Aging in Place

Look at that confident smile! 

Steve is almost eight years my senior, so living with him is like getting a daily sneak preview of my mid-70s. He still hikes and bikes, drives long distances at night, in the rain, without eyeglasses, and has no issue climbing ladders to reach platters in the kitchen, or clean out the gutters outdoors. Whew!! I guess I don’t have anything to worry about!!

Except.

 

My hiking is slow and infrequent.

My biking is nonexistent.

Dark, rainy roadways? I have a tough enough time driving with spectacles on, in bright midday sunshine.

I’ve never met a ladder that didn’t utterly terrify me.

 

So I may have a few things to worry about after all.

 

We don’t discuss our final living arrangements often (by that I mean LIVING arrangements. I think we’re cool on the burial/cremation front). When we do, we contemplate buying a small house at the Delaware shore, or an apartment in the city—but then we look at the sky-high price tags on even teensy places, and realize we’d only be able to afford one if we cut out all of our budget luxuries (food, heat, electricity). And those 55+ retirement communities are not, we think, for us. We much prefer a wider range of ages in our neighbors (though I guess it would be fun to be the youngsters on the block).

 

At least for the foreseeable future, we’ll probably stick it out here. We are blessed indeed to have Sher, Yaj and the boys with us--they are hugely helpful in a million ways--and so far the house itself is still quite manageable. But there will come a day when the steep flights of stairs become problematic…oh, wait. They already are, at least for me, as I creak slowly and arthritically up and down. Hubby is creak-free, relatively speaking (he can also still kneel in church without agony. Show off.) 

 

I’ve been daydreaming about a few home improvements that would make aging in place much easier. How about a device that gives you a wee little electric shock every time you enter a room, immediately reminding you what you are in there for? Or a talking refrigerator that gives you a constantly updated inventory of its contents: “Hey, hey! We already HAVE enough yogurt!! Do NOT buy five more tubs!” Then there could be his-and-hers remotes for the TV. Every time Stevo flipped to SportsCenter, I could counter with a flip over to something else (anything else). It would be a fun and competitive game to liven up our evenings! 

 

Self-mopping floors, perma-dusted furniture, trash cans that wheel themselves to the curb--I have a million ideas! 

 

For now, though, we’ll have to make do with our imperfect “retirement home.” And as I carry another laundry basket slowly and carefully upstairs, I’ll remember that at least I’m not scrubbing the clothes on a washboard in a little house on the prairie, and I’ll say a prayer of thanks.

 

A sitting, not a kneeling down, prayer. 

It's us! (someday soon)

Patience is a Virtue (That I Do Not Possess)

Photo by Jared Rice on Unsplash

I have never (ever) thought of myself as a patient person, and I assumed my husband was a kindred spirit. In some aspects of life, his fuse is quite short. But when it comes to life’s most important waiting, Stevo is a pro. He is willing to drive his loved ones anywhere, at anytime, even at midnight, or when there is bumper-to-bumper traffic. When I was working at church, he was my Right Hand Guy, ever-patiently loading and unloading, setting up, cleaning up—whatever needed to be done.   

So perhaps it shouldn’t be a shock to learn that Steve has no issue with the inordinate amount of waiting around involved in film work. When he returns home after a day-long shoot, I get so agitated hearing about the incessant delays and retakes on set that I need to walk out of the room to compose myself. OMG! I cannot fathom having the patience to make it to Take #20 of that beer commercial, or to stay calm and collected as filming stretches hours past the projected end point.   

No, hubby sees the cup as half-full (of coffee), and the plate as super-full (of the ridiculous breakfast/lunch spreads put out for cast and crew.) Indeed, it has been his habit to post pictures of the studio table piled high with donuts, bagels and hoagies, as if he’s at the buffet on a fun cruise, rather than fueling to endure the malfunctioning cameras, the endlessly re-adjusted lighting, the actors’ flubbed lines. I would require oysters, caviar and champagne to soothe my soul in those situations (and even then!)   

