Bubba’s Legacy

Her smell always comforted me. It reminded me of warm, soft, freshly cleaned blankets. When I was seven and eight years old I would get into bed with her if I had had a difficult day or felt sad. She never asked me why, but she always had open arms. Only five feet tall, with long gray hair, she was my comforter and protector through most of my childhood. It seems fitting to write about her as we near Mother’s Day.

She wore her hair combed back and wound into a bun, held secure with long gray hairpins. Sometimes she let me make two braids that I pinned to the top of her head. She never seemed to mind when I fixed her hair that way, but always took out the braids and returned her hair to its usual style before leaving her bedroom.

Bubba, the word for grandmother in Yiddish, was my maternal grandmother, and lived with my family from the time she came to the US from Poland in the 1920s, when she was in her early 50s, until she entered a nursing home in her final year of life, about thirty years later. She was born in Krasneshiltz, Poland, a two-day buggy ride from Warsaw. As a child, hearing her stories, I often wondered if almost every place in Poland was a two-day buggy-ride from Warsaw.

Bubba had nine children and was widowed at thirty-nine when her husband died suddenly. She came to New York to live with my mother and our family after all her children had left home. My mother asked her to come to take care of her newborn, my older sister.

I was the youngest of three children and we lived above my father’s dry goods store in Williamsburg Brooklyn. Bubba never learned to speak English, so Yiddish was the language at home, but she did have an American-sounding given name: Dora (Devorah in Hebrew).

She helped my mother with childcare and housekeeping activities, as my parents often worked in the store together. I remember her cabbage soup and stuffed cabbage, but I never recorded those recipes. I do still make her noodle pudding, and before I entered the recipe into my computer, I kept it in my calendar book under “assets.”

Bubba enjoyed watching television in the evening and believed that because she could see the people on TV, they saw us too. She became very upset if I started to undress to change into my pajamas while watching evening TV. “Vus tist dee?” she would ask. What are you doing? “Gay arois.” Go out. She didn’t want the man on the TV to see me.

My mother bought a black upright piano when I was about four or five. Piano lessons were first given to my older sister and brother, and when they both refused to continue these lessons, it was up to me. I didn’t feel I had a choice, and in addition to the weekly lessons, I was expected to practice one hour daily. I never enjoyed practicing; I wanted to do my homework or play. If my mother thought I had not practiced for a full hour she would yell at me: “Practice.” Bubba would say, “Luhz er tsri.” Leave her alone. Then she told my mother that I had finished one full hour of practice before she came home. This appeased my mother, and I loved Bubba for her protection and the secret we shared.

For most of the time she lived with us, until walking became too difficult, Bubba went to the Orthodox Synagogue every Saturday. When she could no longer go she would sit in her rocking chair reading her prayer books, at peace in the world. She was always peaceful.

In the last two years of her life she had dementia. Although she had been our primary cook, she now began burning food on the stove. I was surprised when I saw her open the refrigerator to drink from a ketchup bottle. As her condition deteriorated, she would go out on the street and forget her way home. The police department would call and my mother went to the station to bring her home.

No longer at peace, often distressed, some evenings she would put her head out of our apartment window calling for my brother, concerned that he was out with a “shiksa,” a non-Jewish girl.

Bubba’s behavior became very difficult for my mother to manage at home, especially after my father died. About a year after his death, my mother moved Bubba to a nursing home. Although I visited Bubba in the nursing home, I only have a vague recollection of those visits. I remember that it was crowded and smelled bad. She died within a year of that move. I was fourteen.

I never told her how much she meant to me. I like to think that she knew. When my daughter was born, almost forty years ago, and more than twenty years after Bubba died, I named her Dara. Dora and Dara both have the same Hebrew name, Devorah. Dara is as loving and protective as her great-grandmother, my Bubba, Dora. Their similarities are striking and I see them every day. Dara with her family, friends, and her international work, especially in the Peace Corps. But I also realize that growing up around the turn of the 21st century, Dara has had many advantages Dora could never have had. Still, the thread of connection is there, and although they never met, Dara has inherited the legacy of Bubba’s love, through me.

It’s not too late to say it. Thank you, Bubba. I love you. Happy Mother’s Day.

