Month: August 2024

We are all beautiful at every age...

I find myself thinking about my grandmothers more and more often these days. Perhaps it is because I have reached the age that they were when I recall my first real memories of them. They were still vibrant and energetic but they had given up all pretense of attempting to appear younger than they were. They embraced their senior years without makeup or artificial color on their hair. Their skin was wrinkled and their eyelids drooped but they were nonetheless beautiful in their acceptance of the aging process. 

Both of them mostly wore unexciting cotton dresses with very sensible shoes, if they wore shoes at all. My Grandma Minnie Bell was an inveterate gardener and farmer who often donned khaki pants, flannel shirts and black rubber boots for cultivating her plants. She would shade her skin with a big straw hat. Everything about her style was mostly about function and simplicity. Even when she dressed for a special occasion she wore a simple frock constructed from a finer fabric than those reserved for daily work around the house and perhaps some ear bobs and a necklace but little more adornment. 

Grandma Ulrich more often than not cut the sleeves from her dresses and did her chores in her bare feet during the hot and humid Houston summer months. When the temperature fell she donned comfortable fur lined slippers and wore a wool cap on her head to stay warm in her house which was heated by gas stoves that did not always fill every corner with warmth. She wore her long hair in a braid that trailed down her back. It stayed dark black for many years before the gray began to take over. Eventually one of her daughters cut her hair to make it easier for her to brush it each morning. I have to admit that I missed that lovely braid that seemed to be her trademark. 

Neither of my grandmothers ever seemed to eat much. Ironically Grandma Minnie Bell never weighed over a hundred pounds and Grandma Ulrich was as round as an apple. They were living examples of how differently food affects people because neither of them snacked on sweets or stuffed themselves, but one held the weight more than the other. I tended to think that having ten pregnancies had a lasting effect on Grandma Ulrich that resulted in her chubbier appearance. Even with her extra weight she was a very cute grandmother. 

Both ladies became my idea of how an elderly woman should look, but styles and times changed while I was busy becoming an adult. My mother and my aunts made great efforts to remain stylish even as they entered their sixties, seventies and eighties. They took great pains in using makeup and styling and sometimes coloring their hair. They did not seem to age in appearance as quickly and easily as my grandmothers. They never fit my idea of how the quintessential older woman was supposed to be. 

Now I am that old lady and I find myself slathering my face with creams to chase away the brown spots, dark circle and wrinkles. I can only do so much but so far I have managed to stave off many of the natural processes that would give away my age. I have only touches of gray that I hide with highlights in my still brown hair. I try to keep up with stylish clothing without attempting to look way too young and silly. My biggest concession to my age has been wearing comfortable but rather ugly shoes. My feet refuse to accept the ruse that I am still a youngster. I nod to the practicality of my grandmothers when I don my rubber boots to work in my garden or walk around my home in my fur lined slippers. 

Sometimes I just want to chuck all of my efforts at staying relevant in the world of fashion by just letting go of all the efforts to fool nobody about my age. Even when I am donned with all of my glory young people offer their seats to me on the Tube in London, someone is always deferring to my age in some way. It leads me to understand that I am not fooling anyone into believing that I am a spring chicken. At such times I think of how my grandmothers gloried in adjusting to their aging bodies without attempting to cover up the signs that they were growing old. 

There is a great deal of talk about age these days. We have two men who are older than I am running for President of the United States. I do not dismiss them because of a number that tells me how old they are because I am still teaching difficult mathematics each week and keeping my mind sharp in a thousand different ways. Still, I sometimes think that not all of the hair dye and makeup in the world actually cover the signs of aging. Perhaps we would all do well to allow people to see our graying locks, our balding heads, the wrinkled hands that attest to all of our work. Those lines on our faces should be testament to all of our achievements and hard work. We are the most beautiful when we are natural and unencumbered by efforts to fool everyone that we are younger. 

We are each part of the circle of life, moving degree by degree until we connect the finishing point with the starting point at three hundred sixty degrees of living. We should enjoy the point of each age that we achieve. We should be whatever we are wherever we are on the curve, always developing and changing, adapting to life with joy.

