BIOLOGICAL CROCK, TWO

It's funny how your prospective changes as you sail through life. For example, I passed a photo studio the other day and they had a big sign proclaiming--SENIOR PICTURES. I thought--what would a senior want a studio portrait for?? His obit?? Then it dawned on me--it's graduation time!!!! Duh. Well it IS still senior citizen month.

BIOLOGICAL CROCK, TWO

My mother used to say, “Getting old isn’t for sissies.” I finally know what she meant. There are a multitude of problems I never even anticipated much less thought about. I never worried about my weight until I hit middle age. I guess I became less active. I didn’t go out dancing anymore, or any of the other activities that use up calories. Suddenly my clothes started getting tighter, and my skin got baggier--like polyester. I joined a gym and tried to work out as often as I could but it didn’t do much good until I retired. Then I had more time to exercise and the growth spurt reversed itself. It’s hard work though. Even though I learned about the aging of the female body in nursing school it was still a shock when it happened.

And my hair. I’ve been a blond ever since Miss Clairol was born. I have reached an age where blond no longer looks believable. So I asked my guy at The Hair Studio what to do. “You’ll have to give it some thought,” said Peter. “You can go several ways, but my best advice would be to cut it short and let it grow out during the winter when you can wear a hat. When spring comes no one will remember what your hair color was.” This sounds logical to me but then he adds, “Keep in mind that white hair looks thin and your scalp may show.” I wonder why he’s trying to discourage me. Is it to keep a customer or because he feels I will go all through the stages then be dissatisfied, and he wants to save me the aggravation.

I mentioned that I don’t go out dancing any more. In fact I don’t do anything at night if I can avoid it. My night vision is pretty crappy so if it isn’t necessary to drive I don’t. I don’t think I’m the only one. I guess that’s why they don’t have too many evening programs at the senior center. I go to matinees now.

You’d think retired people such as myself wouldn’t get impatient. However, I find myself talking to the other car drivers, the cyclists, mopeders or anyone who gets in my way. This annoys my husband. He finds it disconcerting when I scream, “What the f**k!” He doesn’t understand that what I really want to do is stop and give them what for. Or stick my arm out the window and shove their bike over. Maybe, even though I have nothing to do and all day to do it, I sense time getting short.

I buy fewer checks than I used to. I used to buy 800 at a clip. Now I buy 200. It would be wasteful for my heirs to have to throw them away. I remember that my mother once came home from a trip with extra travelers checks. She hid them so well it was years before she found them. I have taken this lesson to heart and make sure that anything I may ever want to use again is out in plain sight. It makes for a messy house but at least I can lay my hands on most of my possessions. This will be good when the memory starts to go. As long as I can see the stuff I’ll be able to find it.

I don’t shave my armpits any longer. Can’t see if they need it without my reading glasses, and I’m not about to wear them in the shower. There are some things better not seen anyway. I never wear my glasses in bed with my husband either. I don’t want to see those liver spots, warts, and errant hairs growing in weird places. God knew what he was doing when he started doling out forty year old eyes. And lucky is the man whose bald spot is on the back of his head. Out of sight...out of mind so they say. Besides, the only place I seem to be growing hair anymore is on my chin. And I still have pretty healthy eyebrows, though they do seem to roam more than they used to.

Sitting in one place for too long has become a problem. I get so stiff I have trouble standing up. I’ve decided I’ll take the paper to the gym and read it on the treadmill thereby solving two problems. I’ll get my exercise and bone up on current events without turning into stone.

My mother also said getting old was better than the alternative. I guess she was right. So I’m determined to tough it out, kicking and screaming the whole way. As long as I can lift my foot, that is.

IT'S OFFICIAL--AMERICA IS GRAY!

Well everyone--May is senior citizen month so thought I'd gripe about being old and cranky. Don't worry--I'll get my mojo back soon!

IT’S OFFICIAL--AMERICA IS GRAY!

