Not Going Gently

Can you see the gray hairs? Can you see them? I can!

“Do not go gentle into that good night

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

                                                        --Dylan Thomas

While inside I still feel like a 30 year old, my outside hasn’t matched that rosy image in—well—33 years. Signs of aging, subtle at first, began to pick up steam as I neared 40. There’s a photo of me with baby Julie at the pool. I guess Jules looks cute in it, but honestly? All I ever notice about that pic are unmistakable gray hairs (mine, not the baby’s). Shortly after that, I hit the dye bottle, and it’s been chug chug chug ever since. My hue of choice is a darkish brown, though during summers at the beach (a hundred miles from my hairdresser) the color fades to reddish. Before I am unpacked back in Oreland in late August, I always have an appointment to get the hair done.

For a while there, my wrinkles bothered me terribly. I spent well over $100 on a bottle of lies which was supposed to smooth out my face within weeks. I would pick one particular rough patch of skin (say, the “laugh lines” around my eyes), and check multiple times a day for signs of rejuvenation. If anything, my creases were deepening, but I finished every last drop, in desperate hope of a late-inning turnaround. No dice. When next I visited the cosmetics counter at Macy’s, I spent my c-note on perfume instead; if I was going to look like a prune, I might as well be a fragrant prune. Nowadays, I solve the problem by taking off my glasses when approaching a mirror. 

The pandemic has challenged us all in myriad ways, but notably those of us still fighting the Battle of Vanishing Youth. None of us who color our tresses have been able to see a stylist since mid-March. As a result, we look more elderly with each passing Zoom meeting. I finally got to see two of my best friends for a socially distanced glass of wine on a back porch the other night. We had a great conversation, the centerpiece of which was: “Should we give up at this point and just go gray?” Our buddy who is blonde, we concluded, should totally save her L’Oreal dollars, as the hints of silver are very subtle and attractive (she wasn’t convinced). My other friend, who has darker hair, was all for surrendering—until she got a call from her hairdresser that the salon was back in business. I am the same: I have an appointment on Monday at 8:45 AM, and it feels like Christmas is coming!

I guess going gently into that good night is not an option for me yet, and I’m a little sad that I can’t just enjoy looking my actual age. But, as Popeye so eloquently put it, “I yam what I yam,” so I’ll keep on raging.

If I’m over 90 during the next pandemic, however, I’ll definitely go gray.

Maybe.

A recent birthday (the lighting is perfect)

My Hermit Crab Essay

Exhibit A

I’ve decided to spend a bit of time studying the writer’s craft (why not?) One thing I’ve been hearing about has been the “hermit crab” essay. I did a little research and discovered that these are essays “hidden” inside other forms (for example, stories written in the form of recipes, or shopping lists, or email exchanges).  I fully intend to write one of these very soon, but meanwhile I prefer to write what I’d first supposed these were. Hence, my hermit crab essay…

 

I bought my children many a hermit crab back in the day—they were pretty cheap pets (if you didn’t count their Taj Mahal homes and their tins of food made apparently from gold dust). They were quiet and fairly clean. We would return home from the Sea Shell Shop in Rehoboth Beach with our latest crustacean friends and accessories, and I would briefly feel like Wonder Woman (how can she raise five kids AND a menagerie? Amazing!!) 

In short order, the critters would be named, fed, stared at briefly, then forgotten. I could hardly blame the kids, as these creatures provided the exact same amount of amusement as empty shells would have. So they were watered, nourished, and had their cages cleaned (very) sporadically by yours truly.

 

This state of affairs would continue for, at most, a week or so until 1) they died dramatically, their wizened bodies out of their shells, sprawled across the cage or 2) they somehow escaped (THEN no doubt died dramatically, only this time in a closet or behind the sofa).

 

I have no stories of enjoying our delightful “fur babies” or the like over the years. But I proudly point to the hermit crabs when my now grown offspring complain about their pet-deprived childhoods. “We had so MANY of them!” I remind my kids. “Doesn’t that count for something?” I don’t mention that we had so many because they all perished from neglect.

 

I fear there will be a reckoning. My nightmare is that when at last I reach the pearly gates, every last crab will be there, over that Rainbow Bridge, along with our other doomed pets-- the goldfish and the hamsters and Speed the turtle. They will shake their tiny heads as they ponder whether to let me into Heaven, she who had no business bringing them home, she who doesn’t even LIKE the animal kingdom. 

Towards dream’s end, I have been reincarnated. I huddle in my striped tree snail shell in my dirty cage. I wait in vain for breakfast, for companionship. I plot my escape to the smelly sneaker under my son’s bed. I awaken in tears, sorry at last for my cavalier attitude towards these, God’s precious creatures.

 

Maybe it’s not too late! I will buy hermits for Aiden and Peter this summer at the beach! Yes!  This time, I swear, I will be a WONDERFUL pet mom. These little crabs will live for decades, treasured members of our household.

 

And I will be redeemed.

