The Magic Lantern

For his fifth birthday, my son Robert wanted a fort more than anything in the world. By “fort” he meant a big, wooden swing set—one of those cedar jungle gym kind of things with a slide, monkey bars, swings, rings, a sand box, and the most important component of all—a crow’s nest with a canopy. The covered crow’s nest is what made the whole contraption a fort. It was a place to hide out from pirates, space aliens, and zombies. Yes, it was cowboys defending Fort Apache from the Indians when we were kids, but this is the Space Age. Even the pirates are from another galaxy these days.

I had done my homework and knew that buying one ready to assemble was a big cost savings over having one delivered and assembled by the dealer. My husband Jim resisted. No wonder; his options were to fork over big bucks and build it himself, or fork over even bigger bucks to pay someone else to put it together for us. My friend Susan listened with amusement to my tale of Robert’s approaching birthday and Jim’s stubborn opposition to the idea of a fort. Susan has a son of her own and she knew all about boys and what they like. Her son Tanner is several years older than Robert so she had been through all this already.

Hold the fort.

The big day came and Robert had a nice birthday, but there was no fort. Jim had succeeded in postponing what I already considered to be the inevitable. I was certain that I could wear Jim down and that Robert would eventually have his fort. My campaign was short. That evening Susan delivered the coupe de grace. It was a total surprise when the doorbell rang and we opened the front door to Susan and her family with a birthday present for Robert—a toy signal lantern. “We thought he might need a lantern for his fort. Let’s see the fort!” declared Susan. When I explained that there was no fort, she gave Jim a very hard time. It was all delivered with humor, but it was very effective.

A few days later, Jim, Robert and I selected a cedar swing set with a canvas-covered crow’s nest, hereafter referred to as “the fort.” It was a do-it-yourself kit, and before assembling it, Jim consulted with our immediate neighbors to make sure that the huge structure would be placed in an area that would not obstruct anyone’s view. Our male neighbors generously volunteered to help build it (for a few beers). The fort was an instant hit with Robert and his friends, and the signal lantern had many hours of play in and out of the fort.

Come and get it.

As the years went by and play became less and less imaginative and more and more electronic, interest in the fort faded along with its finish. After a time, Robert and his friends were too big to play in the fort. The only action it was getting was down in the sand box under the crow’s next. Our cat Slinky found it quite handy. It wasn’t long before the once treasured fort was starting to be an eyesore. I wrote a short ad to place in the classifieds section of our local newspaper offering the fort, free of charge, to anyone who would come and get it. I put the note with the ad on the to-do pile on my desk and there it sat, getting buried deeper and deeper under the pile of more important things to do.

Many months later, I was sitting on my jump seat on the 777, across from my friend Gail, chatting with her during a lull in our business class service. She told me that our friend Susan was looking for a wooden swing set for her grandson. “They’re so expensive, you know, and Susan doesn’t have a lot of money to spend on one right now,” Gail had said. For a few seconds I was speechless.

“Gail, you’re not going to believe this.” I answered. “I’ve got a cedar swing set that I will give to Susan if she’ll just come and get it. I wrote an ad to put in the newspaper months ago and never got around to sending it in. I don’t even know why I procrastinated on it. This is incredible. This is wonderful. This was meant to be!”

What goes around. . .

“That’s great that you’ll give it to Susan, but why is this so exciting to you?” Gail wanted to know.

“Because Susan is the reason Robert got the fort in the first place.” I explained the story of the signal lantern and how Susan’s gift had prompted Jim into buying and building the fort for Robert. “The fort she helped Robert get will come back to her and be her grandson’s fort now. It’s like the circle of life or something.”

Not too long afterward, Susan and Gail came over to the house, disassembled the dry old wooden swing set, loaded it in Gail’s van, and took it to Susan’s house. Susan refurbished, refinished and reassembled the fort, and I’m told it looked as good as new again. The old swing set had a new home and another boy had a fort in which to defend the galaxy against pirates, monsters, aliens, and other assorted bad guys.

I love it when things like this happen. It reassures me that good generates more good and the universe is in order. Was it a magic lantern? Maybe. . .but not likely. The magic is in the love we have for our children and grandchildren and the friendship we share with each other.