I’ve been hearing for years about the graying of America. I don’t know if the whole country is gray, but I know that I am. My husband and I used to go out dancing. A lot. Until one night we went into a disco, looked around, and got the distinct feeling we were at a high school prom. After that we confined our boogying to weddings where there were enough real adults to make us feel comfortable. (It’s a sad fact of life that by the time you no longer need a baby-sitter--you no longer need a baby-sitter!)

We shifted the focus of our leisure time to activities that our peers preferred. Dinner and a movie or show seemed to keep other people our age happy, but after we retired we had all those extra hours to fill. People always asked, “What do you do with your day?” Of course we had the standard retiree’s reply, “We’re busier than ever! The time just flies by.” The truth is, that guy Peter or Murphy or whoever it was that said ‘an activity expands to fill the time available’ was right on. A couple of loads of laundry that used to be done between dinner and the bed time story now takes up Wednesday. Food shopping is done daily instead of weekly and that novel I always wanted to write is coming along. The house isn’t any cleaner than when I worked (maybe less because I can’t justify a cleaning lady), but I have lots of time to cook those gourmet recipes that I always wanted to try. Can’t do it more than once a week though because of the acid reflux.

We have made friends with lots of other retirees and enjoy socializing with them. Always big on cocktail parties, we throw them fairly regularly, with a few modifications. No longer do our guests arrive at nine with the last departing sometimes as late as three am. Now the invite reads five pm and even the youngest and heartiest are gone by eight thirty. That’s ok with us because it means we have a half hour to unwind before bedtime.

These days instead of waiting until I look like a skunk I have a standing appointment at the beauty salon for a touch up and trim, a biweekly manicure and monthly pedicure. Dinner and a movie has turned into lunch and a matinee, comedies only please. Now that I have time to read the paper I find myself avoiding it because it depresses me. Cheery news doesn’t sell. Fortunately I don’t recognize most of the names in the obituary, yet. Stress never goes away. The things that used to cause stress have disappeared into the past. Now the worries are about things we never even thought about before. Health, investments, grandchildren.

We own a cabin on a lake in Northeastern Pennsylvania. We used to call it a weekend house, but it’s too far away to go for the weekend now. We go there three times a year for a couple of weeks but I can’t really call it a vacation home. If you’re retired what do you go on vacation from? Maybe I should call it our change of scenery home. January we go for a month so we can ski. The last two years it’s been just too cold to go out much. My husband gets cabin fever so he suggested a night out at one of the local resorts. I responded negatively because the local resorts are mostly for honeymooners and dinner isn’t until eight and the show doesn’t start until ten and the dancing, well there’s that prom thing again.

He assured me he had found a resort I would like. Their guests are multigenerational, dinner is at six and the show starts at eight. He promised we’d be home by ten fifteen. How could I refuse?

They weren’t kidding when they said dinner at six. We arrived at ten after and were the last party seated. My husband, who knows my concern about feeling out of place, patted my hand and grinned. I looked around and decided I loved the place. There were gray and balding heads as far as the eye could see. It looked like a reunion of the class of 1950. These people were old but not elderly. They were lively and vibrant. Not a wheelchair or cane in sight. The dancing was great. The music was familiar. It was like a wedding but better--something we thought we had lost was found. This resort obviously caters to people of a ‘certain age’. The most astonishing thing I saw was a plastic syringe disposal system in the ladies room. Even illness didn’t stop anyone from having fun and this resort covers any and all amenities.

When my children ask me how they will be able to afford the same comfortable retirement, I tell them to put their money into Clairol, Ben Gay and Viagra. Now-a-days life begins at sixty.

WANT FRIES WITH THAT?

This time of the year the Island starts to bloom. Like the unfurling of a rosebud, restaurants and businesses reopen and the neighborhoods are under attack by an army of landscapers. A version of this essay was previously printed in Martha's Vineyard Magazine.

YOU WANT FRIES WITH THAT?

I should’a known better. I’ve lived on the Island for enough time. But after a long winter with less than twenty restaurants in three towns to choose from I made a monumental mistake. Several springs ago a girlfriend was visiting from South Yarmouth. Now, people from Cape Cod, unless they work here or visit frequently are just as susceptible to those glossy tourist guides as folks from--oh, say--Boise, Idaho. Letting Karen choose a restaurant for lunch was a big mistake.