I understand that tedium and perfectionism are the nature of making movies and TV. For example, David Lynch’s Eraserhead took almost six years to make. Animated features are even worse. Toy Story required 27 animators, five years and a staggering 25,000 story boards. My son-in-law has an animation studio in NYC, and I have no clue how Gil keeps his cool. I know I’d be slapping everything together in a couple of hours, muttering, “that’s good enough!”   

I always thought that Patience would kick in at some point in my life. I’m still waiting (impatiently). If I had to suffer through my children learning to tie their shoes (I was tempted to buy them Velcro sneakers for college, just to avoid this ordeal), why couldn’t I do so while serenely humming Mister Rogers’ classic “Let’s Think of Something to Do While We’re Waiting?” Why did I always have Khachaturian’s frantic “Sabre Dance” pounding in my brain instead? Surely the mellowing of age would help? Nope! At this rate I will go to my grave thinking, “Oh good grief! Let’s get this funeral OVER with!”  

Steve has taught me much over the 46 years of our marriage, and I’m still learning from The Master. But I fear he’s met his match in this department. So, no thank you, Greta Gerwig! Much as I’d love to star in the Barbie sequel, you’re just too darned slow!

Training to Be Brave

My train of thought! (photo by Aris on Unsplash)

When Steve and I were touring throughout the Northeast doing children’s theatre in 1979, Steve drove nearly every day—especially in the snow and ice. I was never an enthusiastic driver, so I was happy to let him take us everywhere in our trusty little Chevette. After the tour, we settled in Philly. Sadly, my fear of driving in bad weather had morphed into terror of driving in any weather. Steve remained the chauffeur, even for a one-mile drive to Acme. I was disappointed in myself, but not disappointed enough to hit the highway on my own. 

Then, during a performance, I fell onstage, breaking my wrist. My arm in a cast, suddenly I was even more dependent on Steve than before. My friend Lisa was living in New Orleans. She had invited me down to visit, and I really wanted to go. But how? Flights were beyond our budget, and of course driving was out of the question. I’d always enjoyed train travel, and the Southern Crescent ran between the cities; still, I couldn’t imagine getting to Louisiana by myself.

 

Steve was encouraging, though, and deep down I knew it would be good for me. So, filled with trepidation, off I went. After boarding, I managed to hoist my suitcase onto the rack overhead.  Little victory! When it was time for lunch, I made my way to the dining car, and was even able to cut my food without help. The miles flew by, as the scenery changed from urban to rural and headed deeper and deeper South. I figured out how to read a book comfortably enough, and enjoyed looking out the train window. Several passengers spoke pleasantly to me, and they offered assistance. I found myself thanking them, but telling them that I was fine. And, surprisingly, I was.

 

Finally, the train arrived in New Orleans, 30 hours after departure. During that week with Lisa, I did a lot of sightseeing, listened to great jazz and zydeco, and ate amazing Creole and Cajun food. Every day, I felt more capable and independent. 

 

The long ride home gave me lots of time to think, and I came to a decision. I was fed up with letting my fears about driving dictate my life. If I could make this journey with only one usable arm, I could drive again--just as soon as the cast came off. 

 

Sure enough, a few weeks later I was back behind the wheel, on surface streets at first, but then tackling the challenging Lincoln Drive and Schuylkill Expressway. Steve had never once complained about being my eternally designated driver, but I know he was glad and relieved to see me on the road again.

 

It took 60 hours, and over 2000 miles, to shift my thinking. Whatever that ticket cost, it has paid for itself many times over. I got off that train a much braver person, and, 44 years later, I’m still in the driver’s seat of my car—and my life.

A Gas House Epiphany

 

My Nana at her piano

“For it’s down in the heart of the Gas House District in Old New York…”

 

So began a ditty my Nana used to play on her grand piano, the piano that dwarfed the rest of her Manhattan living room, the piano that gave her much of what little pleasure she had in life. Nana had made her concert debut in her teens, and could have had a career as a soloist. Instead, she taught music in NYC public schools. She was known and loved for her (very) ambitious productions of Gilbert and Sullivan operettas, starring her tough city junior high students, for many of whom English was their second language. 

 

“Gas House District” was played at Nana’s cocktail parties, not in school auditoriums. Nana would trot it out after her audience had several highballs, and everyone would sing along.