Donna
PS: Happy Birthday, Susan!

Cane-Fu Fighters

Matt Sedensky of the Associated Press reported yesterday that seniors are taking up the art of “Cane-Fu” for self-defense. You know what this means, right? Someone will decide that we need to regulate this. Some poor elderly man or woman will successfully defend his or herself against a pickpocket or purse snatcher (or worse), injuring the criminal in the process, and be sued by the jerk. There will be a lawyer out there who will take the case. And eventually all those seniors with canes will have to register themselves and their deadly weapons with the government. Thanks a lot, Matt Sedensky!

A few years ago I was a student of Tae Kwon Do at a martial arts dojo in Grapevine. My son was studying it and after hours of watching his lessons, Marcia, another mom and fellow flight attendant, talked me into signing up to take lessons along with her. Her theory was that we could be black belts by then if we’d spent as many hours doing it as we had watching our sons do it. “Besides,” she offered, “it’s great exercise!”

She was right—it was great exercise. We worked on our “forms,” the intricate, almost dance-like drills used for the purpose of teaching discipline and self-defense moves; and we sparred against each other on Fridays. I remember my teacher telling me that if I ever used my self-defense skills to defend myself and injured my attacker in the process, I could be held accountable because I possessed deadly weapons—my hands and feet. He apparently had a lot more faith in his teaching than I did in my learning. Alas, it got too rough for my fifty-something-at-the-time body, but Marcia and our boys earned their black belts and went on to work on more advanced techniques.

The black belts, as we called the students who had earned them, were allowed to study the use of weapons in martial arts. Since he was not old enough to drive himself to the dojo, it was back to sitting and watching my son in his classes. And since I was no longer a student, I was permitted to watch the advanced classes as a parent observer. Walking canes were used in place of actual fighting sticks, staffs, and swords in the weapons sessions. I remember thinking at the time that the weapons class looked like the cast of a musical review, all dressed in black uniforms and swinging and thrusting their canes in unison. It never occurred to me that I might need to possess the skills and knowledge they were learning in those classes.

So here we are, sixty-something, and Cane-Fu is a recognized self-defense tactic for us senior baby boomers. Can’t you just imagine how this could play out in Texas and certain other parts of the country? People over sixty will be rushing out to buy canes. There will be pearl-handled canes and canes with special assault grips. There may even be semi-automatic canes with spring-loaded assists for rapid deployment in threatening situations. There’ll be a branch of the NRA called the NCA. And then some legislator will introduce a bill to regulate our canes and we’ll have to pay a fee for a license. Thanks a lot, Matt Sedensky!

Have a great day and don't forget to laugh. Check out the whole story at: Cane-Fu

Donna

Keeping Up

Mind-boggling technology!

Menopause Manor

I first became involved with Menopause Manor by accident—quite literally. One sunny afternoon two friends and I were enjoying a coffee outdoors at our local Starbucks when one of them casually announced: “There’s a man lying down over there.” We turned to see an older man lying face down on the asphalt in front of the coffee house. I turned to my friend Barbara, another flight attendant, and said, “Come on Barbara, let’s see if we can help him.” We hurried over to the downed man and knelt next to him. We checked to see if he was conscious and able to communicate and learned that his name was Bill. I grabbed the first aid kit from my car and Barbara and I looked after his wounds.

I think he’s delirious.

The poor man had landed flat on his face when stepping off the curb to cross the parking lot. His face was bleeding and he was moaning in pain. We cleaned up some of his injuries and asked him if there was someone we should call. He asked us if we were angels. We grinned at each other and said, “Oh, no.” He asked if we were nurses. Again, we said, “No.” Barbara explained that we were flight attendants. Suddenly he was animated; “Do you know Menopause Manor? Do you know Judy and Gail and Mimi and Anneliese?” Barbara leaned over and whispered to me, “I think he’s delirious.”

“No, no,” I said. “I know what he’s talking about.” Barbara stared at me as if I were delirious. “No really, I know Mimi and a couple of the others. It’s a group of women—mostly American Airlines flight attendants—my friend Sandy is part of that. An ambulance soon arrived and paramedics took over for Barbara and me. I promised Bill I would get word to Menopause Manor and let them know where the ambulance was taking him. Anneliese worked at a retail store nearby but wasn’t there, and Sandy didn’t answer her phone. I left messages for both, and Sandy called later to say that Bill had survived.