Even in August when most have a compliment of experienced wait staff, I avoid the places listed in guide books. Unfortunately my friend had her heart set on one of the most famous of them all. A restaurant that opened many years ago as a place for locals and working men to go to get a cup of coffee (regular, no latte or mochachino in those days) and hearty breakfast or lunch. Believe it or not it opened its doors for the first time in January! A time of year that, in this day and age, would guarantee failure. The preceding winter, for the first (and only) time, this venerable institution had closed. Understandable, since over the years it had evolved from a local hangout to a number one tourist destination. And since tourists think we close the Island for the winter, there wasn’t enough business to stay open. Like I said, understandable. It is not a light decision I am sure, since the ramifications are mighty. A restaurant that closes in the winter looses its staff. Most people who wait tables for a living cannot afford to take the winter off. Which means the establishments need to hire new each spring.

And, therein, you should pardon the use of a literary cliché, lies my tale.

It was sometime in the spring, April or May. I remember the daffodils. No roses yet. Parking was not impossible. No lines snaking out the restaurant doors. We were shown a table almost immediately by a charming, attentive hostess. It took a while to realize there was anything wrong at all. We looked over the rather eclectic menu and made our choices, chatting all the while. At last caught up and with little left to say we started to look for a waitperson. Finally our order was taken by an apologetic young man who spoke with an accent so thick it transported us to Dublin. Food on the way we indulged in our favorite pastime, people watching. It was then that we started to become alarmed.

The woman at a table across from us looked quite perturbed. Her companion had a plate of cooling food in front of him, untouched, one assumes, out of politeness. They were both looking about frantically, waving their arms, trying to flag down any employee who’s eye they could catch. This did not seem to be unique. As my friend and I paid more attention to what was going on around us we noticed that what we had taken for comfortable conversation between diners sounded more like an angry grumble. The window ledge into the kitchen was lined with lunches and the chef was screaming, “Orders up!”. The wait staff was running around the room with plates of food stopping at every table asking, “Did you order this?”, then sailing off in another direction. Finally a waitress asked the pouting woman across from us if she had ordered what was on the plate in her hand. The customer nodded in the affirmative and was served. Her companion commented that that wasn’t what she ordered and she snapped, “I want to eat today.”

How was our lunch you ask? Well, we got almost everything we ordered after a slightly longer than reasonable wait. And of course, we got someone else’s check. The hostess apologized and explained the long wait by saying it was opening day.

Like I said, I should’a known better.

WHEN

I know you guys look for a laugh here, but since April is poetry month I thought I'd share my prize winning poem. It took second place in the 2004 MA Federation of Women's Clubs poetry contest.

WHEN

I searched without for happiness,

and I found fragments.

I opened my soul to love,

and my heart was slaughtered.

I covered myself with armor,

and searched again.

It was always right there,

beyond my fingertips.

Waiting for when.

I searched without for peace,

and I found turmoil.

I opened my soul to friendship,

and was rewarded with treachery.

I covered myself with honesty,

and searched again.

I knew it was there,

just beyond my grasp.

Waiting for when.

I searched without for comfort,

and I found indifference.

I opened my soul to kindness,

and found cruelty.

I covered myself with compassion,

and searched again.

I searched without for knowledge

and learned,

I should have searched within.

GREENING FROM EAR TO EAR

Thought I'd give you my views on conservation since Earth Day will soon be upon us.

GREENING FROM EAR TO EAR

As conservationists go I consider myself a moderate tree hugger. I’m all for protecting my environment and might even consider one of those hybrid cars if the price of gas keeps going up, but don’t even suggest that I shouldn’t be using those little zippered storage bags that have made my life so easy. I believe in conservation but let’s balance it with convenience. After all, isn’t that why Americans work so hard? So we can afford all that modern life has to offer?