 

“Where a friend is your friend and he’ll stick to the end, where good fellows they never squawk…” 

 

I always assumed the song was a product of the early 1900’s, a standard that Nana’s circle would have known from childhood. The lyrics captured the feeling of those old-time city streets, where boys in short pants and newsboy caps would play stickball, and the girls would jump rope. At that young age, the beverage of choice was sarsparilla, but eventually there would be shots and beers at Pete’s Tavern. I could picture the scene so clearly. 

 

And of course Nana put a unique spin on the next lines:

 

“If you want to meet good fellows face to face, just step around to Tom Cunningham’s place…”

 

Tom Cunningham was her husband, my grandfather, Pop. No clue what the original name in the song had been, but the substitution cemented it as the East 21^st Street Cunningham anthem. 

 

Imagine my confusion when, just this past week, I discovered the truth about the Gas House District (song and neighborhood both). Not a vintage tune at all, it was a 1950’s novelty number, very recently composed when I heard it in Nana’s living room. The surprises continued: the district was named for its huge, ugly gas tanks; it was filled with tenements, which were themselves filled with poor Irish immigrants. It even boasted its own thugs, the Gas House Gang, who would roam the streets robbing passersby (you have to wonder about the wisdom of sticking up folks who didn’t have a dime). 

 

Where was it located? Literally under my feet! In the 1940s, the slum was leveled, to make way for the sparkling new mega-development called Stuyvesant Town. That’s where I was born, and raised until age eight. So I LIVED in the Gas House District all that time and hadn’t a clue!

 

How do I feel, now that I know the real story?

 

I’m disappointed, actually. 

 

I prefer my version: the Gas House District still exists, somewhere. The song? It’s a genuine golden oldie. And for me, it will ALWAYS include an invitation to “Tom Cunningham’s place.”

 

And so we construct our own reality.

Tom Cunningham and little me in Stuyvesant Town 

Men Are From Rome, Women Are From... Death Row?

Romans! 24/7!
(photo by Giannino Nali on Pexels)

Just when I thought that internet revelations couldn’t get any weirder, I learned this tidbit: apparently men think about the Roman Empire. Often. Very often.

Here I was, assuming my beloved hubby was focused mainly on 1) sports 2) booking more children’s shows and 3) the ongoing, vital need to keep the hedges trimmed. How wrong could I be? I would have been much more cued in to Steve’s usual state of mind had I spoken Latin to him: “De gustibus non est disputandum!” (“there’s no accounting for taste!”) 

 

Surely there has to be an equivalency for women! I was positive we gals were obsessed with philosophy and poetry and trenchant analyses of world events. But I did a little sleuthing and here’s what I came up with…

 

According to an article in Time Magazine, women most often think about: 

 

Fleetwood Mac, specifically a “1997 live performance of ‘Silver Springs’ in which Stevie Nicks sings into Lindsey Buckingham’s soul.”  Of course!! Don’t we all?

 

The Titanic (the article doesn’t specify if Leo di Caprio is involved)

 

Pride and Prejudice (both book and Masterpiece Theatre versions)

 

The Romanovs of Russia and their tragedies (Nicholas and Alexandra! That rascal Rasputin!)

 

But the Number #1 thing women seem to ponder is…

 

Murder. 

Yep. Murder.

 

OK, this makes sense to me. I know how popular true crime podcasts are with my Rose, from “Serial” to “My Favorite Murder.” Women love to delve into the details (as long as they’re not TOO gory), and enjoy the intellectual exercise of studying killers’ minds (Ted Bundy’s in particular). And don’t we have a stash of “cozies” at the ready when we crave a little escapism? (for the uninitiated, “cozies” are murder mysteries, often set in England, where the actual slaying part is largely offstage, while the bucolic setting and charmingly quirky detectives are emphasized.)

 

But is there something else going on?

I wonder if our keen interest in mayhem might reflect the fact that we are STILL struggling to be seen as men’s equals. When that insufferable, incompetent guy snags the promotion WE DESERVED, or when our husband is wildly applauded by the neighbors for walking one child down the street to mail a letter, whereas we are just expected to handle everything from grocery shopping to dentist visits to running the PTA wrapping paper fundraiser, with five kids hanging on us the whole time (I might have first-hand experience of this), it makes us feel unappreciated. And angry!!! What to do with all this angry??? 

