Tag Archives: Aging

Guest Blog: Mimi Pockross

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Author of Pulling Harvey Out of Her Hat: The Amazing Story of Mary Coyle Chase

 

Recently I sat in on a Zoom meeting of aspiring writers of all ages, but mostly young ones. The range in age was twenty to seventy-something and I was the seventy something. I had been invited because I had recently published a book and some were curious as to how I was able to do this. The subject for the evening was a general discussion of writers, playwrights and poets and the frustrations of trying to advance one’s career. 

There were about twelve of us and the median age was around 40. The twenty-year old was a student and had to leave in the middle of the meeting to study for exams. Another was struggling to write in between taking care of her ailing spouse. Another was in between jobs after she was let go during the pandemic, and another was a wife and mother of four grown children teaching at several schools while trying to write on the side. 

The complaints for all were about gender parity, ageism, writers’ block, rejections and a frustration with why they weren’t making as much money as Danielle Steele or Nora Roberts. 

I looked at the shining beautiful faces of these women, and I was not at all upset that I was in my older years even though my books have never yet made the best seller list. I sympathized with their struggles. They are basically mine as well. But there was a certain acceptance on my part of my strengths and weaknesses, my successes and my limitations that I believe only comes with age. And I had very few of their obligations! 

Perhaps the reason that I am relatively content is because my latest project, a book about a woman named Mary Chase who in 1945 when women were not a major part of the work force, won a Pulitzer Prize for her play about a six-foot-tall invisible rabbit named Harvey. She was 37 at the time, a wife and a mother as well. She was never able to match or exceed her initial success as a playwright, but she continued to write until she passed away at the age of 74 because she said that she always felt the most content when she was writing. 

Unlike most of my peers, who have long since retired and are either on the golf course each day or by the pool, having lunch with the girls or going to book clubs, I feel the same way as Mary Chase even though my achievements are not anywhere near the ones of Mary Chase. In my old age, I still want to keep plodding along. I’m just happy that so far my health has held up and I can take daily walks, enjoy my grandchildren and have fiery political discussions with my husband at breakfast as we read our morning papers.

I shared some of my life stories with these women, and they were actually appreciative even though I was hesitant to offer them. I told them about all of my rejections before I was successful in finding a publisher. I told them about gender disparities I experienced when I was a speech and drama coach and all the sports coaches received extra stipends and I did not. And about the lack of pay for a weekly column I wrote for two and half years and for which my publisher paid me a paltry salary and offered me golf clubs instead. And I talked about the need to balance one’s life with other pleasures rather than spending every moment trying to do better.

To be appreciated for my contributions to the discussion was a great feeling and one I did not expect, the feeling that by sharing my experiences and struggles, they might actually find some comfort. I’m looking forward to hearing more about their accomplishments. And I will not be envious.

About the book: Mary Coyle Chase won the Pulitzer Prize for Drama in 1945 for her play Harvey. She received a record million dollars from RKO Universal for the rights to make the play into a film with Jimmy Stewart that premiered in 1950 and still remains a classic today. Altogether she wrote fourteen plays, three screenplays and two award-winning children’s books. She was a delightful and funny stay-at-home Denver mom who achieved international success as a playwright and author and whose own story is one that is now about to be told. See https://mimipockross.com/books/, pockrossmimi@gmail.com, blog: thelibrafileandstyle.blogspot.com

 

THE ODD OLD COUPLE NEXT DOOR THROW THEIR MONEY AROUND

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CONTINUING SAGA OF LIFE AFTER SIXTY:           

“Kids today have it so easy,” says the Odd Old Man Next Door to his wife. The couple has just returned from a visit to grandson Conor. Conor, obsessed with computer games, has been longing for an adult laptop for several months, an eternity for him.

            They sit down at the dining table for a cup of coffee. The Odd Old Woman Next Door stirs sugar into her drink, circling the spoon round and round for what seems like hours. She notices the OOMND frown and cast a disapproving look in her direction, so she stops stirring to reach for the box of donut holes and pushes it toward her husband. She knows this will distract him and put him in a better mood.

            He seizes a cinnamon-covered treat to pop in his mouth whole. “His dad’s going to get him the new computer this weekend. Eight hundred dollars! Can you imagine?”

            The OOWND picks up her donut hole with thumb and forefinger and nibbles delicately. “Well, as I understand it, he’s been saving for quite a while. His allowance, his house-plant watering business, the chores he’s done for us.”