ARGH

I am using a new word, ARGH. I have only been using it since March 2020, after concerns about Covid-19 took over our lives. I hate cursing, and this word helps me express myself about something that makes me angry or frustrated, but I can’t do anything about. I find that it is best to say the word out loud, with the volume and inflection depending on the level of anger or frustration. It generally ranges from argh to AARGH!! Here are some examples of its use:

I had problems with both of my desktop computers and made an appointment with the Best Buy Geek Squad to come to my home to fix them, but they had to cancel because of the virus. And I can’t reach them by telephone. So I have one computer that has WORD on which I can write documents, but it has no email, and a second computer that has email but no WORD, and no way to connect the two… argh.

I miss my cleaning lady. I can do laundry, but I have forgotten how to clean my apartment, and never liked doing it anyway. Thankfully, we are not having visitors these days. My cleaning woman has accumulated a large assortment of rags, cleaning solutions, mops, etc., and I can’t figure out exactly what to use for each cleaning need… argh.

I often yearned for time to spend at home so I could clean out my closets and straighten out my files, items on the to-do list that I created when I retired a year ago. I pulled out the list when Covid-19 forced me to stay home, but the list remains intact- nothing is crossed off. I can’t seem to muster the motivation… argh.

My looks are changing. Without my hair salon appointments, my gray is showing and my hair is getting too long. With no gym available, and increased eating, I have gained back most of the weight I lost before my daughter’s wedding last June. This gives a new meaning to “Stop the Spread”… Argh.

Some commentators on the pandemic imply that older people are expendable; if many die, that’s OK, that could help spare the younger population. Whoa – of course I want maximum efforts made so that my children and grandchildren (and everyone else possible) survives and thrives after this pandemic, but I am not ready to sacrifice myself, I have things to do, and I resent this as a suggestion for dealing with the virus… Argh.

I had finally arranged to have cataract surgery and a dental implant, and the dates for these procedures had all been scheduled for this Spring. Along came the virus, and all dates for these surgeries have been canceled. My vision seems to have hastened its decline and I can only chew on one side of my mouth. The former is especially important now that I am reading and watching TV more, and the latter is important now that I am eating more… Argh.

I like to limit contact with others when I go food shopping. My neighborhood supermarkets have created special hours for those of us in the high risk category (my age puts me there), but it’s 7-8AM. Do they think older people like getting up so early? Why not make it Noon-1PM?… ARGh.

I have been watching more movies, and recently saw Contagion. I also finally had time to see the AIDS-related documentary “How to Survive a Plague”. I think I was looking for useful suggestions from these movies. Not only were they not helpful, but they increased my overall fears and feelings of helplessness… ARGH.

I know these concerns are all trivial in the presence of this horrendous crisis. I have been fortunate to only have inconveniences during this plague and my family has been safe. I will welcome back worrying about the trivial after this time has passed, and I am confident that it will pass. But until then, there are no words for the loss of life and the suffering created by the Covid-19 virus… AARRGGHH!!

Blame Less

In this time of the COVID-19 pandemic, I turn to our country’s leaders for comfort, hope, and inspiration. As I listened to the President during recent press conferences I felt a discomfort that developed into sadness and then anger. In almost every press conference he identifies someone to blame or to criticize, He has become our Blamer-In-Chief, a role that is harmful to us and what we need.

-He blamed the Democrats and the media for creating a hoax about the virus.

-He blamed the Chinese government for not letting the world know about the virus sooner.

-Next came the governors, for not being sufficiently grateful for what he and his administration were doing for them.

-He blames prior administrations for not preparing adequately for this pandemic.

-Reporters are often targets of his blaming, particularly when he doesn’t like the questions they ask or the media outlets they represent.

-More recently he blames the hospital staff, implying that they are over-stocking or reselling protective equipment.

The virus is to blame and is the only enemy. We must share resources and learn from each other, and this requires cooperation from many sources, including foreign governments, media, governors, and health care workers- all the people our President has found blameworthy. Blame serves to divide us, leads to distrust among those who should be allies, and appeals to the worst in us.

Like most people, I have done my share of blaming others. Some were personal, like my parents for their perceived failings; and some professional, like work colleagues for lack of cooperation. While blaming provided short-term relief of pain, it was unproductive. It took time away from working on the issue that was causing the pain. In some cases, I realized this soon enough to ask for forgiveness or turn my focus to the needed tasks. Please Mr. President… blame less, and work to unite us and not divide us during this painful time… and afterwards.

