The New Neighbors

We just met our new neighbors yesterday. They will be living upstairs from us in our condo complex. Sharing a garage with us. My husband and I are pretty much geezers living among mostly other geezers here. Okay, at 54 and 62 we're on the adolescent end of geezerhood, but still. And I'm okay with that. Our complex is only 44 units and although it's not an "over-55 community", like many of the communities down here, (down here being Florida), it just kind of turns out that way anyway.
So back to the new neighbors.

Our previous upstairs neighbor was an old woman in her eighties who was, shall we say, eccentric. She became more and more eccentric until she began threatening people with brooms and hammers and calling the police and fire departments reporting imaginary break-ins and assaults. This is not funny and I'm not making fun. She had become our friend, more or less, over the years, but we began keeping a watchful eye out for her as she started drifting back and forth between glad to see us and calling us filthy names. Then finally she "went over to the dark side" for good. They took her away and sold her condo. We heard they sold it to someone who intended to rent it out. Oh goodie. Enter "the renters", our new neighbors.

Our doorbell rings yesterday and a woman introduces herself as the owner/rental agent of the condo upstairs and just wanted to let us know that our new neighbors were moving in RIGHT NOW and would we like to meet them? Sure. I walk outside to where their furniture-laden truck is parked, and the woman points me toward a twenty-something guy, about six foot two, with gorgeous curly locks who looks like my nephew and has no shirt on. She says, "This is Aaron. He and his girlfriend Wendy are moving in upstairs." Holy cow. YOUNG PEOPLE!
This should make for some animated conversation at the next potluck in the clubhouse.
"Whose kids were those at the pool today? Ruth and George's?"
"No, they LIVE HERE!"
"WHAT?! But they're, they're YOUNG!"

So anyway, after I overcame my own shock and introduced myself and so on, I went back inside and told my husband the news. Young people were going to be living upstairs, sharing our garage. He got a sardonic look on his face and said, "This oughta go over big," thinking as I was about the rest of our neighbors. So he goes out to meet them too. By now Wendy is also outside and we chat briefly, offering any help we might be able to give. They seemed nice. Respectful. (Oh good Lord, listen to me. Respectful. That's what my grandmother would have said.) So we go back inside and soon we hear some conversation outside. See, the stairway to their unit is right outside our door in a kind of little courtyard. We can hear everything. So, it seems that Aaron and his friend Jeremiah, who is helping him, can't get the massive couch through the door and around the immediate corner. No way to make it go no matter what. They're thinking that maybe if they removed the screen from their lanai (Florida-speak for screened-in porch) at the back of the unit, they might be able to pass it up from beneath. I'm thinking good luck with that. In fact I even said it. Next thing you know, we look out our lanai door behind our condo and see Aaron and Jeremiah with the couch. In a flash, they had it on its end, and hoisted it so the top end was resting on the lanai above us. Now here's my favorite part. Aaron takes over holding the whole thing while Jeremiah runs around the building, up the stairs, and through the apartment to pull it up from the other end. We're standing in our living room looking out back at a guy HOLDING A COUCH all by himself, arms over his head like Atlas holding up the world, and his arms aren't even shaking. My husband and I looked at each other and he said what we were both thinking. "Might be good to have this guy around."

Well, that's chapter one of the new neighbors story. I don't expect there'll really be much to report. They seem like good kids. Hey, I'm kind of looking forward to being exposed to some youth for a change. Besides, in a neighborhood full of "Hanks", "Franks", "Eds", "Eleanors" and "Marguerites", it's kind of refreshing to hear names like "Wendy" and "Aaron".
Welcome to the neighborhood.

The Waiting Room

The family waiting room on the surgical floor was near capacity when I entered it to begin my own vigil about 5 PM. Some people seemed to be waiting as a family group, some as friends, and some as single spouses, like me. It struck me how many people must be having surgery. And this was just one hour of the day, in one waiting room on one floor of one hospital in the world.