Alternate fuel methods seem to be the way to go if we want to save the planet. The first thing we need to do is arrest everyone who owns a Humvee. Then let’s offer an MIT scholarship to any kid who can come up with a car that runs on junk mail. Better yet how about transforming spam, the e-mail kind not the canned meat, into electricity? I wouldn’t mind getting so much if it ran my computer. My friend Jules read an article in The Boston Globe about fat thieves. People who own bio diesel cars can’t find adequate sources of used cooking oil to run them and are breaking into restaurant storage vats to fill their tanks. It seems to me maybe McDonald's should branch out. Fill your tank while you feed your kids. The ultimate convenience, wouldn’t you say? I understand you can also use bacon fat. That must smell good. Imagine rolling down the highway and being overcome with an intense desire for a Denny’s Grand Slam breakfast.

I think the guy that invented styrofoam, if he isn’t already spending eternity in a casket made of this miracle product, should be forced to rub his front teeth against a cup made out of it for several hours a day. What happened to cardboard cups? Unless they’ve developed a bionic form that I’m not aware of, it’s still biodegradable. Do we really need to keep our coffee hot for four hours? Just drink it for god’s sake. I went out to eat the other night and wanted to bring home the three chicken wings I hadn’t consumed. The waiter brought me a styrofoam box big enough to bury a dead cat. What happened to those paper doggie bags and Chinese take-out containers? Again--biodegradable. They’re called leftovers because I’m not going to eat them for a while. They don’t have to stay warm! They still put pizza in cardboard and it’s supposed to stay hot till you get home.

It would be nice if those geniuses at the Apple computer company that came up with the iPod, iMac and iPhone would spend five minutes on an iWrap. Everything in the grocery store should come in a container that is usable, edible, or biodegradable. Think about all the boxes and bottles in the cleaning aisle. When I was a kid we had maybe three or four cleaning products. Tide, Clorox, Bon Ami and Pinesol. Now there are too many to count. If an alien landed in Edgartown and strolled into the Stop and Shop he would naturally assume that Earthlings spent all their time rolling around in mud. Do we really need a separate product that cleans the inside of a dishwasher? The detergent that cleans the dishes isn’t good enough? Wouldn’t it be nice if the bottle your laundry detergent came in could be used for one last load? Or your Porterhouse steak package melted into a Bernaise sauce? Come on, this is winning science fair stuff. If they can make an expensive fabric out of used plastic soda bottles, making an edible plastic bag should be a snap.

Speaking of science, how come they always seem to look for the most complicated solution to a problem? Take the hole in the ozone layer for example. It’s been studied for years and the best they can come up with is to stop doing what we did to cause it. Now, I’m no scientist, but I did learn how to make ozone in chemistry class. I bet if you offered extra credit, most high school students would be willing to stay after class to produce enough ozone to plug the hole and extra for the government to keep in reserve, right next to their oil.

The more indestructible materials we produce the more disposable our society becomes. Things are made to last but not to keep. Have you tried to find a TV repairman lately? No such duck. Technology has become so cheap it’s more economical to replace than repair. How many times have I heard, “It’ll cost ya’ more to fix it than to buy a new one.” The landfills are full of broken TVs, computers, cell phones, electronics of all kinds. I bet if you shred all that stuff and add a bit of crazy glue you could build a bike path that even Lance Armstrong wouldn’t sneer at.

Some tree huggers stay green to the end. In an effort to embrace the Biblical ashes to ashes, dust to dust philosophy, environmentalists are eschewing what has become the traditional type of burial and returning to an eco friendly method. These new ‘green’ cemeteries are located in pretty, wooded areas. The non chemically enhanced deceased are buried in cotton shrouds or biodegradable coffins, making the plot recyclable. The only requirement is a note from your doctor that you don’t have titanium teeth, hips, knees or knuckles.

FERRY LAND

Just got home from a mini trip. Can't call it a vacation when you're retired. I always get this little surge of happiness when we arrive at the Wood's Hole terminal and get in line. THAT feels like a vacation, even if I am just coming home from a doctor's visit. I think that's why so many people retire to the Island. Retirement should feel like a permanent vacation.

FERRY LAND

The average cradle to grave Vineyarder spends 1296 hours (54 days) of his life riding on the ferry, 864 hours (36 days) waiting in line, and 5184 hours (216 days) on stand-by. I gathered these statistics scientifically (on the stand-by line) chatting with three life long residents.

