On being married to an 80-year-old

 This past weekend, Hal turned 80. It was a milestone. The last milestone was the 50^th birthday, a sense that we were now in a new phase of life. Fifty was awesome. Eighty, breathtaking. This is higher ground indeed.

We’ve heard it said that growing older is gradual, passing through three stages: young old age (roughly from retirement to 80), middle old age (80-90), and really old old age (90 to whenever). The numbers vary with different experts on the subject. I’m not sure how helpful these categories are, other than to say we both felt rather smug about being in the young/old category.

Hal and I used to ask ourselves, “Are we old yet?” We asked it upon retirement, and then again on entering the retirement community. Now, as far as Hal goes, we don’t have to ask it anymore. He’s old. Clear and simple. (Actually, none of this is clear or simple.)

On the other hand, I’m still young, in my 70s. But I have entered a new category—that of being married to an 80-year-old. Will I have to make some changes? Do I treat him differently? Are we now an unbalanced couple? Will we topple if I don’t hold up my end?

(Let me interject here the fact that many of you have already passed the 80 milestone and are probably thinking, “Why is she making such a big deal of this? It’s nothing. No major change at all.” If you’re thinking that, I respect your perspective, but, please, just humor me. I’ll get there, too, in time.)

We celebrated, thanks largely to the efforts of our son. All of it surprised Hal. That always makes it fun. On Friday, David took us to the local small airport, where a friend was waiting to take us up for a ride in his little prop plane. For about 40 minutes we looked down on our town, the surrounding fields, the mountains, and the big river before descending back to the airport. Mid-trip, Jon, the pilot, turned the controls over to Hal who wasn’t quite sure he wanted them. I, in the back seat, was sure I didn’t want him to have them. But he eased into the task and had fun learning about the different gages to pay attention to as he turned the plan in different directions, lost and gained altitude, and really did fly the plane. It was a great birthday surprise! Something one doesn’t imagine an old man doing.

Saturday morning, we opened the door to our apartment to see it decorated with an elaborate birthday poster complete with Hal’s baby photos. Later our neighbors on the floor gathered to sing Happy Birthday and clap, hoot, and holler.

On Saturday noon we arrived at David’s home, expecting the usual family lunch and small celebration. But it turned out to be regular birthday party, with friends, family, balloons, songs, and a feast worthy of 80 years! We practiced all the time-honored rituals: a birthday apple pie (our tradition) with eight candles that Hal blew out. The Happy Birthday song, of course, and lots of photos. Now that I look back, we forgot to ask Hal to make a wish. We’ll have to do that part tonight. Different people shared memories of Hal, most of them funny. Then Hal told stories of his time in Guatemala; the night he was attacked by vampire bats was a favorite.

Saturday night Hal told me how affirmed he felt and how downright happy. A good celebration, worthy of a milestone.

Now it’s Monday morning and back to normal life. I find myself married to an 80-year-old man. But, of course, it doesn’t feel any different than the mornings that went before. He doesn’t seem radically changed. We’re still both growing older, slowly and not by leaps and milestones. I’m glad for gradual. We’re still enjoying this phase of life which has its joys as well as its challenges.

We’ve stopped asking, “Are we old yet,” because it seems like an irrelevant question. We’re alive and well. God is good. We’ll take one day at a time for as long as we have.

(But hurrah for celebrations!)

On googling my name: my secret identities

 The search for one’s identity is developmentally a task for young adults. It includes such vital concerns as profession, marriage and family, and, basically, what a person will dedicate his/her life to. Time, relationships, successes and failures, and maturity are supposed to lead one to a solid sense of self. By the time old age sets in the person knows clearly who they are and what their place is in the general scheme of things.

Sound good? Well….

We all know it isn’t true. An older person is often as confused about it all as a youngster (meaning a 40-year-old). When we retire from our profession, it can feel like we’ve lost our basic identity. Purpose can fly out the window. Changes in family dynamics can leave us wondering who we are in relation to others. And downsizing can mean getting rid of precious stuff that helps define us. Too many changes!

Is this an exaggeration? Perhaps for some more settled folks, it is, but for many it’s a phase of growing older that’s painfully real. It’s that search for identity that goes deeper than what we do (or have done) or what we own (or used to own before we gave it away).

Now I’m going to switch from serious to silly (which is part of who I am). Several years ago I decided to see what the Internet had to say about me. I googled my name. The search reminded me of how common my name is. I discovered way too many sites to read them all, and most of them were not about me. It was hard to find me in all the Nancy Thomases scattered throughout the universe.

I did another search this week, just to see if things had changed. Some of the old Nancy Thomases were still around, with many new entries. I actually found myself, my real self, here and there, mostly with reference to a poetry book. But, for the most part, I am well hidden in the World Wide Web.

My search revealed that Nancy Thomas is a prodigious author. Along with the poetry, other books by Nancy Thomas include The Great American Afghan; The Great Tiki Drink Book; When Love Is Not Enough: A Guide to Parenting Children with Reactive Attachment Disorder; Infectious Diseases of Wild Birds; and Dandelions on My Pillow, Butcher Knife Beneath: The true story of an amazing family that lived with and loved kids that killed. I had no idea I was that versatile.

Searching the Internet is an interesting path to discovering identity. If someone met me, remembered my name, and then tried to find out more about me on the Internet, here’s what he might learn:

--that I am one of the leading authorities on parenting emotionally disturbed children.

--that I am a nationally-known contemporary folk-artist who paints, does ceramic figurines, sculpts, does hooked rugs and pins and stained glass. My birds are especially appreciated. My work can be viewed in the Nancy Thomas Gallery in Norfolk, Virginia. (You ought to come. I’m really good.)