I had just kissed my husband before he was rolled into the O.R. for major surgery. After four years of dealing with bladder cancer, exhausting every treatment and out-patient procedure available, he was now having the bladder removed. Serious stuff. I knew it was going to take several hours, so I settled in for an evening of reading, Sudoku, and a dinner break in the cafeteria. You may notice that I left out the word "worrying". That's because my most important activity during this waiting period was praying. I prayed. It was not desperate praying, but confident praying. I gave my husband's well being to God, and prayed for the doctors, nurses, and electrical equipment. (We live in Florida, and my first answered prayer was that there were no hurricanes yet in sight to threaten electrical power, or require evacuation at a most in-opportune time.)
A few friends had offered to stay with me through this, and I had declined. Something told me it would be better this way. I was able to be still, and know that God is God. The first miracle was that I wasn't fearful. My husband and I had been praying about this for quite some time. He had already put himself in God's hands, and faced this life-changing event with all the grace anyone could ask for. And that was perhaps the biggest miracle of all, and also what allowed me the strength to stay steady.

Time passed, and the waiting room thinned out, as one by one, surgeons came to speak with families about the outcome of their loved ones' surgeries. After three hours, I got a progress report from the operating room, saying things were going well, but they didn't have an estimate of how much longer it would be. There was lots of work to be done. I was grateful for the report. It was kind and considerate of the staff to let me know. After a few more hours, it was down to me and one family left. It was getting late by now, almost 10 o'clock. The wife and two beautiful daughters now sharing the room with me were beginning to frazzle. The husband had been in surgery all day. Another cancer patient. Just when the wife's considerable strength had been almost completely spent, their surgeon arrived to speak with them in the conference room. Mostly good news. I was glad for them. And I prayed for them too.

Another hour, and a few people came and went. The hospital volunteer at the desk outside had long since gone home. The halls were quiet, the night was dark, the TV murmered across the room at low volume. After six hours of surgery, at 11 o'clock, when our surgeon finally walked in to speak with me, there were just the four of us left in the room; me, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. The doctor saw me sitting alone, but I wasn't.

The report was good. My husband came through it well. It went according to plan, and I was able to go and see him shortly afterward in recovery. He was groggy, drifting in and out of conciousness. I smoothed his hair and smiled at him. His first barely audible words were, "You wanna dance?" I couldn't believe that even now, he made me laugh. After another brief lapse into sleep, he opened his eyes again and said, "Thank you Jesus." Amen, my Love, Amen.

Success?

I saw three news articles yesterday that dealt with the idea of success, in three very different ways.

One story was about an enclave of obscenely huge mansions in a segment of Los Angeles called North Beverly Park. This is a development of giant, hotel-size homes, some as large as 40,000 square feet, and most 20,000 to 30,000, owned by the mega-super-rich and famous. People who not only don’t believe that less is more, but do believe that more is never enough. The home owners association member list reads like the Academy Awards, plus a Who’s Who of the sports world. Apparently this group of gargantuan homes is deemed “too much” even by the elite standards of Beverly Hills and Bel Air. The article pointed out that the main things this little group of neighbors have in common are their enormous wealth, and their dire need for privacy in a world filled with relentless paparazzi and gawking tourists. It seems this security-gated, border-patrolled, other-worldly community is the only place where this peculiar breed can live a “normal” life, having been rendered unfit to live among the rest of us. The sentence that smacked me in the face was this: “In the center of Beverly Park is an elaborate four-acre children’s park, which is usually empty.”
Is this success?

On the page opposite this article was a story about the Buffett family. (That would be Warren, not Jimmy.) In the last several days all the news outlets have been filled with the story of Warren Buffett’s decision to give the bulk of his 40 billion dollar estate to the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation. The story I read, however, was about his three grown children. Apparently they have always known they would not inherit great wealth from their father, who does not believe in inherited wealth. (Although I’m quite sure most of us would consider the “crumbs“ that fall from the table to be a pretty good amount of wealth.) The three middle-age children of Warren Buffet are apparently low-key and fairly normal, and each of them has his own charitable foundation which he or she runs. They’ve been raised to believe that you use your wealth to help those who need help. Now we’re getting closer to success.

The third story was one I saw on TV. It was about a young soldier who returned from Iraq minus a leg. While still in the hospital, he assumed he would spend the rest of his days in a wheel chair. Then he saw another vet, who had lost both legs, working out and running with his artificial limbs. The young soldier then realized that somebody even worse off was doing so much, and decided that he too would run again. And today he not only runs, he competes and hopes to compete in the next Parolympics. Now we’re talking success.