Give me one more chance!

Yes With My Heart

Makin' Movies!

For much of my life, I personified the Oklahoma! character Ado Annie, whose big musical number was “I’m Just a Girl Who Cain’t Say No.” Now as I recall, what Annie couldn’t say “no” to was kissin’ fellers, so it isn’t an exact match. My reticence about refusals was more along the lines of agreeing to do lots and lots of things I didn’t want to do, from serving as club leader, to room mother, to plant sale organizer (yes! They were that desperate!)

 

Nowadays, while I still tend to fill the awkward silence after my “no’s” with “I’d normally love to—check back with me next month ---let me think about it some more--oh, OK”, I’m learning that those two letters form a complete thought. So when I do say “yes,” it is (usually) with my heart.

 

Recently, I have been writing a lot of meditations and devotions. Especially in these extremely unsettled days, reflecting on Scripture has been very helpful for me. The Bible reminds me (over and over again) that while there have always been tough times and evil in our world, God’s love and grace are always with us as well—a sustaining thought for sure.

 

Another faith-based activity I’ve been involved with has been a new one for me: making videos each week for a YouTube channel for kids. “Faith Finders Fun” offers a different short video every day of the week, each with a different theme: “Treasure Tuesday” “Science Friday” “Magic Wednesday.” I hopped on board for an eight week cycle, and am now halfway through my small productions. My topic is not really a specific topic at all (“Random Saturday”), so I get to choose any spiritual subjects that appeal to me—and I get to avoid doing science experiments and magic tricks, either of which would be an unmitigated disaster in my hands.

 

To date I have walked an outdoor labyrinth, celebrated the church’s birthday (Pentecost) with candles on a cake, and talked about the Jewish prayer The Shema (did you know you can make a mezuzah from an empty glue stick? Truth!) My next one (about the Christian Fish secret symbol) is set for this Saturday.

 

So far these have all been accomplished in one take, which has pleased my iPhone videographer Stevo no end. They look pretty smooth, except for the fact that my hubby’s finger is often featured up in the corner of clips. This is, of course, accidental, but now I’m coming to appreciate it as a Hitchcock-esque touch (the great director always made a cameo appearance in his movie mysteries) and am tempted to leave it in.

 

On July 11^th I will produce my final film. I am already working on my Oscars speech, in which I will thank my several dozen loyal viewers (hey, we can’t all be John Krasinski). Seriously, though, It’s been a great experience, and a way to spread some positivity in a not-so-positive time.

 

Sometimes, saying “yes” feels just right.

I love writing these!

Taking Off the Training Wheels

Like uncle, like nephew!

Aiden has had his snazzy new bike for more than two weeks now. While he looks tiny perched on it, it was definitely time to move up in size to a 20”. His old bike had fallen apart, so he had commandeered Peter’s red trike. It was comical to watch our kindergartener careening down the street on the small tricycle, pedaling like mad. At one point Aiden rode right into the side of a parked car and fell over (no damage to car or cyclist). It looked for all the world like the recurring gag from Laugh-In where Arte Johnson kept crashing into things while riding a trike, and I was reminded how far humor has come since 1968.

 

While still on Bike #1, Aiden’s training wheels had come off. It was a magic moment—suddenly he could balance all on his own. Another step towards being a big kid, and my grandson was ecstatic. I recalled my kids’ special firsts: Evan climbing the kitchen doorjamb for the first (not last) time while watching me make dinner. Evan climbing through the window between the screened porch and the living room in our summer cottage in Lewes. Evan climbing…well, you get the idea. Like all of his sibs, Ev was eager to get going on this wonderful thing called independence.

 

I too had yearned to grow up, as I was not a happy child. I imagined the rosy life I would lead as an adult, free from schoolwork, jetting around in my private plane (paid for by a fabulous job, of which I only had the vaguest vision). But even early on, my attempts at doing things by myself were shaky. I never even became a bike rider, much less a pilot. Sports were a slowly unfolding nightmare (I only learned to catch a ball because it was needed for a play I was in—in my mid-twenties!) Bottom line: I wanted independence and mastery of the grown-up world, without knowing how to prepare myself for it.

 

It didn’t help that my sisters and I were raised so haphazardly. I look at a mama bird tenderly feeding her young, gently nudging them from the nest at precisely the right moment. My mama’s feeding process: “Hungry? There’s the kitchen. I’m on the phone.”  As for readying us for flight, at some random point our nest just tipped over and we were left to fly, or to plummet.

 

As a result, I hesitated to remove my kids’ training wheels, probably for far too long. But they managed to grow up anyway, as children are wont to do. These days, I’m trying to focus on Aiden and Peter’s joy as they learn new skills. I can’t stop them from falling off their bikes, but I can be here to kiss the boo-boos. As I watch them wobble, then soar, I know that this is the essence of parenting (and grandparenting too): get them going, then let them go. And love them through it all.

Patrick learning to swim (I never could really swim either)