The “Soup and Bowl.”

A year or so later, my friends Ron and Gerry invited me to go to the annual Menopause Manor “Soup and Bowl” party with them to watch—what else—the Super Bowl. I wasn’t a football fan at the time, but I do love a good party, plus I hoped to learn how Bill had fared. The party was in the home of Ed Clarkson, whose daughter Judy, it turns out, is known as the CEO of Menopause Manor. Judy and the other Menopause Manor women made crock pots and stock pots full of different soups, gumbos, and chilies; guests were required to bring their own bowls.

Judy introduced me to her dad and his friends, Dick and Bill, and I reminded Bill that we had already met. “It’s nice to see you on your feet and off your face,” I told a puzzled Bill. That got his attention. “I’m one of the women who helped you outside Starbucks a while back,” I continued. For a moment or two I was a minor celebrity amongst the Menopause Manor crowd. Everyone in the kitchen with us wanted to hear the story of Bill’s meeting with the asphalt outside Starbucks.

As time went by, I saw the MM women at the birthday parties and gatherings of mutual friends. They often volunteered at our town’s annual September street festival, Grapefest, where they poured wines in the “Wines of the World” pavilion. One of them, who shall remain nameless, was let go by the wine merchants, I’m told. The story goes that she fell asleep under one of the wine tables (from the heat, no doubt; September is hot in north Texas).

Just like a woman.

Two and a half years ago, Judy’s father passed away, and Sandy and Gail were with her, holding her hands and hugging her. Two weeks later our friend Ron passed away suddenly and unexpectedly. Ron’s wife, Gerry, was devastated and in a state of shock. That’s when I learned what Menopause Manor was really all about. The core group, all divorced or widowed themselves, and still grieving with Judy over the loss of her dad, did what women always do. Word went out and food began arriving, homes were offered and transportation provided for out-of-town family and friends coming in for the memorial service. And in the months that followed, the women of Menopause Manor called, dropped in on, and took Gerry out for lunches, cocktails, and dinners. They have become her extended family.

Even though her dad had passed away, Judy and the rest of Menopause Manor continued to care for his elderly friends, Bill and Dick. They looked in on the men, shopped and cooked for them, took them to doctors’ appointments and hosted birthday parties for them. Last year Dick passed away. Judy discovered his body when she went over to his home to check on him because he wasn’t answering his phone. But on a more positive note, two weeks ago we celebrated Bill’s 86th birthday at a party Judy hosted for him and about twenty-five other guests in her home.

I awoke this morning with devout thanksgiving for my friends, the old and the new.
~Ralph Waldo Emerson

Menopause Manor isn’t about hormones or jokes about aging women with bad attitudes. It’s about a group of women who met working on airplanes many years ago, and who care about each other like sisters. They take each other to the doctor, the hospital, and the grocery store. They clean each others’ houses when one of them is sick. They worry about each other and forgive easily if one of their own is bitchy. These are the women with whom I retired six months ago and without whom retirement would be far shorter on laughter, lunches, and libations. Retirement brought new and renewed friendships to me and I am therefore grateful to be past menopause and having a little time on my hands.

Donna

Reply Hazy, Try Again

Six months ago I retired after forty years as a flight attendant for American Airlines. At first I found myself mildly irritated and without a response when asked by nearly all my non-flying friends, “What are you going to do now?” Somehow the question made me feel guilty. I wanted a break from responsibility, and I certainly felt qualified to relax after forty years of living out of a suitcase and “slinging hash.”

Before going to work for American, I spent two years clerking at the University of Michigan. And before that I worked at a K-Mart store weekends and evenings during high school. At 16, I spent one day scooping ice cream at a Baskin-Robbins store and decided that was not for me when I couldn’t use my right arm for a couple of days afterward. From the age of 12 until I moved away from home at age 20, I babysat for several families and cleaned houses in the neighborhood where I grew up. Tucked in here and there were a couple of years of college, a couple of years of extension university while I followed my husband, the Marine, around the country, and then an immersion into computer classes in the early eighties. The only reason to mention these things is simply to point out that this is my first foray into idleness.