Analysis of what happened so that we can do better in the future will be needed, and that can come later. But this is no time for blaming… or else we will be left with fewer to blame as this pandemic rages on… just ourselves.

A Gift Exchange

I recently had the opportunity to interview a Holocaust survivor, and anticipated that I would learn something about aging from her.

Tall and thin, with salt and pepper-colored short hair and a ready smile, at 82 Vivienne looks younger than her age. Although she uses a cane to steady her walking, she moves without hesitation and with an erect posture. She is a resident of my apartment complex who I knew casually. When I heard that she was a Holocaust survivorwho made presentations at the Jewish Heritage Museum about her experiences, I wanted to talk with her. My parents left Europe in the early 20th century to escape poverty and anti-Semitism, and I wished I had asked them more about their lives in Europe. Here was a chance to learn more.

I had some doubt as to whether my blog, humorand aging.com, would be a suitable location for an interview with a Holocaust survivor, but I was still eager to talk with her. To be truthful, it’s almost a year since I retired from my work as a research scientist, and while I have found some things I enjoy (like writing my blog), I am still in search for other new sources of meaning and satisfaction. Meeting with Vivienne seemed like a good step.

When I contacted her she invited me to her next presentation at the museum. Her audience was about 70 high school students, and Vivienne described her early years in France (1937-46), most spent in southern France in Le Puy, then occupied by Nazi Germany. I learned that she and her parents moved several times to avoid being identified by the Nazis as Jews, and they were baptized as Catholics. Vivienne didn’t learn she was Jewish until they came to the US. Most of her talk was about her living arrangements, the kinds of games she played, and the people who helped her family escape detection.

Vivienne seemed to enjoy giving her presentation and answering questions, and I wanted to know more about what her life was like now, as an older person. I believed and hoped that she had some senior wisdom that would be helpful to me. She readily agreed to meet and I anticipated It as though I would be getting a gift.

I learned that she takes great pleasure in making presentations at the Museum, because they draw on her past, a time she remembers in detail. She includes a message she feels is important for young people: to be on guard, this can happen again. She encourages the students to speak up should they encounter Holocaust deniers or hear anti-Semitic remarks. ” I’m doing something that is enormously important… and it’s fulfilling for me to tell my story.”

I hesitated to ask about her childhood, not wanting to bring up painful memories, and wondered aloud if it was difficult for her to talk about that period of her life, during the Holocaust. I was surprised when Vivienne said she had a happy childhood. Sheltered by her parents, not knowing she was Jewish, her memories were primarily happy- of playing in her house and going for walks with her mother. As an only child who wasn’t permitted to have friends (to avoid the possibility of being identified as Jewish migrants), she enjoyed her imaginary ones. Her parents told her that her job was to be a good girl, and not ask too many questions. She accepted that role and totally trusted them. “I led a relatively happy childhood… my parents protected me.”

When I asked about her happiest times during adulthood there was an extended pause and she noted that she had a difficult marriage and was divorced. “I had a hard time being happy… I like being single and making my own decisions.” She had three sons, enjoyed them when they were very young, and although there have been some challenges, she now has rewarding relationships with them.

It was clear that Vivienne had come through many difficult experiences, and I wanted to know her advice for older people (including me). She said that doing meaningful volunteer work, that draws on one’s past, was something that could be especially rewarding. This seemed an important message for me – I don’t have to look for totally new interests or activities – drawing on my past could provide sources for meaningful activities in retirement. I began thinking of volunteer work related to my career as a research scientist and to improving my language skills in Spanish and Yiddish.

As we ended our conversation I asked if there was anything she wanted to add. A wonderful look of animation and contentment came into her eyes as she spoke about the joy of having pets. Vivienne has three cats and had a difficult-to-control smile as she spoke about one of her cats. He comes to her and pushes his face against her cheek. I could almost see and feel her pleasure as she described it. She said that sometimes he presses against her face while she is asleep, and she wakens to go check his bowl thinking he may need food, but he already has food. “He wants me“ she smiled, “having pets gives you a sense of warmth, responsibility and love… pets will tell you how they love you, if you know how to listen… It’s an amazing thing.” She asked if I had pets and I told her that I had several dogs, and the last one died before I moved back to New York City over ten years ago. I had decided not to get another pet, I no longer wanted responsibility for dog-walking. But our conversation reminded me of the great joy my husband and I had with Scooby- our last friendly, loving dog.

