Recently I had a big retirement party for a friend at my home and it reminded me that I should do this more often. It’s good for me to entertain. It spurs me on to get my house in order in a way normal day to day living never does. Plus I have a tiny bit of an internal Martha Stewart and I love the creative part of planning and decorating. What made this party particularly great was that I had the help of a group of ex- teacher friends who have worked together on parties in the past. We are a well-oiled party machine. There is nothing like a group of teachers when it comes to teamwork.
Unfortunately I’m sure some of the guests who sat in those chairs left with large amounts of his hair attached to their clothes. They didn’t seem to notice, however, or maybe they were too polite to complain. My other cat, Kitty, hides when there are strange people in the house. Sometimes I feel like I want to hide at parties too, but not at this one. It was wonderful to see people I hadn’t seen for a while and the atmosphere was overflowing with warm cozy feelings of love and appreciation as we welcomed a new member into the world of retirement. My idea of what constitutes a good party has, of course, evolved through the years. As a kid it involved blowing out candles on a cake with friends and cousins looking on in awe. Being a twin, my birthday was always shared with my sister and the cake had two sets of candles so that we each had our own to blow out.
The first time I went to what I considered a “wild” party was when I was in college. I remember going to someone’s apartment and having to step over a couple making out on the stairs. I really didn’t drink at that time either, but I remember nursing something alcoholic in a glass while I consumed vast quantities of popcorn hoping it would minimize the effect of the alcohol. My parents would have been shocked if they had known I had gone to a party like that. I was kind of shocked that I went to a party like that.
I am happy that as we have aged, my friends have moved on from gatherings where volleyball was the main attraction. Thank goodness it's been decades since a party involved playing a sport as opposed to watching one. I was always a klutz at volleyball or anything athletic. I enjoy the fact that the ability to sit and stand are the only physical requirements for entertaining at this stage of my life.
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MY LIFE AS A CHARACTER IN A JANE AUSTEN NOVEL
The most recent was a gentleman who referred to himself as Mr. Bond, James Bond. He possessed a unique artistic talent and an entertaining wit and he delighted in discussing religion and politics, something that was alternately appealing and appalling to Miss Mason depending on the intensity of his complaints and the sensitivity of his opinions.
Taking into consideration her mixed feelings about these interactions with her lodger, Miss Mason was keenly aware that happiness lies in being by oneself as well as in enjoying the company of others. Her mind wandered to a beautiful image of a singular stroll down a winding, tree lined country road in Denmark, the home of her ancestors. The lane was quiet except for a hint of a breeze and the sound of scattered raindrops hitting the leafy canopy of the surrounding trees, which created an emptiness where she could immerse herself in meditative silence. It was a place she hoped someday to share with her sister. Miss Mason did not begin her life in singularity. She entered into the world shortly after her twin sister and although they were now separated by a great physical distance they were close in spirit and sensibility. They shared the same complaints of body and mind that accompany increasing age and connected with one another in daily notes exchanged through the most modern means of communication. Although their lives had taken different paths, where her sister had embraced the wonders of being a mother and grandmother, their sisterly connection surpassed any differences in their life experiences and drew them together in mutual support and admiration as they bravely met the challenges of a future that had the possibility of bringing increasing senselessness and disability. 101 is a magical number. It’s the number of posts I have written since I started my “Little Old Lady with cats” blog just over a year ago. According to the online dictionary, the number 101, when used as an adjective that follows a noun (i.e. Life 101, Cooking 101), refers to an introductory class like Physics 101. So “Blogging 101” means the basics of blogging. This last year has certainly been a discovery of some of the basics of blogging. I still have a lot to learn. I have never quite grasped the social media aspect of blogging. A friend told me I need to promote my blog by posting references to it on Facebook and/or Twitter. I’m kind of nervous about connecting my blog to Facebook because the things I write are more personal than what I would normally post there. I’ve never Tweeted and I’m not sure how to do it. It makes me think about Donald Trump and I certainly don’t want to follow his example. I guess I can research this a bit. Ack! I am so conflicted between putting myself out there and just staying safe in my own little domain. That reminds me. They keep asking me if I want a domain. I have to pay for it. Is it something I really want? Do I want to pay for my site and get more statistics? I have so many questions. I do get comments on my blog but they are usually in the old fashioned way, from people that I actually talk to, face to face, who have read my blog. Very few people leave comments. I know I haven’t been good about responding so I am working on that. Please feel free to comment. Click the icon at the end of the page if you want to leave a comment and I will happily respond. There is one more interesting aspect to the number 