Sixties Chick

Even Jack Lalanne dies, I thought as I glanced at the headline in the New York Times. Even he, the poster boy for vitality, the father of U.S. fitness, the guy who at 96 had abs firm enough for any 30-year-old, even he dies. Just like the rest of us. Even a lifelong devotion to health and fitness could not save him. “No one gets a pass,” we say as we shake our heads dolefully, but do we really believe it? Are there some of us who secretly believe we might be the exception, that the bells that toll, toll not for me, but only for thee?

I sensed this about my uncle, who at 92 seemed quite taken aback when, several months into his decline, he realized that the road ahead would not yield another promising prescription, but rather a ceasing of medications altogether. Death would come, like it or not, gated community notwithstanding. I wondered at my Uncle’s surprise –denial? — right up to and into his ninth decade. I wonder about my own.

The slick brochure that arrived with the morning mail fueled the self-inquiry. Suspended Animation it read, and it took me a second look to realize it wasn’t referring to the art of cartooning, but rather Cryonics, the low-temperature preservation of humans, carried out right after the heart stops beating, for the purpose of future survival. The future, in this case, could mean decades, maybe centuries, or at least until science discovers how to reverse the process.

It was an invitation to a major Cryonics’ conference in Miami (where else?) and I can only wonder how I ended up on the mailing list. Along with a tour of the facility, there would be presentations on the latest scientific developments as well as discussions on more mundane topics, including a lecture entitled Wealth Preservation for Revival, Rejuvenation and Reintegration into Society.

Though it had never dawned on me, there are, of course, financial issues to this cold storage thing. A lot could happen to your money in a hundred years, especially if you’re not minding the store. It’s one thing to come back, quite another thing to come back and have to cut your own lawn. But just imagine the marketing opportunity for some can-do financial planner: Preserve yourself and your wealth; make yours a stress-free defrost.

So here’s the gist of it. Cryonics promises to preserve your brain, which, according to proponents, is the one organ essential to personhood. Unfortunately, your brain will have to be separated from your body (seems there are complications in preserving whole bodies), but, happily, it is left in the skull so that you, or rather your head, can be safely put in storage (think: iceberg in fridge).

Your brain, they say, will know how to grow a new body with the help of future scientific breakthroughs. Since the brain is already programmed, it will produce the same body–yours–and not, alas, Cindy Crawford’s. Never mind; “You are your brain,” or so saith the Cryovackers.

I didn’t make it to Miami. Personally, I don’t want to come back. Just the thought of trying to use a TV remote in the year 2100 is too much to bear. Though I love my brain and I love my life (and sincerely hope I have many more years of it), I think one time around with this particular suit on is enough.

And as much as I love being here, I really don’t want to leave kicking and screaming; stunned with disbelief, outraged that I too have to integrate death into my life. Rather, I’d like to go courageously and gently into that good night so that I can spend those last months, days, moments loving the ones I love. In the end, I’d like to do as the old tribal wise ones do – know when it’s time and head for the ice floe.

To my dear Uncle, Edgar Louis Gold, may you rest, finally, in peace.

This February 14th, I’m sending myself a valentine. Not because no one else will. I’m fine with that; I know I’m loved.  I’m sending myself a valentine because, after all, who out there should love me more than I love myself?

To My Valentine, Yours Truly,   

Roses are red

Violets are blue

Here are some reasons (a partial list, to be sure)

Why I love you

I love you because you’re a happy, upbeat kind of girl doing your very best to enjoy life. Alone or with others, money or no, you do manage to have a good time.

I love you because you’re kind, compassionate and not too judgmental. A good listener, sensitive and a rooter for the underdog.

A trusting soul.

I love you because you’re passionate, easily inspired, even  inspirational at times

Conscious, creative, adventurous, honest and responsible enough

Open-minded

Fair, flexible and forgiving;  helpful, peaceful, patient and calm

Humble too.

Self-directed and self-reliant

And talk about a unique way of  seeing the world.  Screwy? Maybe. But I love you for it.

Then there’s that kick-ass rebellious streak of yours. I love that too.

I am awed by your wisdom, no matter how long it took to get

Proud of your willingness to grow

Delighted with your wide open heart

And  grateful, God knows, that you can laugh at yourself!

So deary, this valentine–sent straight from cupid’s bow–comes with the hope that one of these mornings, when you catch your aging face there above the bathroom sink, you’ll stop with the  “Oh dear God, such a wreck,” and lovingly declare instead, “What a beautiful creature that is!