You’ve been a flight attendant for my whole life.

After I announced my intention to retire, my twenty-one year old son asked, “What are you going to BE now? You’ve been a flight attendant for my whole life.” For him, the question was about identity: “My mom is a flight attendant.” I told him I’ll be a retired flight attendant. He bounced back with “I guess instead of being a tired flight attendant, now you’ll be a RE-tired flight attendant.”

Now that I’m RE-tired I’m not tired at all, relatively speaking. I turned sixty-one this past Saturday, so I’m not exactly brimming with youthful energy. I’m sleeping through the night occasionally, my neck and back pain have eased up some, my eyes are no longer bloodshot, and I’m fairly regular. My knees ache less, my feet aren’t swollen, and my hands aren’t chapped and raw from washing them obsessively to ward off strangers’ germs.

Meet the gang.

Several of my friends retired with me. They all were flight attendants for an equal or longer time than I. They all have “things” to do. Judy takes care of her father’s old and ailing friends, along with our own aging and ailing friends. In addition, she rescues homeless cats and feeds and waters strays. She feeds and waters us more or less regularly also. Gail volunteers at her church a couple of days a week and rescues pound puppies. Sandy sews and has joined a Red Hat group that meets for quilting lessons and lunches. Barbara, a widow, volunteers at Ten Thousand Villages and has published a book about her husband’s life. Sonnie and Beverly are battling cancer. Carrol works at a golf pro shop and is caring for her husband in his battle with cancer. Gerry, a two-time cancer survivor, just buried her mother and buried her husband two years ago.

Like most senior baby boomers, we also have cataracts and glaucoma, high blood pressure, elevated cholesterol, osteoporosis, and sleep apnea within our circle, along with many other age-related aches, pains and medical problems. Almost all have lost at least one parent and most of us have lost both of them. We bought retirement annuities with our already floundering 401k’s, only to have the recent economic nose-dive drag our retirement funds down with it. Like countless others, we console and comfort ourselves with the notion that “everyone’s in the same boat.” We drink some.

Mandatory retirement.

I loved my job for most of my 40 years at it, but now I’m at the threshold of old and way past the peak of youthful energy. I have been enjoying a brief period of no time-clock punching, no responsibility for the care and feeding of hundreds of tired, hungry and often angry customers, no tension over recurrent tests and aircraft evacuation drills to stay qualified to keep my job, and no schedule-juggling uncertainty about holidays and important family times.

Since the nation’s economic meltdown last October, most of my contemporaries are still working and many plan to go to age sixty-six, or beyond, if they’re bodies hold up. For many years, when people asked “at what age do flight attendants have to retire?” my wise-cracking reply was: “at death.” We haven’t had a mandatory retirement age since the 1970’s; we can keep flying until we are no longer able to spring from a jumpseat and evacuate a plane-full of people. Thanks to our economy, “at death” may no longer be a joke to many of my contemporaries.

Prior to October, 2008, “what are you going to do now?” was usually a question about travel plans, hobbies or volunteer work after retirement. Now when we gaze into the Magic 8-Ball, the answer is “reply hazy, try again.” Having said all this, Life is darned good and my next post will introduce one local group and how they cope—and help me cope.

In the meanwhile check out this fun video from CNN.

Donna

We Wii

Santa brought my family a Wii Fit program for Christmas. I’m not a hundred per cent certain who wrote him and asked for a Wii, but I’m pretty sure it was my husband. Jim decided it was time to take charge, get organized, lose weight, and just do it!! And he wanted to get his little crew on board while he was at it. A fit family sweats together, right? So under our tree on Christmas morning was a brand new shiny Nintendo Wii, balance board, and Wii Fit program discs.

Invasion of the body snatcher.