101. It could also indicate something that is just a little bit out of the ordinary. Wikipedia notes that there are more books published with a title that begins with 101 than 100 (i.e. “101 Ways to Train a Cat” or “101 Questions and Answers About Cats”). It implies that the reader will get more bang for their buck than books that include only 100 items. Writing 101 blogs does feel a bit out of the ordinary. I looked back on my early posts and I am reposting one of my favorites. It truly represents how special the number 101 is to me: CONVERSATION WITH A 101 YEAR OLD MAN Originally posted 4/1/2015 Dad died in October. He was 101. Ever since his death I have been hoping to have a dream where we could just talk. Mom would be there too, but having spent the last eight years with God she would have acquired “the peace that passes all understanding” and be uncharacteristically smiling supportively in the background. We did talk when Dad was alive. He was as sharp as a tack and remembered his long life in amazing detail. He loved to tell stories, but it was rare for him to give advice and that is what I would like now. How do I navigate this new life, free from the responsibilities of caring for someone else? I feel a little guilty about admitting that I do have a sense of relief along with deep sadness that he is gone. It’s hard to sort out all these feelings. “Don’t get your pants in a bundle” Dad would say in my dream, if I had one, indicating his usual approach to life which was to not spend a lot of time worrying and wondering and just face each new challenge as it came. I would ask him how he was doing. “Pretty Good” he would reply, or “Not too bad.” Being from Minnesota, Dad sounded like a walking example of someone from the book “How to Talk Minnesotan.” Nothing was ever expressed effusively. Emotions, both good and bad, were always kept in check. In my dream, he would probably casually mention seeing God in the same way he used to talk about meeting Hubert Humphrey, and be proud that they both called him “Howard.” I would be afraid to tell him I was a little bit miffed that he had communicated with at least three people that I know of after he died, but not with me. Why didn’t I feel his touch on my arm like the custodian who cleaned his apartment, or see him in his plaid shirt like the total stranger who told me Dad said he could “help me more where he is now” than he could have when he was still alive and needing a lot of care? No, I wouldn't say anything about those mind boggling and confusing encounters. I would be happy just to be able to talk to him and I wouldn’t want to spoil it by being too emotional. After some random conversation I would look at Dad and Mom and we would all know that I was dreaming but it would seem so real. I would ask if I could touch them, even though it was a dream, and they would say yes. I wouldn’t give them a big bear hug. That would not be respectful Scandinavian behavior. I would gently take Mom’s hands in mine and kiss her on the forehead. And then I would slide my arm around Dad’s shoulders and plant a kiss on the top of his bald head. I have been “giving up” a lot lately. I throw my hands in the air and step awaaaay from the chocolate, step awaaaay from the cookies, step awaaaay from the crackers. It’s a good kind of giving up. It doesn’t feel like I am denying myself anything. It feels like I am giving up things that might look good on the surface but actually aren’t so good for me.
There is another kind of giving up I need to do too. I need to step awaaaay from compulsive floor shopping. I went through the pain and agony of dealing with banks and loans in order to afford to replace my lumpy old carpeting with wood floors. It’s a big investment and I like doing home improvement projects, but this is overwhelming. There are other stresses in my life right now, that involve family and friends, and when I am stressed it feels good to throw myself into a project. But I’m not in the right place mentally and emotionally to make a decision that will cost almost as much as what I paid for my first house. There is too much at stake here. I plan to be living in this house for the rest of my life, which means I will be living with these floors for the rest of my life. I need to slow down and step away from making any decisions until my brain is functioning properly. I think this is what is called surrender. I used to think surrender was about throwing myself on the ground and letting the people and situations that felt overwhelming crush me into submission. I now realize that it’s about giving up on a false sense that I can control everything and everyone in my life. I am finally realizing that surrender is more about being open to whatever possibilities might present themselves rather than trying to figure out everything on my own. As I've said in previous blogs, I am a hard core “do it yourself” woman, and I’m not just talking about fixing toilets. I take pride in my independence and my ability to take care of myself. I am learning, however, that as much I as want to believe that I know everything about everything, l don’t. Instead, it’s seems like I know less and less as I get older. I suspect this is what is meant by being older and wiser. I understand that it’s actually BETTER not to know too much. So I am giving up on trying to become an expert on hardwood floors and opening myself to potential possibilities that will, hopefully, be way better than I could have imagined. And I am giving up on that false sense of controlling my food that comes from allowing myself to eat whatever I want in the moment. And I am giving up on worrying about what might happen to family and friends who are struggling through difficult times and trusting that together we will all find the strength to deal with what is in front of us. Although it seems like the current election