That is how I saw my grandmothers. They were wise and beautiful women whose only goal each morning seemed to be to love. They reached outward rather than concerning themselves with themselves. They made everyone in their radius feel important and wonderful. In that regard they were two of the most beautiful women in the world and they did it without the accouterments of fashion or style. Perhaps we might all consider how lovely it would be to emulate them and spend our days enjoying the simplicity of just being ourselves with all of the gray hair and wrinkles that show the world that we have really lived. Living is what makes us beautiful.

I like to be present, because that’s my life —-Unknown

I was reading a long article in The Atlantic magazine and when I saw this quote from a person with whom the author had spoken I could not get it out of my mind. The young man who said this was described as a “tired and angry troublemaker” whose life had been punctuated with much suffering. His way of coping with poverty and the indifference and sometimes disdain of people who judged him to be somehow inferior was to simply live in the moment rather than stewing over past slights or allowing himself to be disappointed if he dreamed that one day things might change. 

I found myself wondering how many people make it from one day to the next simply by concentrating on whatever task is in from of them rather than constantly analyzing the difficult moments of life. It’s an age old story repeated throughout history by individuals and groups who have been ignored or even abused by much of society. It may be the man or woman who toils without notice at a dead end or mind numbing job. It is perhaps the soul so ground down by bad luck and want that to think about the situation would be debilitating. It is the person who has suffered from tragic loss that is too disturbing to meditate upon. It is a kind of armor that provides the impetus to keep trying without too much thought of what might lie beyond. It is a step by step method for surviving in a sometimes cruel and uncertain world. 

I suppose that I am perhaps the polar opposite of this person. I tend to over analyze every situation I have ever encountered even long after the events are over. I take my critical thinking to extremes and parse sentences I have spoken, decisions I have made. It can be uncomfortable to do so but I was trained to assess my behaviors in my education classes that made the science of teaching a kind of research position. Somehow I have adopted the methodology into all aspects of my life, and being a perfectionist I believe that I sometimes go too far. The result is all too often a kind of anxious feeling that I have made far too many mistakes. 

I also look far into the future. I plan and plan and plan for situations that may never come. I think in “what if” projections. While such attention to goal setting and readiness may work in a classroom, it can become a kind of whipping post when applied to my life in general. I have to be very careful not to look too far out into the future, especially when I imagine potentially dire situations. Doing so causes me to come a bit undone and to sound like Chicken Little crying that the sky is falling. 

I am slowly learning even at my advanced age the importance of learning from the past and then letting go of any feelings of failure that I might associate with my normal human responses to the challenges that I have faced. For example, I doubt there has ever been a parent who did not sometimes lie awake at night worrying that he or she has somehow failed to properly prepare a child for life as an adult. Living a bit in the present, in the now, and accepting the idea that I did my best definitely helps me when I get overly obsessed with wanting to make up for my perceived mistakes. 

The same is true of the future. We are constantly surprised by events that we never dreamed would happen. It is impossible to predict the unknown with accuracy. Stewing over what might or might not happen is unproductive and in many cases actually damaging to our psyches. I know this, but have to force myself to rein in my imagination all of the time. 

I have a friend who tragically lost his son in a road rage murder. His journey through grief has at times caused him to wonder what he might have done differently to prevent that grievous harm that took his child. He admits that wondering what his son might now be like is excruciatingly painful. He has to compartmentalize his thinking into the now, the present, the moment in which he finds himself. It is far too painful to keep looking backward or forward. 

Theirs is a kind of wisdom in the words of the young man in the article who announced that his life has taught him to always be in the present. In doing so he maintains a kind of power over whatever is happening. Perhaps we would all do well to find a balance between analyzing the past, setting goals for the future and simply being fully engaged in the present moment. Those who have mastered the art of praying or meditating show us how much solace there is in focusing on the here and now. They demonstrate the calm and joy that comes from being totally in a present mindset. It is a technique that we might all learn how to do. Think of how deeply freeing it would be to simply take a breath and immerse ourselves in whatever is before us without the distraction of the past or the future to detract from the joy that we might otherwise feel.

We spend our lives attempting to make the most of ourselves and the people around us. We wear many hats, play many roles in life. We are sons and daughters, husbands and wives, mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters, grandparents.friends, coworkers. neighbors. We give much of ourselves to others while also attempting to fulfill what we believe to be our own destinies. We attempt to use the talents that we have to make the world a better place but often we mostly live from day to day simply hoping to overcome the challenges that stress our best laid plans. Even the most optimistic and happy souls around us falter in their resolve from time to time. Simply surviving each day can become brutish. We have to learn how to take the bitter with the sweet and keep pushing on with the dawn of each new day. 