            “Eight hundred dollars. When I was young, if I had ten dollars, I thought I was rich. Eight hundred was something that families lived on for a year.”

            “Hardly.”

            The OOMND shakes his head as if to debate the point, so the OOWND hastily amends her statement. “At least very few families had to live on that.”

            “My first bicycle cost thirty dollars. And I rode it for ten years,” says the OOMND. “I’d go around the neighborhood after a snowstorm and shovel neighbors’ sidewalks for fifty cents. Can you believe it?”

            “And my first babysitting jobs were for eighty-five cents an hour,” she answers “I was expected to buy all my own extras with that.”

            “Now a bike easily costs several thousand dollars,” he says. “And to get a haircut for fifteen dollars, I have to go to barber college.”

            “Conor says once he saves up enough money for the laptop, he’s going to throw his money around,” she says. “I wonder what he thinks that means?

            “I can just see him with a jarful of coins, tossing it in the air, and laughing as it rains down. Trying to catch them. Batting them everywhere.”

            “Or taking a stack of dollar bills to hide all over the house. Under cushions, in the cat’s climbing tower” She sips her coffee and ponders. “Say, I bet we could throw our money around,” the OOWND says.

            He chuckles. “You already do that. Every time you see someone on the corner asking for change, you pass him a five.”

            “Well, it makes me feel good. These days lots of people have trouble making ends meet. What about you? Whenever I turn around, you’re buying a new mystery.”

            “I don’t spend nearly as much as you do on going out for breakfasts. According to the blanks in our budget, you laid out fifteen thousand on breakfasts last year.”

            “That’s an exaggeration. It includes our weekly dinners out.”

            “Still, a significant figure.”

            The OOWND sighs. “After talking about food, now I’m hungry.”

            He pushes the donut holes in her direction. “Here. Have another.”

            She holds her palm up. “No way. Each of those has about two hundred calories.”

            The OOMND stretches in his chair. “The way I see it, as regards Conor, the important thing is the same as it always has been. He worked for his money and what he buys. He values it A major life lesson for a nine-year-old. And he’s having fun.”

            “Us, too,” the OOWND answers. “We get money, we throw it around, and we have fun. We throw it around, but we don’t owe anyone anything.”

            “What would the neighbors think if they saw us flinging bills and coins up in the air in the front yard? Would they run to grab some?”

            “Who cares?” says the OOMND. “That’s one of the good qualities of growing old. Not worrying about people’s opinions.”

            “You’re right” his wife agrees.

            “So I guess Conor’s not so different from us,” says the OOMND.

            “Guess not.” She reaches for her husband’s hand and squeezes it.

WHEN TO ADMIT YOU’RE GETTING OLD

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Always wear a helmet!

I’ve always wondered how people know they’re old. Most of my friends continue to deny the state and despise the terms “older adult,” “senior,” “fragile-frail,” “aging.” People who have time and interest to study such things decided “old” seems to be further off the older you get. When interviewed, of those in the 75+ category, only 35% say they “feel old.”

I fell into that category until recently, when I attempted a ten-mile bike ride from Frisco to Breckenridge in Colorado. We’d visited the popular destinations frequently, although the last time was three or four years ago. Each time we’d bike to at least one distant destination. Frisco’s altitude is just over 9000 feet, with Breckenridge about 500 feet higher; and since we life in Denver (the Mile High City), I thought I was set to go.

Although I achieved my goal, I took twice the amount of time and my heart was pounding much of the trip, something that never had occurred before. In fact, my respiration rate bordered on breathless. I wound up hopping on the free bus shuttle for the return trip, with the help of the nice driver who boosted my bike into the carrier (I’m too short to do this).

Do I blame the covid lockdown? No, for I’ve actually increased my aerobic exercising over the months. Could the cause be my mysterious autoimmune disease? Maybe, although I don’t get breathless at any other time. Should I, horrors!, admit age is creeping up on me, altitude affects me more, and I’m not as chipper. . .or young. . .as I used to be? This seems the most likely, despite my emotional recoil at the thought.

My reaction to disturbing ideas, honed over the years, is to attempt to correct my weakness, physical or otherwise. So I’ve pulled out a small tablet, tied on a pen, and resolved to go up and down my one flight of stairs an ever-increasing number of times daily. Right now, I’m at twice, but I only started today.