Success comes in several sizes and measures. Personally, I find success to have nothing to do with wealth or fame. It’s a fleeting thing, therefore a daily thing. One success follows another. Sometimes it follows failure. I know this much; in the end, success is not what’s in the financial portfolio, but what overflows from the heart.

Dad and the Battle of the Birds

I talked to Dad yesterday, and it seems he's doing battle with a bunch of birds. The prime real estate at the center of this heated turf war is his cherry tree. Says he, "In all the years I've had that cherry tree, I've never tasted even one ripe cherry. I manage to eat a few when they're starting to get ripe, but those blasted birds eat 'em ALL before they ever get really ripe!" He's been wracking his brain (his own words) trying to figure out some way to keep the birds off the tree. Rest assured he already tried the old fake owl in the tree trick, and the shiny aluminum pans years ago. Child's play. So he recounted to me the war that he's been waging for the last several days.

The first day, he found an old battery operated radio, tuned it to a rock station, turned it up loud and climbed up into the tree where he hung it on a branch. (Did I mention that my father is 87? Yup.) Dad said, "I figured if that rock music wouldn't keep em away, nothing would." By now you're correctly guessing that Dad hates rock music and assumes any of God's creature would certainly find it equally detestable. So anyway, then he went inside and watched from the kitchen window to see what would happen. And there they were, about four robins, way down the other end of the yard. This is how he tells it: "Well, they started out just walking around over there, kinda hands-in-their-pockets like, and pretty soon they start walking a little closer to the tree. So they walk around awhile longer, then sure enough, they start getting a little closer. Next thing you know, they're up in that tree! That rock music didn't bother them a bit." Of course I pointed out to him that it might have worked if they had been any kind of bird other than robins. I said, "Haven't you ever heard the song Rockin' Robin? Robins like rock music." Well he hadn't ever heard of the song Rockin Robin. (Did I mention he's 87?) So my joke was lost on him.

So the next day Dad had another idea. He took his old box window fan, (the really old kind that weighs about 20 pounds), plugged it into a good long extension cord, tied something to it so it made a lot of noise when the blades turned, and again, climbed up into the tree and stuck it in the branches. (I did mention that my father is 87.) Once again, he went back inside and watched from the window. Same story. Same four robins, just like before, walking around the far end of the yard, then a little closer, then a little closer, and next thing you know. In the tree again. Damn.

Well then yesterday, he figured he'd take a different tack. He decided to climb up into the tree and wrap some netting around three good branches, and let the birds have the rest of the tree. He figures maybe they'll have enough to eat, and they won't try and get into those three branches he saved for himself, and he thinks that ought to give him plenty of cherries. He says, "I sure would like to eat some ripe cherries from that tree sometime before I kick off."

I can't wait to find out how that works out for him. I just wish he'd stop climbing up into that tree.

Awesome, Dude

I fear that our best, really powerful words are being misused so much, they're becoming meaningless. We sprinkle our conversation with superlatives such as "awesome" and "amazing" like too much salt, until everthing tastes the same. To my way of thinking, the majestic Rocky Mountains are awesome. A space shuttle lifting off into the blue is awesome. And "amazing"? Amazing is when a magician makes an elephant disappear. Amazing is when God forgives us each and every time we make mistakes, and never stops loving us. Your tattooed boyfriend who calls everyone "Dude" is not amazing. I hear it all the time. "Oh Justin? He's amazing." So what's my point? I don't know, I just feel like we're losing the power of language. Myself included. Okay, I'm older, so instead of "awesome", it's "cool". I admit it. So today, I'm going to try and do better.