I have lived long enough to have observed the imbalance of opportunities for the people of the world and the amazing courage and resilience of some who are beset by more difficulties than many of us will ever endure. The courage of heroes among us is often unnoticed or undervalued. Their stories are usually untold. Their lives quietly blend into history without fanfare. 

If you follow my blog you may be familiar with the heroes’ journeys of my family members and friends who have inspired me to push forward even when my energy and optimism are flagging. They taught me to navigate the good days and those that are really bad. They showed me how to love and how to determine what is ultimately the most important aspect of walking on this earth for my allotted time. They taught me that while we all need money, wealth does not hold the key to happiness. The best of the people who have most impressed me lay in their deeds, how they treated the people that they encountered. 

I have yet to meet a perfect person but some have come very close. Sometimes it was in their most daunting hours that I realized the extent of their courage. When they seemed to lose all faith something incredible stirred within their souls to spur them forward inch by inch, step by step. They overcame illnesses, failures, losses, addictions to emerge gloriously determined to defeat whatever kind of suffering had temporarily overcome them. I have felt humbled with admiration for them and have also seen how it is often a tiny army of people who stand by with us as we each fight the demons that plague us. What they all seem to share is compassion for their fellow humans that is so deep that sometimes it threatens to derail them with great sorrow. They flounder for a time and then rise again like the phoenix. 

Even now as I write this blog I think of my good fortune in knowing them or just knowing about them. Recently I spoke with a young woman who is a recent immigrant to our country. Hers has been a difficult journey and yet she manages to focus on her good fortune more than the battles that she still has to fight just to be accepted and understood. She ignores the prejudices of people who don’t bother to take the time to realize how remarkable and good she actually is. She plants a smile on her face and just keeps moving forward.

My thoughts wander to a work colleague and friend who is beset with multiple health issues that seem almost unfair given her nine year devotion to her rather young husband who developed dementia far earlier than is usual. She gave every ounce of love that she had to help him when his mind slowly deteriorated. Only recently had she found a kind of calm once again in her life. Her respite from suffering seemed so short and her current situation seems so unfair but she is showing those of us who know her just how strong and courageous she is. 

I find daily inspiration in people who are unafraid to love and laugh even as they seem to navigate through figurative and actual landmines. They remind me daily that in spite of the selfishness and evil that dominates the news, the vast majority of the unnamed and unknown people of the world are good. 

I enjoy watching documentaries. My streaming accounts know my habits well and often recommend series that might interest me. Among them was a short feature called The Five Who Came Back which chronicled the experiences of five famous film directors who agreed to serve in the armed forces during World War II. Their jobs were to create films that would help the American people understand what was happening in Europe and the Pacific during that difficult time. They brought their brilliance and talent to bear in films that demonstrated both the horrors and humanity of war. All five men were inescapably changed by what they saw. They were humbled by the goodness of the people that they encountered, nameless souls who might otherwise have been invisible to them. One of them created a classic movie about just such a character in It’s a Wonderful Life.”

George Bailey is the everyman, the hero who lives among us without much notice. We may not pay particular attention to people like George but we would no doubt miss them if they never lived. It’s the guy across the street who always helps everyone in the neighborhood who is most impactful in our lives. It’s the mother who gave us more opportunities than she ever had just by going to work everyday, sometimes to a job that she did not particularly like, who has influenced us the most. It is in the George Baileys around us that we see what is most important in life. 

In a year of political noise and wars in many parts of the globe it is easy to lose faith in our fellow humans, to feel as though the world is going to rot. If we take a deep breath and look around we will see the everyday heroes toiling dutifully among us. They may be mowing our lawns or teaching our children. They may care for us when we are sick or encourage us when we are feeling down. They may be swimming across a river to give their families a better shot at living or ministering to the the sick and dying in places torn apart by war. Mostly we may never see them, but we should remember that they are always around us trying to create a wonderful life for themselves and for us.