Well, committing actual murder is not an attractive option for most of us, so we do the next best thing. We think about it! It’s very cathartic, and does a fine job keeping us out of the prison system too.

 

We’ll never truly understand each other, we men and women, but we can try. I promise to devote a few seconds every day to concentrating on gladiators, if the males I know are willing to start thinking about Ted Bundy.

 

Deal?

Warning from Women: Don't Cross Us!!
(photo by David Diemer on Unsplash)

Really Dreamy

  

    12 hours to gorgeous and...go! (photo by Nolan Isaac on Unsplash)

                                        

I honestly don’t watch much TV these days. Don’t congratulate me; the tally of my lifetime viewing, thanks to a childhood spent plunked in front of our black-and-white set, is still quite high. Of the small amount I do watch, only about 1-2% is “reality television.” Never have I ever seen:

 

The Bachelor (or -ette)

Survivor

Queer Eye for the Straight Guy

Property Brothers

 

And the list goes on. Years ago, I went through a brief Real Housewives stint, but I have recovered. The television habits of the other Apel Ave. inhabitants are equally reality show-free. Or at least they were.

 

Imagine my surprise when Aiden and Peter discovered Instant Dream Home while playing at a friend’s house one day, and were totally hooked. For the uninitiated, Dream Home is a house makeover show on steroids. The entire rehab has to take pace within 12 hours, the homeowners (who are nominated by friends as deserving of help) are not told about it until it’s unveiled, and in general the pace of the proceeding is frantic. These are not small tweaks, either—decks are added, gardens are planted, kitchens are overhauled, bedrooms are enlarged. To add to the drama, something really important always either a) breaks or b) doesn’t arrive at the site on schedule. The team is amazingly chipper for the most part, led by cheerleader/actress Danielle Brooks who, when she’s not jumping around the work crew shouting encouragement, is a serious performer (Orange is the New Black).

 

Of course, even if the glass-topped table shatters, and the special imported bathroom tiles are the wrong size, everything turns out great in the end. The homeowners get back at the very last second, and the job is always perfectly completed. There are tears shed and shrieks of joy and hugs all around, and our merry band of workers packs up their tools and calls it an episode. 

 

While I am more than a bit skeptical that this could really be accomplished in a mere dozen hours, I definitely see the appeal of the show. The adrenalin rush as the work crew races against time is comparable to watching the Kentucky Derby. It’s super satisfying to watch experts pull down shabby curtains and pull up crummy old carpeting, and replace them with spanking new window and floor coverings, lickety-split. 

 

But there’s more to it, I think. We all want the broken stuff in our lives fixed, right? And we’d all prefer not to do the fixing ourselves (I’m speaking for myself here). Who among us hasn’t dreamed of getting in great shape, or mending a troubled relationship, instantly, without having to hit the gym or pick up the phone for a tough conversation?

 

It’s pure fun escapism, that show, and I have no problem with the boys enjoying it. They’ll learn soon enough that all worthwhile endeavors do take effort, and that there’ll always be something to work on. 

 

For now, though, they’re still kids, and life is but a dream (home).

Voila! The finished product!  (photo by Daniel Barnes on Unsplash)

Instacart Confessions

Photo by Maria Lin Kim on Unsplash

I was never an enthusiastic shopper (except during my Year of Mania in 2006, when I single handedly kept Bloomingdale’s shoe department afloat). But groceries were another ball game. I had my favorite store (George’s Shop N Bag in Dresher) with Diane the checker and Frank the fish counter guy—but even then, I made sure to be there as they opened the doors at 7 AM so I could race down the aisles and be finished, home and unpacked by 7:45. 

 

During the pandemic I became an Instacart shopper, and came to not only appreciate, but to rely on, the convenience. Sure, I was no longer selecting each avocado and peach, but being able to order my groceries at 4 AM, sitting up in bed, made up for that. 

 

As those of you following the news closely know, the world eventually opened back up. There was now no compelling reason to stay out of stores, and I did venture forth once again.

 

So why do I still (often!) place Instacart orders? 