At the end of our interview I asked Vivienne to tell me when she felt the happiest in her lifetime. After some hesitation her eyes brightened with a surprised look and she said she is happiest now. She attributed this to doing meaningful volunteer work, having a social network in the community, her relationships with her sons, and the love she shares with her pets. “This is it… a lot of things that matter to me are in place right now… I am hoping this period lasts a while.”

I saw Vivienne a week later and she thanked me profusely for doing the interview. She said she continued to think about her life after we spoke, and feels like she should pay me for what she learned. She now realizes that she has found happiness, and it is now.

And for me, in addition to getting pleasure out of the joy she was experiencing, I realize that some of life’s greatest pleasures and sources of happiness can come later in life. I too, like Vivienne, can put together the pieces that matter to me, and some may be based on my past. I don’t think there will be a pet in my future, but I might even consider that. But best of all, like Vivienne I have the possibility for the happiest time being now.

It was a good exchange of gifts for us both.

P.S. I wrote this piece prior to the COVID-19 pandemic, that continues to spread. I wondered whether an essay about creating one’s happiness was appropriate in this time of constrictions in life, and concluded that perhaps it is even more relevant now.

Transitions

It’s been over a month since my last posting, and I think some explanation is needed. Several things contributed to this hiatus: I traveled to Moldova to visit my daughter who was working there, and went to family weddings in Florida and California. (All this travel occurred before COVID-19 changed our lives, hopefully temporarily.)

But I mainly took a break from my blog because health issues of friends and family interfered with my writing about humor and aging. A close family member and husbands of two good friends all have Alzheimer’s disease – and are on the advanced side of the disease spectrum. Seeing their deterioration, and the impact on their families, saddens me… and frightens me. But while I can empathize with others’ tsuris (a Yiddish word for troubles that conveys the pain better than any English word), and these concerns are likely to worsen as we all age, I will not let them overtake me. I am committed to providing support for people I care about who are in difficult circumstances, be it by listening to them, or when possible, providing concrete assistance for life’s tasks. But I need to affirm my own life and vitality. Retirement has been a period of beginning to explore my interests, unfettered by the constrictions of a challenging career… and I will nurture these new beginnings and the transition. So I am back from this brief break.

I also decided that my blog postings do not always need to have humor, although aging will remain a theme. In the coming months you will see a broader mixture of postings. There will be pieces about aging and retirement, some based on interviews I am doing with older people. No doubt some will also contain humor. This expansion will reflect my own explorations, will enrich the blog, and hopefully will be of interest to you. Also, if you have suggestions about the kinds of things you would like to see in my blog, related to aging, please let me know.

Thanks for still being there.

Losses I Can live With

I started noticing it first with restaurants. Places I liked were disappearing. Several dates with friends at restaurants ended in disappointment when we found that the restaurant had changed ownership, cuisine, or wasn’t even a restaurant any more. My husband and I planned to have dinner at a restaurant in the West Village called “El Faro,” that we have frequented since before the beginning of our 40+ year marriage. Not only was the restaurant no longer there… but the building it was in had been razed and a high-rise building was taking its place. What a shock! But when I saw a notice that my neighborhood “Ess-A-Bagel” shop was to close, this truly seemed like a serious loss—its food was the basis of many of our family get-togethers. I soon learned, with relief, that they planned to open a new store nearby. Although bagel stores are even more prevalent than drug stores in some parts of Manhattan, “Ess-A-Bagel” was, in my family’s views, the best. Whew, this loss was temporary, but it got me thinking about other losses I am experiencing as I get older.

Some losses relate to shopping for clothes. Full disclosure: I hate to shop for clothes for myself. So when I find a way to ease the difficulty, I become a loyal shopper. I was delighted when I found nearby stores (Coldwater Creek and Chico’s) where I could usually find something I liked.  One of the features I loved about Chico’s was that their sizing of clothes was rather unique—a size 1 was the usual size 8-10, a size 2 was 12-14, etc. I loved having to buy size 2.