My journals, notes, and notebooks are crammed full of good resolutions and to-do lists to achieve goals. I remember even in high school I’d promise faithfully each summer to study my French regularly for half-an-hour daily. In college, the registers more frequently were lists of clothes to wear and buy. Young adulthood, the records tended toward money as I saved for a European stay, then to buy needed supplies for babies. Back in the job market, the registers included positions for which I was qualified and where I’d submitted applications.

I’ll see what shakes out. On the positive side, my years have taught me not to demand perfection because I’ll always be disappointed. I’m not terribly optimistic I’ll return to the respiration level of a forty-year-old. As my physical therapist tells me, “You’re hoping to stay stable or improve a bit, not set records.” I be satisfied to aim for a yeoman’s effort, whatever that is. (I found out! Click on link for info.) And I suppose I’ll be forced to admit I’m getting old.

THE BELL CURVE OF A HUMAN’S DEVELOPMENT, or What Goes Up, Must Come Down

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            As I age and begin to realize my body isn’t responding the way it used to, I remember an article I read years ago. Humans tend to lose skills in the reverse order that they gain them. In other words, we usually know how to drink liquids at birth, then we learn to smile, then we’re able to sit without support, followed by reaching and grabbing, eating soft food, grasping, standing, crawling, walking, talking, bladder control, and so on down the line.

            From what I’ve observed of friends and family, this generally holds true. Of course not everyone loses skills over the same time period. Some start with a slooooow decline that gains speed over the years. A good friend of mine entered the shadowy forest of Alzheimer’s, and wandering like a lost chlld, got more and more confused and incapable of making decisions. Finally, at the end, she was drooling and sitting in a wheelchair like a baby in a stroller. Not a nice experience for her or her family.

            Others, like my mother, delayed the onset of miasma until 18 months before her demise. Still others, like my mother-in-law, are incapacitated by a serious disease but retain their mental faculties until near the very end.

            I have learned, to my regret, that individuals don’t have much control over the process. Talk to a group of people under, say, the age of 50, and they’ll deliver mini-lectures about maintaining fitness regimes, lowering cholesterol, ordering physical tests, the value of green (or ginger or Chamomile  or Peppermint  or Hibiscus or Echinacea, ad nausem), and the miracles of marijuana. Even eating dirt, called geophagy, has its advocates.

            With the typical American attitude that anything can be changed or improved, younger folks think the aging process can be controlled, apparently as easily as poverty or war can be wiped out. My suspicion is that people at this stage simply focus on a fitness activity to keep their minds away from the Grim Reaper at their elbows. Ooops. Wrong. I run into many on the 65+ side of the age scale who seem to believe that denial they’re old will ward off aging.

            For purposes of predictions about health and physical condition, I find the good old Bell Curve comes closest to explaining how humans age. At the beginning of life, we gain skills in a certain order over a period of time. At the other end, we lose skills in a certain order over a period of time.

            Take balance. If you have a young child in your vicinity, you’ll note over the months that balance is continually practiced. Once he pulls himself to his feet, he takes a few shuffling steps. Then he holds out his arms to remain erect, conquers independent walking, then to running and leaping. I recently saw a small child using a heavy rock in each fist to help her maintain balance.

            Watch an aging adult. You’ll see the same process in reverse. Within the last several years, I’ve lost the ability to do decent jumping jacks. I only noticed when I failed. Most of us are familiar with the subsequent downslope.  From walking, to using a cane, to hauling out the walker, finally to the wheelchair.

            Other examples I’ve noticed of aging reversal includes skin. A baby’s is soft and delicate. So, too an oldster’s. Hair—a baby’s frequently is wispy and fine. An older adult’s, mine in this case, is returning to this state and even is thinning back to its original toddler’s thickness. Many of us start losing our patience, our ability to delay gratification, our desire to try certain foods (think of toddlers who refuse veggies). As children, we gained height. As seniors we lose inches. And don’t even talk about teeth!

            When it comes to higher faculties, a sizeable percentage of the elderly regress in this area, too. When someone complains to me that her aging parent won’t accept reasonable explanations for lost items or missing medications, but instead accuse those around them of theft or abuse, I point out that the older parent is now mentally at the stage of a two-year-old, having regressed on the downslope. No one can reason with a two-year-old, so don’t expect to be able to do it with a 92-year-old.

            A caveat: the slope of both the up and down sides of a bell curve may be extended or compressed. The angle of the curve differs for each person. Getting old is just as challenging a process as growing up. No matter where you are on the age spectrum, understanding the Bell Curve of aging may help you tolerate yourself and others.