Happy Valentine’s Day, Mayzee!

I swear to you; there it was right in front of me, right there on the monitor screen. You are related to Albert Einstein, it read. That’s right; according to the genealogical website Geni, I am related to the greatest mind of our time, the man whose very name is synonymous with genius.

It seems that my Aunt Ruth’s great great grandfather, Lazarus Einstein, was a second cousin to Albert’s great grandfather, Rupert Einstein, making my Aunt Ruth and Albert fifth cousins once removed. Never mind that Ruth was my Aunt purely by dint of having married my Uncle. It’s close enough for me.

Damn, I think, where was this information when I needed it, when I could’ve used it most? It sure would have been helpful growing up to know that Albert and his brains were part of the family, no matter how tenuous the bond.  It might have made me feel smart. It might have saved me a lot of heartache.

A late bloomer my mother called me. But long past the blooming, I spent years convinced I wasn’t smart enough. After all, wasn’t I passed over for safety duty in 6^th grade? Anyone with half a brain could figure out that the coveted job of student crossing guard with its early dismissal from school had gone to the brightest in the class: Jeanie  Lifter, David Soden, Judy Stein. Of course, they were all tall, too, I deduced as they marched to the front of the class as their names were called. But in the end, Elayn Rockower was among them, and she was shorter than I was.

This notable family connection might have helped ease my shredded self-image the following year as well, when in that first year of Junior High, a class of gawky preteens were divided into six sections according to (guess what?) intellectual aptitude. When the class genius landed in #17 and the “most challenged” in #67, it didn’t take an “A” student to understand where you fell on the continuum. Thanks to a group of very practical childhood educators, the fate of this  self-doubting 12-year-old was sealed for years to come. Did they think us dummies were too dumb to notice?

Einstein and me? Hmmm. If I’d known back then, I might have found the stamina to conquer quadratic equations or the confidence to face the dreaded SATs with optimism and resolve. I might have believed that a high score could be mine, or forgiven myself when it wasn’t.

Today, although I’m delighted to claim Albert as kin, it no longer matters. Somewhere, way past my school days, I decided I was smart enough. I also decided that smart is overrated. Not that I don’t love a razor sharp mind. It’s only that over the years I’ve gotten to see some of the “brightest” in action. It left me wary and wiser.

Take any one of those oily Enron guys, the “smartest in the room,” or those high-ranking, militant masterminds with plenty of  good reasons why other people’s kids should  go to war. Kissinger, McNamara, Rumsfeld, Cheney to name just a few.

Pick any of those slick Wall Street wizards who in their paneled board rooms pulled off a heist that have brought an entire country to its knees. Obscene profits, other people’s risk. You can’t get more brilliant than that. (To be a smart citizen of the world, the documentary Inside Job by Charles Ferguson is a must see, www.youtube.com/watch?v=X2DRm5ES-uA .)

Whether it’s for power or good old greed, the world is full of people who are way too smart, not for their own good, but for everyone else’s.

So after careful analysis, culled not from years of exhaustive, double-blind studies paid for by fellowships from Ivy League institutions, but from my own powers of observation over five decades; I have determined that intelligence is not what it’s cracked up to be.

Since I’m smarter than I’ve ever been, I’ve got a whole new take on it. Smart, for me, is an awareness of the planet, of other people, of how we’re connected and interdependent.  Smart is  examining my truths, being conscious of my actions. Smart is knowing who I am. With all due respect to Cousin Albert, what more do I need to know?

P.S. Here’s a treat from a really smart guy. www.youtube.com/watch?v=GUfS8LyeUyM

My dog Rio and I go out to the field behind my house and from time to time we get into a game of retrieve the stick. My throw’s never been all that good, but Rio doesn’t care; he bolts after it with a sense of purpose that’s enviable. He grabs it with that wondrous mouth of his, sometimes in mid-air, and then dashes back to where I’m standing. He won’t drop the stick, however. Refuses; that is until I throw another one.

It’s not that I haven’t tried to teach him. “Look Rio,” I’d say enunciating slowly, trying to explain to him how it works, “You drop the stick; I throw it again.” But it was no use; if he understood, he simply wasn’t interested in playing my way. I’d give in. It was easier.

From time to time, I try again when there’s no other stick in sight. But Rio won’t budge. He’s nine and clearly not changing. Like my friend the dog trainer told me in no uncertain terms, “Forget it. He’s too old.”