But within a short time both stores in Manhattan closed. Soon after, I learned that Macy’s no longer carried a line of clothes I liked, Jones New York, and the salesperson informed me that the company was filing for bankruptcy. What was I to do? Although I know that my meager and infrequent shopping forays could not have caused the demise of these clothing lines, I felt some self-blame for their loss as well as frustration that they were disappearing. And as my readers know, I don’t like online shopping (I need to try something on before buying it). I am still searching for store replacements— but unless I travel out of town to another Chico’s, I will never be size 2 again.

Changes in makeup products also involves losses for me. There was a shade of Revlon makeup base that I used for many years, until it was discontinued, and new  shades were marketed—all labelled as being “anti-aging”. This occurred several times in the last few years, and each time I needed to find a new shade that best matched my skin color. The newer one was never quite as good as its predecessor. I suppose that producing these new products is good for marketing and for fashion trends, but I find it exasperating when I need to replace a product I have been totally satisfied with. 

And losses will continue. I just heard that my neighborhood supermarket and movie will be closing. Argh, just when I get comfortable, the ground moves again.

So how do I cope? In terms of restaurants, there are still many to choose from and I enjoy trying new ones. As for my frustrations when clothing shops close, I know I have other choices. The changes in makeup products are likely to continue, and I have learned to expect them and adapt—still hoping for those anti-aging effects. These are all losses I can live with. While I feel annoyed, sometimes angry, these are minor inconveniences for life’s minor activities. As I get older I know that many things I relied on are changing or will no longer be there for me in the same way. These trivial losses will be forgotten. It’s the loss of friends and family that I have started to encounter that will be the greatest challenge—no substitutes for these, no ready coping skills. I will need to learn to mourn and hold close the memories of those losses, so I can live with them too.

Microaggressions for Seniors

How can I help you, young lady? The salesman asked me. As you know, dear reader, I am lots of things—retired, sometimes funny, a list-maker, etc.,—but I am not a young lady. I certainly don’t want to be addressed as an “old lady,” but perhaps “madam” or just How can I help you? would do.

The term “microaggression” refers to a brief, common, often unintended negative or derogatory slight, either verbal or behavioral. The user may actually be well-meaning, but unaware of the negative impact of their statement or behavior. The term was developed by Chester M. Pierce and has been elaborated by Derald Wing Sue. It is generally used in application to marginalized groups, such as minorities or the disabled, but I have become aware of several types of microaggressions I have experienced that apply to older people.  

Making older age, per se, a commendable characteristic

I was in a restaurant with my husband and as we got up to leave a patron said to us You are such a cute couple.  I think we are a nice couple, usually well-dressed, often friendly to others, but I don’t think of us as “cute.” This appears to be in the same category as the “young lady” comment I mentioned earlier.

Infantilization

The waitress came over to my table to take my lunch order and asked; What are we having for lunch today? I’m not sure what she is having for lunch, and I don’t intend to share my lunch with anyone.

Using terms to address me that connote age differences

How are you Mama? or Do you want this seat Mama? I have experienced this in stores and on public transportation. I have also heard the male version, with “Pops” and “Sir” used. I may be old enough to be your mother, and I appreciate that you may be using it as a sign of respect, but I am not your Mama.

Speaking in a louder voice or speaking more slowly

I have heard a salesperson address an older monolingual Spanish speaker in a louder or slower voice, rather than simply looking for someone who may be able to translate. Don’t assume that an older person can’t hear you – it may be that they simply don’t speak your language.

Ignoring the older person when someone else is present

I experienced this when I took my elderly mother to a doctor’s visit. The doctor spoke to me about her test results as though my mother wasn’t even present. I’m not sure if the doctor felt she couldn’t understand, couldn’t hear, or wasn’t responsible for her own care, but none of these were true. Doing this just made her feel ignored.

So what’s to be done?

Identifying microaggressions is an important first step in addressing them and reducing their impact. Dear reader, if you have any other examples, please share them with us.

I think that sensitivity to this should be incorporated in the training of professions with substantial public contact, like healthcare workers. In terms of what we can do as individuals—I find that if I feel offended, at the minimum, I tell myself that the remark was insensitive even if well-intended. If ongoing contact is anticipated, or if it helps me feel better, then I will say something.  In the case of my mother’s doctor, I asked him to address her with his comments, and he quickly turned to speak to her directly.

Finally, please don’t deal with microaggressions by using any macroaggressions—they could get you in trouble!