season is particularly brutal, politics have always been full of underhanded dealings and scandals. We have become used to squeaky clean(ish) political conventions that are really mega advertising events for candidates who have already been chosen. Who knows what will happen this year? It brings to mind a time not so long ago, when delegates actually wheeled and dealed for their favorite candidates AT the national conventions. A "brokered" convention wasn't something people were afraid of, it was the norm. I watched the 1960 Democratic convention with my family. My Mom and Dad followed the elections closely. They were strong Kennedy supporters but they also had hope for Minnesota’s favorite son, Hubert Humphrey. I looked up some old TV footage of the event and, sure enough, there were NBC news anchors Chet Huntley and David Brinkley at the convention discussing the probable nomination of John Kennedy. It wasn’t a shoo-in. Reporters were on the floor of the convention with big headphones over their ears, covering different areas of delegates. There was excitement and tension in the air and it wasn’t the fake kind of excitement found in more recent conventions. I remember my parents telling us how the convention worked as each state’s spokesman (I’m pretty sure they were all men in those days) announced the votes for their delegation with a great deal of pomp. The spokesman stood at a microphone next to someone holding a giant vertical sign that spelled out the name of their state. He bellowed out something like this: “The great state of Minnesota, home of the Loon and the Gopher, casts all of it’s 65 votes for Hubert H. Humphrey!” Little did I know that Robert Kennedy was in the very same hall, twisting arms and using every means possible to make sure his brother got the nomination. Deals were being made in the aisles and back rooms. JFK himself was not a stranger to political intrigue. He barely defeated Richard Nixon in 1960 and there were questions about voter fraud in Chicago. Chicago’s Mayor Daley, known for his corruption and manipulation of the democratic process, was a strong supporter of JFK and friend of his father. He encouraged supporters to "Vote early -- and vote often." Daley may have contributed to Kennedy's narrow victory in Illinois by stuffing ballot boxes and rigging the vote. Daley was also instrumental in creating the disastrous situation at the 1968 Democratic convention. I remember watching in horror while anti-war protesters outside of the convention were beaten by police with Billy clubs as they chanted “The whole world is watching.” I hope that the anger brewing in the current political climate doesn’t bring a repeat of something like that. I have been watching a “docu-series” on CNN called “Race for the White House,” narrated by Kevin Spacey, that tells the stories of historic campaigns for the presidency and all the intrigue that went with them. It’s a six-part mini series featuring elections from Andrew Jackson vs. John Quincy Adams to Bill Clinton vs. George H.W. Bush and includes the elections of JFK and Abraham Lincoln. Yes, there were even dirty dealings involved in the election of “Honest Abe.” A brutal Senate race in 1858, that Lincoln lost to Stephen Douglas, left Lincoln ready and willing to do everything he could to gain the Republican nomination for President in 1860. Lincoln’s campaign team bribed leading delegates with the promise of Cabinet-level positions in exchange for their support. They also packed the convention hall with Lincoln supporters by printing 5,000 counterfeit tickets. In “Race for the White House,” David Plouffe, President Barack Obama's campaign manager in 2008, describes Lincoln’s willingness to get down and dirty. "Make no mistake, Abraham Lincoln was chief political strategist: He relied on his aides maybe sometimes to do the dirty work, to be ruthless, to cut deals, but he was the lead dog," Lincoln won the nomination, defeating his future Secretary of State William H. Seward, who probably received his appointment in exchange for his support of Lincoln in the presidential race. Lincoln went on to defeat his political nemesis, Stephen Douglas, in the Presidential election. I was surprised by the actions some of our former presidents took in order to get elected. Harry Truman compared business supporters of his rival Thomas Dewey to Nazis. John Quincy Adams supporters published articles in the newspaper accusing Andrew Jackson’s wife of bigamy. Apparently attacks on the wives of candidates is not something new. She was accused of marrying Jackson while she was separated, but not divorced, from her previous husband. It was true, but it so devastated Jackson’s wife that she died from a heart attack before he was inaugurated. Would Lincoln or Kennedy not have become president without an element of dirty politics? It’s discouraging to know how corrupt the search for political power has always been. Considering the fact that it has been going on for centuries, I am not surprised at the shenanigans I see every day on the news. It’s sad but it seems to be ingrained in our political system.
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Leslie Masona woman in search of her post-retirement future Guess what! By subscribing, you get notices about the latest Little Old Lady with Cats posts sent to your mailbox!
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WHAT IS A LITTLE OLD LADY WITH CATS - REALLY?
(from an entry posted on 5/1/2015) “I definitely fit some of the characteristics of a little old lady with cats: Retired - check, Single - check, Like to knit - check, Have cats - check. . .I do not want to get stuck in my Little Old Lady persona, however. In fact, this blog is a risk taking experiment in exploring and redefining what I want my retired life to look like.” Categories
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