Before I moved to the Island I spent my ferry time like a tourist. Gawking at the scenery, trying to feed the seagulls or reading Best Guide. It was unheard of to spend the trip in your car. The children were dragged kicking and screaming from their gameboys and naps up to the deck for fresh air and the ‘ferry experience’ with all the other unhappy tourist children. Even after we moved here we thought it was sacrilegious to forgo the deck. Of course that changed the first time we crossed on a pre-dawn winter day. Believe me, our car seemed like the perfect little cocoon, waves rocking us back to sleep for a short time.

I thought living on Martha’s Vineyard would make me feel isolated, it being an island and all. I soon learned that in spite of the difficulty getting ferry tickets, most Vineyarders will leave the Island at the drop of a hat. Never mind that they don’t have a reservation. That’s what stand-by is for.

Since there is so much time spent in Island leaving and returning, Islanders have learned to use this time wisely. Being industrious types they use the ferry as an extension of their office or den. They carry knapsacks, duffle bags, totes or sturdy plastic shopping bags, usually from the Christmas Tree Shop, filled with all manner of busy work. They make a beeline to the tabled areas and set up their laptops. They go over their lists for B.J.’s and Kappy’s. Students study. High school sports teams talk strategy or, on the trip back, celebrate or commiserate. Neighbors visit. Dates are made. And God...what did people do without cell phones?

Children, not used to such temporal pursuits, behave much as they do at home. The little girls spend their time stalking doggies or whining. Little boys horse around, a very accurate visual if you think about it. Of course there is always napping which isn’t limited to the young.

One important function of the ferry is as a rendezvous. Especially during the holidays when people who found it necessary, for whatever reason, to move off Island, come home to visit. I have overheard some heartwarming reunions between former classmates and neighbors during these trips. I have heard some bizarre ones, too.

Last Christmas season, coming home from a shopping trip for Red Stocking, I listened to a couple of girls from the MVRH class of ‘03 catching up.

“Do you ever see Mary?” asked the first.

“Yeah,” said the second.

“Is she still going with John?” asked the first.

“No,” replied the second, “They got married the year after graduation, had a baby and got divorced last year.”

“Jeez!” said the first. “Have I been off Island that long?”

Honest-to-God.

It takes many years for a wash-ashore to learn the ferry knowledge that comes naturally to Islanders. For instance, on a rainy summer day there will not be enough seats inside for everyone. Unless you want to stand for 45 minutes you know what you have to do. And, standby is the Vineyarder’s friend but don’t try to come back without a reservation at the end of a school holiday, three day week-end or especially August 1st, no matter what day of the week it is. Knowing the freight boat schedule can be very helpful. In fact my favorite return trip is being last on the freight boat, the one you have to back onto. You are guaranteed first-off and the view is spectacular. I have discovered that when you are asked if you mind going on the Island Home lift, if you are in a hurry you should always reply no. This, apparently, is offered as a punishment for being early because the cars on the lift are always the final debarkees.

Most Islanders have a favorite ferry and preferred place in line--though first-on rarely guarantees first-off. For those who love water views, front row on the Governor or last on any freight boat you have to back on lets you feel like an ocean front homeowner sitting in the comfort of your living room. Speaking of backing on ferries, I always thought it could be a moneymaker to offer to load cars for Nervous Nellies. I once saw a guy who obviously didn’t trust the boat employee who was trying to load him. He was pretty close to one of those poles on the Martha’s Vineyard. Not thinking he could make it he slammed into reverse and backed up taking the side view mirror off his brand new car. I’ve learned that the best way to protect your car is to look into the eyes of the guy trying to load you as though you are in love and follow his every gesture. You have to trust.

A source of amusement during the summer is eavesdropping on the tourists. Island, as opposed to Urban Legends, can be hysterical. For instance, I heard a woman tell her friend she took the On Time ferry to Nantucket. And that James Taylor is the chef at the Outermost Inn. And that there is really a (fill in the blank) buried in John Belushi’s grave.