College Daze

One Friday night, sometime in the early 70's, my two college roommates and I shouldered our way into our favorite crowded dance club. It was packed. Over the thumping of the impossibly loud music and the roar of conversation I yelled to Diane, "Wow, it's standing room only!" She yelled back, "Who's Stanley Ramoni?"
Whenever we get together, we still talk about that. It was one of our many funny moments. That's how my memories of college, and the 70's in general, are - just moments. Brain snapshots all jumbled up in my head like photos tossed into a shoebox. I don't remember when things happened, or in what order. In fact, there are lots of things I don't remember at ALL. Same with my two roomies. One of us will launch into a "remember when we..." story, and inevitably one or both of the others will say, "I don't have have any memory of that whatsoever." We all remember bits and pieces of our college experience, not necessarily the same ones. And because we all have this Swiss cheese picture of "back then", none of us are offended when the others don't remember. Linda recently mentioned the time she visited me during my music camp summer. I said, "You came to visit me there? I don't have any memory of that whatsoever." And she cheerfully, almost joyfully said, "It's okay! See? None of us has to feel bad!" She, in turn did not remember when...never mind. I can't tell that one. Not while any of our parents are still alive anyway.
I guess the most surprising thing is that after 35 years, we still get together. We still laugh and have a ball like old times. But when I look at a photo someone took of us recently, I think, "Who are those old broads?" Because in my mind, when I think of the three of us, I still see these cocky college kids in haltar tops, blue work shirts and bell bottoms, swilling beer and playing Cardinal Puff in the college pub. (Lucky us, the drinking age was 18 then.) Diane is now a Red Hat Lady. How can that be?
It's not that I can't believe how much time has passed. I lived through every minute of it. It's just fascinating, I guess, to see us now and yet remember so vividly being the kids we were. Mostly I'm so glad we're still friends. Telling old tales, some of which we all wish we COUDN'T remember, is only part of our friendship. We've all brought the best of who we were to our current adult lives, and thankfully we've shed the worst of our embarrassing youth. We survived the 70's. It all gets good from here.

Dear God, Thank You for old friends who share memories good and bad, and love me still.

And So I Begin

I’m a woman, 54 years old.
That says more about me than you might think at first. It means I went to high school in the 60’s, when girls still weren’t allowed to wear pants to school. When we all had our ears pressed to the radio trying to decipher the so-called dirty lyrics to “Louie Louie”. When our marching band was playing movie themes like “West Side Story“, and “The Longest Day”. It means I went to college in the ‘70’s when guys I knew were living on one banana a day trying to lose enough weight to be ineligible for the draft when they flunked out. When books like “I’m OK You’re OK”, and “The Sensuous Woman” had us convinced that virtually anything you could think of to do was “OK“. And when you entered the local dance club, the black lights were so intense, all you could see were people’s teeth, and the occasional white bra glowing through a loose knit sweater. It means I matured through the 80’s, when “coke” stopped meaning “Coke”, and shoulder pads grew to NFL proportions. It means that the ’90s seem like just a few minutes ago.
More than anything, it means I’m planted smack dab in the middle of the Baby Boomer generation. Where 50 is the new 30. Or something like that. It’s a funny place to be. Just today my husband and I were riding in the car, listening to the oldies station, bopping our heads to “Walk This Way” like the opening scene of “That ’70’s Show”, guitars screaming, bass whomping, and us just groovin’. And it occurred to me that the people in cars going by must see Mr. and Mrs. Cleaver going nuts like teenagers. This is an odd time of life - still perfectly capable of feelin’ groovy, just don’t look in the mirror.
A few years back I had the idea to write a series of articles poking fun at geezers. Now I think, “what’s so funny?”
But I’m enjoying being my age. I’m not so self conscious. I’m not so consumed with comparing myself to everyone else. I have a different perspective on life, a different vantage point from which to observe the world. Sometimes things strike me funny. Sometimes they just strike me. And so begins my journey into blog land. I’ll think of stuff and write it down, and maybe someone else will read it and think, “I know what you mean.” Or, “I never thought of that.”
Thanks for being here. Oh, here’s something I ran across that I really like. I don’t know where it originally came from, but it’s written on a sign on the wall of Mother Teresa’s children’s home in Calcutta:

"ANYWAY"

People are unreasonable, illogical, and self-centered,
LOVE THEM ANYWAY
If you do good, people will accuse you of
selfish, ulterior motives,
DO GOOD ANYWAY
If you are successful,
you win false friends and true enemies,
SUCCEED ANYWAY
The good you do will be forgotten tomorrow,
DO GOOD ANYWAY
Honesty and frankness make you vulnerable,
BE HONEST AND FRANK ANYWAY
What you spent years building may be
destroyed overnight,
BUILD ANYWAY
People really need help
but may attack you if you help them,
HELP PEOPLE ANYWAY
Give the world the best you have
and you'll get kicked in the teeth,
GIVE THE WORLD THE BEST YOU'VE GOT ANYWAY.