Lately, I’ve been wondering the same about myself.

I ask, because recently my daughter took it upon herself to sign me up for an on-line dating service, convinced that it was time for me to get myself out there anew, into the ever-challenging world of relationship trawling. When I balked, she came up with a whole litany of rather wise-sounding reasons why I should at least try. Adventure, fun; what’s there to lose? After all, why not? And I, ever vigilant to root out anything inside me that smacks of resistance, agreed.

Almost immediately, a number of prospects pop up in my in-box, willing candidates with monikers such as notyetsixfeetunder, ultimateman, imallyours007, mikewiththebike, manbatt and loverofgreatlegs. Almost immediately, I doubt my ability to see this “adventure” through.

“Are you a boater? Do you golf? An Eagles fan?” The questions come embedded in messages of every sort.

“No,” I respond, feeling a distinct unwillingness wash over me. I’m clearly not in the mood for this. Will I ever be?  I want to counter with my own questions, ones that seem more pertinent and to the point, something like, “So tell me, what are the parts of yourself you keep hidden from view? The ones you’re not so proud of? Your shadow, as they say.”

Twenty-nine-year-old, EnerGizerboy, shows up to ask, “Hey, are you into younger men?” And, I (purely out of curiosity, of course) find myself compelled to write back, to ask why a man of his age would be interested in a woman of mine. “For great sex,” he responds candidly, sharing that his last lover – at sixty—was the best he’d ever known. And here I thought it was my fortune he was after!

Lazydad wants to know if I play poker. Wineguy — what else — the kind of wine I prefer. 2findu sends me a virtual teddy bear with points he’s actually paid good money for.

Are you kidding me? Who’s got the patience for this? What do you say we go with my line of questioning instead: “What still pushes your buttons and why? Who do you become when times get tough? What demons still lurk down deep inside? If you’re willing to come clean, I can save us both a lot of time and trouble.

Yeah, sure, I know all about the “dance” and how it calls for a degree of subtlety, a modicum of finesse. But at this age, don’t you think the moves have to be crisp and clear, nothing if not intentional?  That’s how I want to tango.

A friend of mine says I’m too intense.  He’s probably right. It’s why, most likely, I won’t be finding a mate any time soon.  I’m reminded of Rio who always plays the game his way. Like Rio, I’m too old for it any other way.

Some things are just silly. Labeling a piece of fruit with a sticker is silly. A graduation ceremony for preschoolers is silly. A jacked-up jeep on oversize tires is silly, and dressing a dog, with apologies to my sister, is just silly. And although I have nothing against intended silliness, I would add to that list, our country’s solution to the infiltration of homosexuals into the military, the height of uninspired deception,  Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.

Even the name is silly. But Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell would stop at silly if it didn’t require a whole bunch of resolute recruits to disown who they are. Keeping sexual orientation top secret (and this should not be news to anyone) is not good for the health –mental or otherwise. Think what it does for morale. Performance too.

If it were my call, I’d put our gay brothers and sisters front and center. I’d let them run the show. I’d pin four stars on their buff bodies and let them lead the charge. Think of the possibilities. Cable knit throws for the bunks? Who knows, but you can bet there’d be more art, more dance,  and more fun, not to mention better food – at Camp Lejeune, Fort Hood and even Khandihar.

Mostly, I’m thinking how liberating it would be if they all fessed up – the corporals, the sergeants, the privates, the generals too, if they all came clean.  Same for us civilian folk as well.  To be able to stand up without camouflage and say, “This is who I really am. What you see is what you get.” It sure would make it easier to deal with one another.

But being real is not for wimps. It takes vigilance, stamina, courage to boot.  You’ve got to be on watch.  Do I say what I mean? Mean what I say? Do I walk my talk?  Am I legit? Though I sometimes miss the mark, I troop on.  I try. It seems like a critical mission, especially these days.

As for our men and women in uniform and the foolishness of “not telling,” I have this to say to you, Uncle Sam, “Go ahead, big guy, give it a shot. You try to Be All You Can Be, under wraps and undercover.

Happy Fourth, all you freedom fighters.

Yo, Wat up, Mayzee gurl?
Nuthin’ much.
Wat up wit da blog? Ben a long time.
True dat. Stopped writin’  fro a while.
Well where u ben at?
Jus chillin’…I be chillin’.