I have to admit that I am a germaphobe. I am constantly cleaning the surfaces and floors in my home. I wash my hands so often that they seem to always be dry even though I use tons of hand cream to keep my skin from cracking. I wash dishes and clothes all day long. I check the condition of restaurants before I feel comfortable eating in them. In many ways I’m turning into my mother who always carried packages of tableware in her purse in case the condition of knives and forks and spoons in an eatery was sub par. 

Nothing turns me off more than unsanitary public spaces like bathrooms that reek from lack of improper cleaning. I love the Buccee’s chain of pit stops along major highways because I can always count on finding a pristine ladies room there. In fact, those roadside oases seem to have workers on duty twenty four seven to make sure that no toilets are left unflushed or spoiled with trash on the floor or empty soap dispensers. 

My family jokes that I grab up dirty dishes so quickly that they sometimes don’t have time to finish whatever was on a plate or inside a glass. I can’t stand the thought of crust forming on the bottom of cup or foul smells emanating from my sink. I use more soap and cleaning products than a building filled with hundreds of people even though there are only three occupants of my home. 

I remember a fellow teacher once warning me to watch what my fellow female teachers did in the bathroom before eagerly gobbling down goodies that they brought from home. I was intrigued and a bit confused about her remark until I began to notice several ladies exiting the rest facilities without stopping to wash their hands. Before long I was carefully picking and choosing what I ate at those festivities when everyone brought a potluck dish. I began to better understand and appreciate the teacher who wiped down the table in the teachers’ lounge with bleach before she would sit down to enjoy her lunch each day. 

I have to watch my father-in-law who is old and shaky and has never had to take care of kitchen duties in his life. I have caught him filling the well of our Keurig with his hand inside as the water goes up to the rim. I have learned to keep the water level high at all times so he no longer has to do such a thing. The image of his hand tainting the water keeps me on my toes. It’s an obsession that I can’t seem to overcome. 

My favorite people in doctors’ offices and hospitals are the members of the cleaning crew. I like the clean smell of disinfectant filling the air. I am impressed when I see a worker checking the garbage cans and almost instantly mopping up spills. If I see evidence of neglect I don’t want to be there. I find another doctor immediately just as I did years ago when I noticed debris on the floor as I scanned his waiting room with revulsion. On a recent visit to a very busy hospital emergency room I received fabulous care but I was turned off by the overflowing trash cans and spills of urine and blood on the floors. I wondered why they did not have a cleaning staff working behind them to keep the place pristine in spite of the overflow of patients needing to be seen as quickly as possible.

I’ve walked out of restaurants immediately after entering if the tables have been left with dirty dishes and the floors are littered with crumbs. Nothing turns me off more than seeing an insect skitter by my table. I will not eat in such a place no matter how good the food is supposed to be. I literally begin to dry heave at the very thought of ingesting anything from a place that does not value cleanliness enough to keep things looking fresh and sanitary. 

I’ve been to hole in the wall places that were impeccable and to big name restaurants that failed my white glove test. If the owners do not care enough to keep things tidy in the public area I don’t even what to imagine how nasty the kitchen might be. It does not take much to keep a place looking ship shape but somehow my standards are all too often left disappointed.

Years ago my mother and I often enjoyed dinner at a Panera Bread restaurant where a disabled man toiled constantly to keep even the tiniest crumb from marring the pristine feel of the place. He kept the trash bin from overflowing and wiped down tables with abandon. He kept a broom nearby to sweep up spills and scurried in and out of the restrooms making certain that they were clean and pleasant. We watched him taking his work seriously to the point of assuring us that we were not going to encounter any germs. We often gave him extravagant tips and bragged about his work ethic to the manager. We knew that we could rely on a hyper clean environment whenever he was there. 

I worked for many years in the Pasadena Independent School district. Even the oldest buildings in the system were beautifully maintained by a fleet of janitors and handymen. They arrived early each morning and stayed late making sure that every inch of their territory was ready for even the most demanding inspection. It felt good to be in such a well run and well oiled place. I appreciated their efforts that made my days more pleasurable. 

I have worked in other schools where so little care was taken that there were always broken systems and disgusting smells. Even fairly new buildings were already falling into a state of disorder and disrepair. I often got sick in such places and even had horrific migraine headaches from the mold that seemed to be literally growing on the walls. 

