your shoulders pressed to the floor. Close your eyes and relax. Try to calm your breath and mind as much as you can.  You have no place to go; nothing to do.  Slow down.  Let go.

It is intended to rejuvenate body, mind, and spirit.

The physiological benefits of deep relaxation are numerous and include:

·        a decrease in heart rate and the rate of respiration,

·        a decrease in blood pressure,

·        a decrease in muscle tension,

·        a decrease in metabolic rate and the consumption of oxygen,

·        a reduction in general anxiety,

·        a reduction in the number and frequency of anxiety attacks,

·        an increase in energy levels and in general productivity,

·        an improvement in concentration and in memory,

·        an increase in focus,

·        a decrease in fatigue, coupled with deeper and sounder sleep, and

·        improved self-confidence.

My yoga instructors used to say:  “When you get your own practice . . .”

I scoffed.  I’ll never have my own practice.  I can only follow; do what I’m told.  I have no idea what to do on my own.

Now each morning as I do my own geriatric yoga routine, I smile.  I have my own practice; ultimately relaxing in Corpse Pose to practice dying, hopefully to be where everyone exists in a supreme superlative state.

Memories Old and New

Here I am 78 years old already.  I’ve never been this old before so I had no idea what to expect or how to feel.  I can’t even remember when this journey started.  One of the first things I can remember is going down to the garage and getting oil on the sailor suit I got for my 4th birthday.

 

 

 

 Mama was so disappointed in me. (Her words.) That garage, owned and operated by LeGrand and William Heaton—Mama’s double first cousins--was a nemesis for us all the time we were growing up.  Evidently, we liked to throw rocks on the roof and evidently, they didn’t like us to; so every once in awhile when they completely lost their patience, they would insist we climb up on the roof and throw all the rocks off.  I remember one time Lucy bawling her head off at the injustice and humiliation of it all.  Shirley and Lynn James, who probably neither one threw a single rock up on the garage, obediently climbed up and quietly threw the rocks off.  I remember DeLoy and me out to the herd holding our hands out until flies lit on them and snapping them shut trying to kill them.  I remember the corrals we built to hold our mud horses and coming home so dirty and chapped, I hoped no one would see us before we got our baths.  I remember Aunt Lucy’s family walking by inviting us to go cook our supper up on the hill with them.  Memories throughout the years flash back on my birthday: 

Off to "playschool" with my nap rug tucked under my arm. 
Our families had to buy the nap rug and a little chair.

 With the back cut off, it is now a stool, painted white.
We keep it in the dining room and use it to this day to reach high places.

the school years, teens, marriage, finally a family, grandparenthood.  In my next life, I’m going to be the oldest in my birth family and older than my husband if I’m a woman again.  I’m tired of those older than me acting like its no big deal when I turn 78 and “how does it feel to be so young?”  I’m also tired of DeRay acting like we’re the same age.  “Let me be my age!”  Since at 78, I’m still cooking three meals a day, cleaning and gardening and canning like I’m young or something, I wanted to eat out for my birthday.  I was so looking forward to it.  Alas, DeRay decided it was too expensive and that we should eat at home.  I was so disappointed.  After all was said and done, he was right.  He may have regretted it before the night was over, but I enjoyed the entire evening.  I talked on the phone with my son, Brent, granddaughter, Brigitte, tried to skype with Naomi but we couldn’t get the sound to work.  At least, I got to see my three Raytown grandchildren.  I talked to my brother, DeLoy; sister, Verla.  Carol called but we missed it.  All the while DeRay was making a gluten free cake, peeling potatoes, making a salad.  Brooke, Klarissa, and Karlton came at 5 and pitched in.  When Amy got home, she helped.  I didn’t even do a dish.  And then we played games.  Isaak joined us for that.  I told them we were going to play Button-Button, London Bridge, and pin the tail on the donkey but they didn’t know what I was talking about.

After unloading the dishwasher, Ed settled down to read his Kindle.  It's such a good book.

To cap off the evening, the guys watched the Utah State/BYU game.

Did Klarissa and I set a record?  We used every tile.

Oh yes, a selfie.

The Next Day
with my sisters, Carol and Verla; cousin, Verda; and daughter, Amy. 

Dancing with the Witch.

Eating with the Witch

The Three Stooges--I mean SISTERS.

Hollyhocks bring back childhood memories of dolls.

Here we are playing baseball!

The Gifts

From Verda

From my sisters: Shirley, Carol, and Verla.  Verla is our designated shopper.
Now, if I just had a wedding or graduation to go to!

From Brooke, Elizabeth and family.  We admired Elizabeth's swim suit cover so guess what?
Brent asked me if I were going to hike to Francis Peak on my birthday.
"No, but Eddy and I went swimming and for a nice trike ride in the warm sunshine.
"I'll bet that's more than any of of my predecessors did on a 78th birthday."
(Lynn's not a predecessor; he's a contemporary.)

Jelly Beans from DeRay.

I read somewhere that the average person gets 5-1/2 cards for his/her birthday.  I always count because I want to be above average.  I feared that with phone calls, e-mails, and Facebook, I wouldn't meet my quota but I did.  Of course, I count phone calls, e-mails and Facebook.  Absolutely.  I also count books from Brent and Jan that came early. 

 These are my two special handcrafted cards.  1. Elizabeth.  2.  Amy Jayne

Some people give gifts all year long, like DeRay and Amy.
Some people never give gifts, like Ed.
He was excited about my impending birthday.
"I can hardly wait to see what you give me," I tease.
"You're getting NOTHING."
"Nothing?  You can't give me nothing.  That's what I'm giving you for your birthday.
You've got to think of something else."

Not only a swimsuit cover but a lovely plant from Brooke & Elizabeth.  Calla Lily.

More cards.  Towels from Verda.

One card missing this year.

While we were at Snowbird, my longtime faithful friend, Connie Gordon, was buried.
We didn't find out until we got home.
We could have gone to her funeral in American Fork.

She never missed sending a card on my birthday.

Alison Reeder never misses either.

I was born on her mother's birthday.

I told her if she wanted me to remember her birthday,

she should have been born on my mother's birthday.

She turned 87 in August.
Donna Graf always sends a nice card,
my friend Suzanne gifts and cards me,
also my nice visiting teachers;
and one x-visiting teacher and forever friend remembers.

*

Only Debbie Beus is left

of the three people I knew who were born on October 3.

My double-first cousin, Nan, and I always exchanged gifts.

Years ago, I called my classmate Flossy on our shared birthday

and her husband said,

"Flossy?  We buried her last week."

In case you're wondering,

that's what it's like to turn 78.