And damn if there wasn’t a lot I could’ve weighed in on too. For starters, there was the historic Gold family cruise in honor of my Uncle’s 90^th birthday. Underwritten by the birthday boy himself, 23 of us, bound by blood or marriage, floated from L.A. down to what they’re now calling the Mexican Riviera.  No question but that I could have mined a few nuggets of familial intrigue from the decks of that shining Sapphire Princess. Entertaining, yes, but family is family.

There was the week’s visit from my Brazilian ex-husband which could have made for a riveting piece had I felt like going into the ins and outs of our 19-year post-marital relationship. Or the saga of the twenty-four-year-old boarder I took in to help pay the bills, who turned out not to fit that bill or any other. I live and learn. Perhaps a story for another time.

I could have written about taking care of my grand nephews (7 and 9) which would have meant disclosing the “gum in hair” incident, but really, how could I rat on a couple of cute kids? Suffice it to say that males, no matter how young, are very strange creatures indeed.

There was yet another loan taken to finance the college education and my feelings about that, not to mention my state of mind upon completing the last financial aid form I will ever have to fill out. As usual, there was copy to write for clients along with the concomitant “two-step” of getting paid.

Torrential rains hurled shingles off the roof, and my friend Lisa Tracy came north to celebrate the launch of her new book, Objects of our Affection – a great tale about our national obsession with stuff.  To add to the excitement, I signed on to manage two decaying properties for friends overseas which, in only two months time, has shown all signs of a disaster waiting to happen. Future fodder to be sure.

There was the bar mitzvah I attended at a reconstructionist synagogue which touched my heart, the miraculous birth of a 2.5 pound baby in New Haven, and the sad departure of yet a few more wonderful souls from the earth. Add to that more earthquakes, gushing black oil, the mine tragedy, volcanic ash that stopped the world and, of course, Goldman Sucks – and anyone can see there was more than enough material. As usual, there was a lot to talk about.

I just didn’t feel like it. I picked lilacs instead. Bunches of them. I put them all over the house, everywhere, in every room. Lilacs were my mother’s favorite flower.

I sat with the lilacs, jus’ chillin’. Quietly. Because there in the midst of that haunting heady scent, there seemed to be absolutely no need to comment.

The Fruit Lady died last Saturday night. I had the honor of being there when she took her last breath and left the body temple. I had gone to be with my friend who was keeping vigil. I didn’t want her to be alone.

Joan Arensberg, aka the Fruit Lady, owner of the famed and first-of-its-kind charcuterie at 17^th and Walnut, was dying. Sharp as a tack, big-hearted, funny, tough and ever tenacious; she was finally letting go.

The end had started in October, though no one knew it then. Even the doctors had no idea if it would be a couple of years or just a few weeks. Regardless, she needed help, so my friend stopped what she was doing, packed up some books and moved herself to the Fruit Lady’s condo in Somers Point. She would take care of her – cook healthy food, bathe her, massage her – do whatever it took to get her well again. “This is what we do for one another,” my friend said.

With no children, in fact, no family at all and a partner who had died ten years before; the Fruit Lady had instead a few loving friends, a few incredible people who stepped up  and took care of everything she needed as she went in and out of the hospital, then into rehab and then home again.

They dealt with the bills, washed her clothes, made arrangements, smoothed her nightgown, dressed her sores, fed her like a baby, walked her dog then found him a home, changed the sheets, waited for doctors, ordered equipment and rubbed cream ever so gently into the creases of her thighs when she needed to be changed. They even put out their hands for the dentures she handed over, a sure sign  that matter no longer mattered to her. They stayed present while she talked crazy, sat with her as she slept, soothed her when she was full of fear. They held her hand. Day in and day out, she was never alone.

When it became clear she was not getting better, when she began to spend more and more time in some other place, holding animated discussions with beings long since gone; my friend opted to bring the Fruit Lady home so she could die in comfort, surrounded by her memories. At home, from her hospital bed in the living room, she would have a clear view of the big blue sky over the deck.

The Fruit Lady left next to nothing in the way of money or possessions. She didn’t even own the condo. What she leaves behind besides the laughter she spread around the planet throughout her life, is a legacy of love, a new bond among a few special people who, by loving the Fruit Lady, came to love each other as well. “Have you slept? Are you all right?” one would ask the other as they checked in with daily updates to coordinate care. “I could come over,” another offered  in the early morning hours after the death, grieving himself but not wanting her to be alone. “It’s okay,” she said, “my friend is here.”

And so it goes, on and on and on. Love  bequeathed, love bestowed, love passed on. It is the gift we get when we do for one another.