Better Late Than Never— Sometimes

I was up-to-date in my profession, always incorporating new ideas in my research and writing. But lately I have realized that I am slow in incorporating some new products or inventions into my life.

There is a theory that categorizes people in terms of how quickly they accept or embrace new technology or new ideas. It is called the Diffusion of Innovation Theory, and it identifies people as early adopters (called innovators) or late adopters (called laggards), with most people falling in-between those categories.

For some things I am a late adopter, and I am ok with that for several reasons:

Familiar methods can work well

Bill-paying: I pay most of my bills the old-fashioned way, by writing checks and mailing them, using envelopes and stamps. It gives me some control over when the funds might be withdrawn from my account (as opposed to automatic withdrawals). It also works well for my husband and I when we reconcile our account balances. Hopefully, it will also help to keep post offices open.

Stemless wine glasses: I have always enjoyed cradling the stem of a wine glass as I drink my wine. Why did they take the stem away? Some believe it is to make wine-drinking more casual—but I don’t want it to be casual. I am fine keeping wine-drinking as a special activity, denoted by using a stemmed wine glass. When I want it to be casual, I will use a water glass or juice glass, perhaps with a straw.

Newspapers: I get the NY Times delivered every day. I know that my iphone can provide more current news headlines, but I enjoy reading the paper with my breakfast, reviewing in-depth materials on topics of interest, and doing the crossword puzzle. On a bus or train I am often the only one reading a newspaper, but still take pride in my newspaper folding/refolding skills that enable me to keep the paper neat as I go through the sections. And I am not interrupted with phone messages while I read.

Waiting to see if the innovation isn’t just a fad

Nude cut-out cold shoulders: These are blouses, sweaters, or tops of dresses, that are cut-out in the shoulders. I liked them when they first came out, especially for summer wear, and purchased several tops in this style. They seem to have gone out of fashion, and now hang in my closet, next to other items no longer in style. I will be more of a laggard in purchasing new styles.

Innovations so widely adopted that there’s a loss of individuality

The North Face black short winter jacket: I loved my black jacket and its logo. But when I saw so many other jackets with “The North Face” – clad people on the street, and had trouble finding my jacket at the end of parties—where so many similar ones were in the coat rack—I began wearing it less often. I understood the term “uniform” in a new way.

Time-saving innovations that may not be good for me

On-line shopping: I must admit, I don’t like it. Clothes are often sized differently, and I need to see how something looks on me before buying it. This will save me time in doing returns. In terms of food purchases, I like to touch, and sometimes squeeze (mainly fruits) the food I buy. Also, if I got everything on line and delivered, I may never need to go out of my home—not good in terms of exercise needs. So, I will continue to wait in line, rather than go on line, when I do my shopping.

My Conclusions

These innovations have been taken up by many, if not most, of the U.S. population and of the people I know.  I am sure I will be an early adopter of some innovations, but continue to be a laggard in others. I will try to make these decisions based on my own needs and desires, rather than what is fashionable or expected. But since the term “laggard” has negative connotation I will find a substitute, maybe “thoughtful chooser.”

Act Your Age!

As a child, I remember parents and others telling me to “act my age” — usually when they thought my behavior seemed immature — sometimes when they felt I was reaching too far beyond what was appropriate for my age. But what does it mean to “act my age” now as an older person who has retired from my career? Should I reflect on my accomplishments, provide wisdom to youth, and otherwise rest, as some believe? A recent event forced me to think about that.

This past Thanksgiving my husband and I took two of our grandchildren out for brunch the day after the big feast. It gave us an opportunity to talk with them and to hear how they are doing without lots of friends and family around.

We had a great time talking together. They are bright, talented young adults, both in college, and we were eager to hear about their classes, their college social life, and their plans for the future. They shared their thoughts and ideas with us, and we were supportive, complimentary, and asked many questions.

They asked about us as well and we mainly provided updates about minor health issues and future travel plans. I think we focused on these because we believed these were the topics they anticipated we would talk about.