The first to become a pod person was Robert, who incidentally holds the family record for looking great, succeeding at all the tests, and humiliating the rest of the crew. The first thing you do with your Wii after hooking it up to your television is create your Mii. A Mii is a little avatar, or digital character, that represents YOU when you exercise or play games on the computer. It’s really pretty cool. You get to choose your total appearance from head to toe. You can have any hair color, length, or style, and any facial features and accessories you desire. The three of us, Jim, Robert, and I, being down to earth types, created Mii’s that looked kind of like ourselves. Jim and I even selected gray hair for our little characters, and I added reading glasses to my Mii. Then you get on the balance board, take your first “body test” and the gig is up. Based on your weight, the machine chooses your shape! Right before your eyes you watch your cute little avatar change into an avocado. Okay, you say. I can fix this. I’ll play this game and look like Robert’s Mii again in no time.

Resistance is futile.

Anyway, the guys went first and sounded like they were having so much fun that I joined in, created my own little Mii, and started my new electronic, computerized fitness program. One of the first things you do is perform some basic balance tests and then the machine tells you how old your body is. The machine told me my body was seventy-two. I knew immediately this was not going to be a love affair between me and the “Borg.” After my first session, the machine commented, “It looks like the balance test isn’t your forte. Do you trip when you walk?” I was indignant. “No!” I shouted back at the television screen. It suggested that I try the games that it selected for me to improve my balance. I did get the hang of the balance tests and I do much better now. Once on a good day the machine told me my body age was thirty-two, but I think it just needed to be recharged and rebooted when that happened. I’m referring to the machine now.

You might think the Wii is a good alternative to a live fitness coach because it’s just a machine and it won’t give you a hard time if you slack off. Believe me when I say this machine nags. It knows when you skip a day and it harasses you. It asks, “Too busy to work out yesterday, eh? Would you like me to comment on your workout habits? I resent it when I step on the balance board and I hear the machine announce, “Ooooh!” One nice feature though is that you get to choose your fitness coach. With the basic Wii Fit program, you only get to choose between two—a skinny broad around twenty years old or a hunky guy around twenty-five with a pony tail. I chose the hunk, but every now and then the machine announces, “Hope you don’t mind, but we’ve swapped coaches for you today.” Don’t mind? If I wanted to look at the skinny broad I would have chosen her in the first place.

I Spy.

Besides nagging, our Wii asks us to rat on each other. Imagine my surprise when it asked me, “By the way, what do you think of Jim’s posture recently?” Then it gave me four choices: Looks good, looks bad, is improving, is the same? Not knowing what the Wii might do to Jim—or me, if I didn’t answer correctly—I just said he was improving. I figured that way the machine would be reassured that It was doing its job well and we’d all be off the hook.

The machine is also a troublemaker. The other day it told me, “Someone made a comment that you’re looking slimmer. I can’t tell you where I heard it though. To my knowledge only three people use our Wii, so why the mystery? It also asks, “I miss Robert. Is he sleeping?” It doesn’t really give us an opportunity to reply to that question, but if I could answer I’d tell the Wii that Robert has better things to do right now than humiliate his parents over their weight and lack of athletic skills.

Honest, the darned thing is fun.

In reality, we’re enjoying our Wii Fit programs. We get “on the machine” every day if possible. “I’m going upstairs to Wii,” we call to each other. Jim works hard, uses many of the advanced programs and games, and is losing weight slowly but steadily. I, on the other hand, seem to go back and forth over the line between overweight and normal from day to day. That’s not the fault of the program—it’s the fault of the user, or in this case the slacker/eater. The Wii Fit program is being used in hospital rehabilitation and physical therapy programs, and in senior centers all over the nation. You can have a fun, gentle workout or you can work up a lather if you want to. I highly recommend it and welcome your comments or questions on the subject.

Donna

I Walk the Lane

One of my earliest running memories is of my brothers chasing me with a garter snake. In my teens I ran in gym class. You remember gym class? Our kids and grandkids call it P.E. now. In gym class we girls had to run sprints, 100 yard relays, and the 600 yard dash. The real “dash” was usually to the track sidelines to throw up. Back then, very few young women thought of running as something you chose to do. It was necessary in order to pass gym class and get out of high school.

In my twenties I began running like countless thousands of Americans when the jogging craze kicked in. I ran on the track beside Yost Field House, now Yost Ice Arena, on the University of Michigan campus in Ann Arbor. In my thirties I ran on the par course and track at Saddleback College in Mission Viejo, California and at Ala Moana Beach Park on Oahu. I’m the first to tell you I never ran very fast or real far, but I swear on my fifth grade white canvas high top gym shoes, I did run.