SOME GOOD THINGS ABOUT AGING

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The idea of getting old isn’t a happy one in our culture. Maybe in the centuries gone by the Chinese revered their elders; perhaps aging folk in other societies earned respect, a cozy place by a fire, and the finest tidbits of food. Certainly not true in our times. Even discussion about being old is abhorred by many of my friends.

In fact at a recent gathering of a small group, the others reacted like irate cats when I said we all are now old. “Don’t call me that,” one snapped. “I get around just as well as I did twenty-five years ago,” said another. “Old is a matter of attitude,” chimed in a third.

I admit that the term old has such a negative spin that I cringe every time I hear it, particularly since it’s usually associated with negative qualities. Why? At its heart, old is just a description, along the lines of tall or blond or thin. A state of being or existence, not necessarily to be associated with any value judgment.

I’m not naïve enough to believe my own statement. Descriptions most often carry an appraisal, a worth. So in an attempt to qualify old with some positives, I started thinking about what I’m finding is good about my increasing age.

I don’t have to pretend I care about nonessentials. I don’t like dogs, wasn’t raised with ‘em, am scared of them. My neighborhood runs rampant with the creatures, and some of them are aggressive, others bark or bound all over the walkway, most of them are irritating (shoving their noses up my privates). And, know what?, I’ll say something if they’re bothersome. Your babble about “he’s nice,” “he’s friendly” mean nothing to me. I never let my kids chew on people’s shoes or legs or lick them, and you shouldn’t allow your pet. Nowadays, I’ll tell you so.

My appearance isn’t the be-all and end-all of my personal concerns. Men don’t eyeball me whenever I’m out, and I’m relieved. So what if I failed to apply makeup or tint and curl my hair? The public doesn’t even register the attractiveness of aging women, and a little lipstick isn’t going to change this. Ditto about clothing. As long as I avoid flaunting nudity or dirt, that’s all that matters. I may have come by this attitude through genetics. My mother traded wearing bras for comfort at about 65. My dad, always eccentric, once wore rope for a belt. He opted for flannel and Hawaiian shirts as his uniform when he became eligible for Social Security.

Good nutrition often can be ignored. Within reason, my eating habits built over the years, including attempts at maintaining my weight, are so reflexive, they affect me automatically. I’ve stopped reading labels, juggling calories, wondering if an additive or preservative is going to negatively impact me. Thrown away my calorie and carb counters. Freedom!

In terms of the medical community, health care professionals tend to be laid back about tests, medications, and advice. Pap smears, breast exams, my Type 2 diabetes pills, the quantity and quality of my bowel habits, the push for dental implants, all have fallen by the wayside. Perhaps doctors realize, like a wise parent does, that I’m not making major changes at this stage of my life.

Also related to physical condition, some positives actually occur in the body. Oldies tend to get fewer colds. Not infrequently allergies lessen their impact on you. Mental capabilities for a number of areas can even improve–vocabulary, spatial orientation, verbal memory, and problem solving abilities. Age can provide a helpful perspective about what’s important and accumulation of certain types of knowledge.

Another good thing: age becomes a card I can play when I’m in a tough or delicate situation. When pulled over by a police officer years ago, I used to bat my eyelashes and flirt like crazy. Nowadays I do my best to emphasize my grandmotherly qualities. Who wants to envision a harmless little old lady being dragged to jail. Ditto on clumsiness, acting grouchy, forgetting an appointment or a fact. People have a great capacity for overlooking these errors once they realize I’m getting along in years. “Aaaah,” people breath in sympathy.

Perhaps the biggest benefit to me personally: I no longer feel a responsibility to resolve the world’s evils. Guilt no longer dogs my every thought. Used to be an incident of child abuse, domestic violence, international armed conflicts, starvation and failure of crops, the impacts of hurricanes and natural disasters, children isolated alone in armed encampments resulted in a round of obsessive thoughts. What can I do? What should I do? Why can’t our so-called leaders see what’s right the way I can? Evil has a finite limit. At the least it will come to an end for me when I die. And if I’m activated to do something, I can contact officials and call them assholes with impunity because I don’t worry if they think I’m impolite or stupid.

This comes down to just not giving a damn any longer. I know I can’t do much, so I give myself permission to stop worrying. Aging brings me a blessed relief and release. When I’m tempted to resume my burden, I recall a cartoon I saw years ago. An aging man sat at a table, his face wrinkled with apprehension. He said to his wife, “Don’t tell me I’m as old as I feel. I feel like I’m a hundred and seventy-eight.”