No matter when or why I go off Island, my favorite ferry ride is always the one that brings me home.

HERE COMES BIG BROTHER

The newest gadget has arrived. Apple's iPad hit the stores last week. Everybody's raving about it but I just don't understand the hoopla. Nobody ever asks me what I would like the geeks to invent to make my life easier. I have a computer. Don't need anything else. In fact I don't even NEED the computer. What I could use is an iMaid or an iDo Windows. Some day you will be able to download everything in your brain onto your computer. Being able to retrieve my memory will be great when senility sets in. It will just add one more thing to my morning ablutions.

HERE COMES BIG BROTHER!

Technology has stripped us of any privacy we may have had. We stand naked to the world. The computer has outed every one of us. Once you plug in that old PC and connect yourself to the internet you’ve invited the world’s eye into your home. If you go to one web site they have you. The second time you go it will say “Welcome Carolyn, please log in”. If I haven’t logged in yet how the hell do they know it’s me?

I think I was the last person in this country to get an answering machine. No, I take that back, I know of one other person. One. Technology is not my strong suit. I have trouble with cell phones. I really don’t want people to reach me every waking second, but if I don’t answer, my technologically savvy daughter leaves me a rude message, “Why bother having a cell phone if you’re not going to leave it on?” “In case I have an emergency” isn’t a satisfactory answer for her. And I really hate people with caller ID. When you call someone they shouldn’t be able to answer, “Hi Carolyn”. That really creeps me out. It’s like some supernatural being is out there telling people I’m about to call. “Stand by, Carolyn O’Daly is dialing your number.” And what about that Do Not Call list? It exempts charities. I don’t know about you but half my unwanted dinner time calls are from the Fraternal Order of somebody or other.

I was at the Stop and Shop today. If I use a discount card the register keeps track of how much money I’ve saved during the year. My question is - what other information about me do they have stored? I’m convinced the computer evaluates what I’ve purchased and spits out the appropriate coupons. I bought a bottle of spicy salsa and received a coupon for Tums. This doesn’t strike me as random. In case you didn’t know--if you use a credit card the liquor store keeps a record of how much you spend. Now that seems just plain wrong to me. People can no longer be closet drinkers.

Don’t get me wrong, all technology is not bad. When I’m sick and have to go to the doctor I want all that modern science has to offer. Use those diagnostic tools to get me well. But my car? What happened to the friendly neighborhood mechanic who used to figure out what was wrong by the sound it made? “Is it more of a ka-chug or a clank?” he’d ask me. If I recreated the sound faithfully over the phone he could tell me what was wrong, how long it would take him to fix and what it would cost. Not any more. There are so many computerized parts in a modern automobile it takes a Bill Gates or Steve Jobs to figure it out.

I heard an advertisement on the radio for a talking scale. Now I don’t know about you but I do not want a scale that will shout out how much I weigh. Especially before I’ve had my morning coffee. And what else does it say? “Get off, get off you fat pig. You’re squashing me!” “Why don’t you stop eating so much. Don’t you have any will power at all?” Doesn’t the thought just make you shudder?

If you believe what you see on television you can’t have fun without a computer any more. Game boys, Ipods, MP3 players, Nintendos. When I was a kid I was thrilled with a coloring book and package of Crayolas. It didn’t even have to be the one with 64 colors. Now, if it doesn’t have a screen or beep, the kids aren’t interested. And speaking of kids, I don’t like the way things are going there either. You shouldn’t have to ask your five year old to program the VCR for you. Oops. I admit it. I still have a VCR, and my success rate of taping a show when I’m not home is about three percent.

If you aren’t techno literate these days it’s like being an immigrant who doesn’t speak the language. The 800 numbers they give you in the manual under ‘troubleshooting’ don’t help either. The geeks that answer the phone are like aliens. They assume if you have a piece of equipment you are familiar with what it does. Not necessarily so, and it’s embarrassing to admit that you didn’t know you had to plug it in, or get software for it, or whatever.

Back in 1969 when I went to see the movie “2001 - A Space Odyssey” I got a big laugh out of the concept that a computer could take over. I’m not laughing anymore.