I was slowed down considerably in my forties, but I still ran—after my toddler, Robert. It was more like darting than running, but that boy kept me on the move and that kept my weight down. The countless trips up and down the stairs of my two-story house, carrying Robert or running up and down after him were great exercise, but those days are over. These days I walk the lane: Snakey Lane, the scenic, winding, asphalt paved road behind my house.

Lions and tigers and bears, oh my!

Even though I’ve seen my share of snakes on the road, Snakey Lane is named for it’s winding curves as it snakes alongside Lake Grapevine, in Grapevine, Texas. Putting the rattlesnake and water moccasin sightings aside, it’s still one of the most beautiful and scenic little walks in the county. Only a few cars and pickup trucks travel on it each day. Along the route I’ve encountered hawks, wild ducks, geese, roadrunners, herons, ibis, foxes, a coyote, and an occasional lake turtle. There are even rumors about alligators in the lake, but no one seems to know for sure if it’s true. The lane is lined with mesquite trees dripping their six inch long dart-like spines at passersby. There’s poison sumac, ivy, and oak, and an occasional prickly pear cactus. The wildflowers in the spring and the brilliant colors in the autumn are inspirational. But the wildest creatures of all, the ones I dread a close encounter with some days, are the other humans.

While I admit I don’t move all that fast any longer, it seems to me that I still appear to be a serious exerciser. I wear good athletic walking shoes and socks, sweats in winter, age-appropriate, modest shorts and tees in summer, and always a baseball cap to keep the sun out of my eyes. And I’m not strolling; I’m hustling. Apparently, others don’t see me as the jock I imagine myself to be. “Don’t get in the runner’s way!” a man on a bicycle shouted to his daughter one time. She promptly turned her bicycle directly into my path and cut me off in order to let a man jog by us. I was so stunned that I could not speak for a moment.

It’s not my fault, it’s the asphalt.

The city cleared several bike and foot trails in the nearby woods and built us a concrete trail for bicycle riders, skaters, and pedestrians between Snakey Lane and the lake. “Why are you on the road when we’ve got this trail?” an old man shouted at me one day from the concrete. “The asphalt is easier on my knees,” I called back. He just shook his head disgustedly and mumbled something inaudible. I felt as if I’d been chastised. I had a child-like urge to chase him back down the path and tell him that I’ve been running, jogging, and walking for five decades, all over the planet, and I’ve earned the right to walk in the road without being scolded like a reckless or unappreciative teenager. Actually I do walk on the concrete trail along the lake quite often, but when my knees are bothering me, it’s back to Snakey Lane.

Not all the runners, walkers, and bike riders are lacking in courtesy. Occasionally there’s a bicycler who calls out, “on your left” or rings a little bell on their bike. I always call out a thank you to those rare people, hoping that by encouraging courtesy, it might catch on. One of the most frustrating, unexplainable behaviors that I encounter are those folks just starting their walks or runs, who see you hustling along the trail or road, and step out in front of you instead of waiting for you to go past them. It’s kind of like pulling out from a side street onto the highway into moving traffic and causing all the drivers to have to stop or swerve to avoid a collision. You know how it makes me feel—it’s that “invisible woman” sensation again.

We're catching on.

Things have changed over the nearly twenty years that my family has lived in our home on Snakey Lane. The city built a beautiful community activity center with a multi-lane indoor track, and I use it when the Texas weather or pollens are at their worst. The folks from the older neighborhoods have grown accustomed to seeing runners and bike riders race up and down the neighborhood streets and roads. The drivers don’t swerve at us or throw longneck beer bottles at us any more, and most drivers give us a little extra yardage on the side of the road when they pass us. I haven’t seen a poacher’s sack full of discarded deer parts on the lane in years. I love my adopted town of Grapevine, and I love Snakey Lane with its wildflowers, wild animals, and wild people. If you drive along Snakey Lane and see a slightly past middle-aged woman hobbling along with a contented smile on her face, that’s me walking the lane.

Donna