I’m not exactly a Howard Hughes with phobias that make it difficult for me to trust anyone other than myself with preparing the food that I eat, but I am perhaps a bit more demanding than most. I have not yet copied my mother’s habit of bringing her own utensils and hand wipes to a restaurant but I am very careful about where I will agree to eat. I seem to drive the two men in my house a bit crazy with my insistence on maintaining a ship shape home. I suppose its in my genes. I’m also totally reluctant to indulge in foods prepared by people that I do not know. I eschew buffets even when they have sneeze guards. Cleanliness is the red line that I demand. If it is not there then I am gone.

With streaming there is now a cornucopia of British programming from which to choose. I particularly enjoy the mysteries and detective shows but I’m open to romance and history as well. I’ve virtually gone through the streets of London to follow the antics of Sherlock and looked back in history at theories about who Jack the Ripper actually was. I follow several different guides who design walks through different areas of the English countryside. I’ve become familiar with terms like “bent cops” and even learned how to unravel Scottish and Welsh accents with the help of closed captioning. I smile whenever a character asks, “Would you like a cuppa?” knowing immediately that they are offering my favorite beverage to still the beast in any situation.

A cuppa seems to be the panacea for virtually any difficulty. It soothes the anxious or terrified soul and brings friends together in peacetime and war. It’s the national drink of Englan and my all time favorite beverage as well. I never have a day without a nice brew of hot tea. Sometimes I cheat and just pop a pod in my Keurig or push the button for hot water to use one of my many different varieties of the elegant brew born in the east but I know that taking more time brings far superior results.

When I am really invested in the moment I bring out one of the many teapots that I have collected or received as gifts over the years. I take time to heat the water in a kettle and warm the pot before pouring water over the aromatic leaves. I bring out special china cups and cookies or biscuits to accompany the ceremony. 

Over the years I have had teatimes with my grandchildren and my nieces as well as some of my students. We make a grand show out of the experience with lovely linens and tea towels. I have people asking me all of the time to invite them over for a cuppa along with some serious conversation. It never fails to make us all feel better.

One of my students always has a cuppa ready for me when I arrive at his home to teach him Algebra. There I have learned about new blends like Lady Gray and Biscuit to go along with my favorites at home. I think the Earl Grey is one of the best flavors ever and a twist on that idea is Cream Earl Grey. Of course English Breakfast tea is a staple around here and Irish Breakfast tea isn’t so bad either. I have tea from the Empress Hotel in Victoria BC that is to die for and I brought back tea from Yorkshire that was supposedly a favorite of Queen Elizabeth. I enjoy a chai tea latte now and again after being introduced to it by a dear friend from India. I have a ginger green tea that is nice for the evening without the caffeine that might keep me awake. It is also an anti-inflammatory that makes my tummy feel calm and ready to settle down for a long night’s sleep. 

Most of the people that I know prefer coffee over tea. It’s not always easy to find someone who wants to sit with me sipping on a cuppa. I often dream of living in England where my daily pleasure is seemingly appreciated by most of the people there. There is something quite special about the process of making the tea in lovely porcelain pots with a leisurely manner that invites calmness even in the face of murder. (At least that is what is intimated in the programs that I watch.)

My husband’s granny, Mary Isabella, was an immigrant from Newcastle. I never had the pleasure of meeting her but she handed down her tea time techniques to my mother-in-law. She showed me how to brew a perfect pot of tea and she and I consumed many a cuppa together on Sunday afternoons. I have to admit that I was a wee bit disappointed when she told me that her mother’s favorite blend was ordinary Lipton tea. Nonetheless I love to imagine the beautiful woman that I have only seen in photos meticulously following the process for the most perfect cup of tea.

I used to have regular tea times before Covid when all such things came to a screeching halt. The youngsters who used to come seem too grown up to want to revive that tradition but recently I had a request from one of them to recreate our ceremony one more time before he leaves for a job in Austin, Texas. I think it would be a fun way to send him off with good memories and a warm belly.

I laugh when I think of the many times a cuppa tea has save the day on those shows that I watch. I recall one World War II film where a military man was coming unglued because every possible thing was going wrong. He felt as though he was surrounded by lunatics while his men were dying. All the while his equipment had not arrived and chaos was ruling the day when his aide came in with a pot of tea. When the soldier asked what good a cuppa might possibly do, his aide replied, “It couldn’t hurt.” So it is! A cuppa may be just what the doctor ordered in any situation. I urge you to try it out.