 

It’s all Amazon’s fault. I have become so accustomed to speedy orders and even speedier deliveries, that skipping the drive to the supermarket in favor of online shopping is my natural inclination. I don’t even mind added the delivery charges and tipping (and I am a very generous tipper). I rationalize: I’d be spending $$ on gas, right? And this way I can peruse the offerings of several different stores, and choose the best bargains. This is why I get my yogurt from Acme, where it is a solid 60 cents cheaper than elsewhere, and my special cheese (Robiola Bosina) from Wegman’s, and my ground lamb from Giant, all without scurrying around town. 

 

I remember the Cunningham Grocery Odysseys in years gone by. Mom didn’t drive, and Dad was on the road all week, so Saturday was Food Shopping Day. Joanie, like her daughter, loved a good deal, and thought nothing of having Dad drive her from Ogletree’s to Big Apple, just to save a dime on a carton of eggs. I recall a good amount of spoiled meat, especially chicken (did they have sell-by dates on the packaging back then? Maybe not!) arriving home, only to be returned to the offending store for a refund (yet another schlep for my father). 

 

2023 Elise gets crazy-impatient even typing their routine. 

 

I wish I could tell you how much productivity I pack into the hours I am NOT in the store, how many novels written and essays submitted. But honestly? I am getting the exact same amount of work accomplished as if I were also going to the mall on the regular. 

 

It could be worse. I could be ordering from restaurants, and spending kaboodles more than I do. Patrick drives for Door Dash now and then, and can attest to the vast numbers of people expecting their burritos and cheesesteaks to magically appear on their doorsteps.

 

How lazy can you get? At least I COOK my hand-delivered food!

  

Humans of Anywhere

   

Grand Central Station NYC (photo by Guillaume Lorain on Unsplash)

As a child living in Manhattan, I observed my grownups, and learned the drill for safely moving through the big city. Keep eyes straight ahead, walk quickly and confidently. Do not engage in small talk with strangers, on the street or in an elevator. Never look at a stranger’s face, lest you lock eyes with a serial killer. 

 

Even after moving out to the suburbs, my sisters and I remained wary. In case we wavered, Mom would trot out her horror story: in her teens, she’d been offered a ride by a man she thought was the tennis pro at the country club. Once Joanie got in the car, she realized it was not, in fact, anyone she knew. The unknown man said to her, “You don’t know me, do you? I’m going to stop the car now. Get out and run.” Which she did. 

 

Mom’s tale made quite an impression on us as little girls. One rainy day, our neighbor pulled up beside us as we walked home from school, asking if we wanted a ride. We vehemently shook our heads and sprinted away. Even though it was obvious that it was a kindly woman we’d known for years, we weren’t about to risk it! Far safer to slog home in a downpour!

 

My paranoia has diminished somewhat, but I can never shake the vague fear surrounding any encounter with a stranger. So, I was fascinated to discover Brandon Stanton and the Humans of New York project. How can a young man be brave enough to ask to photograph random people on the streets of the big city? Now mind you, Brandon being a male clearly makes a difference in this calculation, but still—it must’ve taken guts to approach, camera in hand. His immediate goal was to take pictures of 10,000 people.

 

Over time, he realized that his subjects each had stories to tell—amazing, funny, tragic, beautiful stories. And so, he began writing the stories down, and sharing them, along with the photos, on his website. Many of the stories were troubling—people in dire situations, battling severe health challenges, living on the street. Then came the pandemic, and bad situations got much, much worse. Brandon wanted to do more than just snap a picture, so he set up Go Fund Me campaigns that have raised millions of dollars and helped people--from the immigrant parents of a seriously ill child, to a man blinded in a subway attack—get back on their feet. 

Brandon’s current goal is to help his once strangers/now friends get enough funds to achieve “escape velocity.” This is a term in astronomy, but Brandon defines it in these cases as “liberation from the gravity of their own circumstances.” It is a wonderful cause.

How about me? Can I overcome my reluctance to engage? Do I dare to make eye contact--and heart contact--with a stranger? I don’t know.

But nowadays, when we are dangerously de-humanizing one another, maybe I’d better try.

                     Humans of New York