 But as I listened to them I felt a stirring in my mind and emotions, a feeling that at this point in my life I was not that different from them. I too have aspirations and enthusiasms for my future. These plans don’t involve developing a life-long career plan nor finding a partner, thankfully, but they seem exciting to me, and I no longer feel the pressure of having to make the “right” decisions. I am taking Spanish classes to improve my conversational Spanish, and hope to get good enough to do volunteer work with Hispanic immigrants. I also started this blog, that helps me express and find humor in this stage of life, and I enjoy sharing my thoughts with others. There are also places I want to explore and books I want to read that I never had time for before. And I look forward to making plans for new activities and explorations.

Some psychosocial theorists call my stage of life late adulthood, usually considered to start at age 65. As I have indicated before, dear reader, I am fortunate in being healthy and financially stable, I have no caretaker responsibilities, and thus I can choose how I wish to spend my time.

As I started to think about the time ahead, I looked into what has been written about this stage of life to see how it applies to me, and perhaps find some guidance. One of the early theoreticians who wrote about late adulthood was Erik Erikson, who described late adulthood as the final stage of life, from age 65 to death. He described this as a period of looking back on one’s accomplishments and either feeling satisfied or disappointed, or as he called it, developing a sense of integrity or despair. I do some of that looking back, but I find I am more interested in looking forward, to what I hope to do in the future. Some may say I have not yet learned to “act my age” — but that’s fine with me. I believe that as it is my age, I want to fully own what I do with it. I am also pleased to see that more recent views of late adulthood make important distinctions in aging between 65 and later years, and some focus on the importance of undertaking new activities; that all sounds more in line with my own plans.

But are my feelings narcissistic and self-indulgent? Isn’t it too late to start following some of these interests? Has my time for exploration and excitement about life’s possibilities come and gone? Sitting with my grandchildren that day I almost felt embarrassed at my thoughts about new explorations, like it was something I shouldn’t be doing at my age, like wearing mini-skirts or using too much eye makeup.

But why not?

After we parted that day and I started heading back home I realized that just asking this question made me feel free to experience the pleasure I was getting out of these new pursuits, and to begin planning more. It also made me realize that even folks in late adulthood could choose to wear mini-skirts and lots of eye make-up. Why not indeed!

Silver Alert

There they were, at least seven people in wheelchairs who appeared to be in their 60s-80s, queued up and waiting for the boarding call at LaGuardia airport for the flight to Fort Lauderdale. My husband and I were waiting for this flight too; we travel to Florida two-three times yearly to visit family. As I smiled at this line-up, I suddenly realized that the people in this line could represent a harbinger of my future.

Recently retired from my full-time job as a research scientist- as my readers will remember by now- I eagerly make lists of things I plan to do with more free time. But I wondered if many of these people in wheelchairs had plans for when they retired; it was likely their plans didn’t involve needing a wheelchair.

That will never be me, I said to myself. I have been fortunate in always having good health and activities that engage me, and I somehow expect that this will continue indefinitely. But can I be sure?

After we picked up our rental car and were driving on the interstate highway to our condo in Pompano Beach, I noticed the large sign hanging across the highway that declared a “Silver Alert” – listing the model of a car and its license plate number. I was familiar with the “Amber Alert” signs in New York, asking drivers to be on the watch for a car that may have a kidnapped child, but I had never seen a “Silver Alert.” I imagined that it was for the elderly and sure enough, after googling it on my iphone, I learned that it was to alert drivers to a missing senior who may be driving and had some form of dementia. It worked, I began searching for the license plate number.

That will never be me, I said to myself again. I had recently stopped driving, having little use for it in New York City, and rely on my husband to drive when we go to Florida. But the sign did get my attention and reminded me that there may be a time when he may need to give up driving too. I have already noticed that he doesn’t see as well at night as he used to. On another recent trip in Florida as we drove home after a late dinner, he needed to make a turn in an unfamiliar road and we found ourselves up on the curb in the grass. Although poor lighting may have contributed to this, we both knew that his night vision was likely on the decline.

What’s to be done about these “Silver alerts,” these reminders that changes may be in store as I age? As you know, I follow recommendations for health maintenance, including regular exercise, and hope to continue to be mobile without wheelchair assistance. For night traveling in Florida, or on trips elsewhere, we can use Uber-type services. We can also go out for dinner earlier- those Florida Early Bird specials can be tasty and quite economical. So I conclude that while I have seen some harbingers of the future- they do not have activation dates and may never happen to me. And perhaps I will make fewer trips to Florida, where the harbingers of aging are rife.