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

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