--that I am a taxi driver in Milton, Vermont.

--that for many years I was the editorial voice of the most widely circulated knitting magazines, including Vogue Knitting and Family Circle Easy Knitting. (You ought to see my collection of silly Christmas socks.)

--that although I hold a degree in electronics and engineering, I am a story-teller at heart and believe that “writing is a door into a world of possibilities.”

--that I have been a non-dieting fat woman since 1976 and am one of the founders of the FAT LIP Readers Theater.

--that I own and run the Duncanville Feed Store in Texas.

--that I am a violinist with the National Symphony Orchestra; a gynecologist in Louisiana; a dermatologist in North Carolina; a licensed professor of jiu-jitsu; and an actress who most recently starred in the movie, “Assisted Loving,” about romance in a retirement home.

You would also discover that a wild iris is named after me. The “Nancy Thomas” is a bearded iris that is golden apricot in color, with a tangerine beard, and a slight fragrance.

There’s a lot more than what I’ve recorded above, but as they say (whoever “they” are), “enough is enough.”

Did you ever dream I was so versatile and accomplished? I’m certainly a multi-tasker.

Does all this help me come closer to solidifying my sense of identity? No, of course not. It does confirm my suspicion that I’m a somewhat silly person.

Actually, I’m now far enough down the road of retirement that I don’t struggle with identity issues. I try not to focus so much on who I am, but rather on who my neighbors are.

Both of my names, Nancy and Jane, are common. They both mean “grace.” I don’t think my parents knew that when they named me; Nancy and Jane were favorite aunts and cousins on both sides of the family. But they did indeed name me “Grace Grace,” God’s double-whammy grace child. That’s who I am. My unique name/person is etched on the palm of God’s hand, and God needs no search engine to find me.

God doesn’t need one to find you either.

The old woman and the mouse

 An old widow named Helen lives in a small cottage in a small village in England. This is her hometown and she has moved back after 60 years living in Australia. She lives alone with her memories. She knows no one in the village and no one knows her.

She walks down the hill and into town once a week to buy a few vegetables, a meat pie, yogurt, and a pastry for a treat, all she can carry back home. Sometimes she stands in her living room and looks out the curtains, watching her neighbors. She has developed a strange habit of poking about in people’s discarded garbage, to see if there is anything interesting she can bring home. Just a strange old woman.

Helen is the protagonist of Sipsworth, a novel by Simon Van Booy (2024), a story of an old woman and a mouse. It has insights about aging that are worth reflecting on.

As the story opens, Helen has pretty much given up on life and is waiting for death.

“Returning after sixty years, Helen had felt her particular circumstances special: just as she had once been singled out for happiness, she was now an object of despair. But then after so many consecutive months alone, she came to the realization that such feelings were simply the conditions of old age and largely the same for everybody. Truly, there was no escape. Those who in life had held back in matters of love would end up in bitterness. While the people like her, who had filled the corners of each day, found themselves marooned on a scatter of memories….”

“She isn’t taking any medicine, nor does she need and creams, powders, tonics, or lozenges. The only real proof of her advanced age are a chronic, persistent feeling of defeat, aching limbs, and the power of invisibility to anyone between the ages of ten and fifty.”

One night things change for Helen. She watches from her window as a neighbor hauls some boxes out to the curb to be carted away as garbage in the morning. She waits until he leaves and all is quiet in the neighborhood, then she sneaks across the street for a peek. Among the assembled items she finds an old fish tank filled with plastic water toys and a few boxes. One of the toys reminds her of something her son once owned. So, with a great deal of effort, she lifts and carries the tank back to her house and deposits it on her living room floor. She then goes upstairs to take a bath, worn out by the activity.

Once recovered from her adventure, she discovers a mouse in a box in the bottom of the tank. It shocks her; she has no desire to share her home with a rodent. But over the next two weeks, the woman and the mouse make a mutual connection. She names him Sipsworth. Her new responsibility to care for the critter forces her into the village to meet people—the clerk at Ace Hardware, the librarian (for a book on caring for mice), a vet, and, eventually, medical personnel in the local hospital as Sipsworth has an emergency that needs surgery. The book highlights the need all mammals (including humans) have for relationship and the possibility for change at any age.

But something else in the story spoke to me. In the beginning we have the picture of a solitary old lady, set in her ways, living in her memories, and developing some strange habits. It’s a stereotype of a typical old person and, although I felt sympathy, I perceived her as pathetic. But as the story nears its climax, the nurse in the hospital recognizes her name, Helen Cartwright, and realizes that she was once the Head of Pediatric Cardiology of the Sydney General Hospital and inventor of the Cartwright Aortic Stem Valve, used to save the lives of hundreds of people. She was famous in her day.

This, of course, changes the way people now see this strange old woman. And it certainly changed the way I had been reading the story. I was surprised, but I noticed there were hints all through the story that things were not as they seemed.

I’ve experienced being treated as an “old person” in the doctor’s office and the grocery line. I’ve experienced being invisible in other social settings. I’ve wanted to say, “There’s more to me than my wrinkles and walking stick!” But, of course, I don’t say that. I don’t say anything.

And I take joy in the fact that where I’m living now, I’m surrounded by friends and people who take the trouble to know one another. Age doesn’t matter, since we’re all old!

But more than wanting people to see me as a person rather than as a stage in life, I’m asking myself how I see other people, especially other older people I don’t know. I’m realizing that I often look at them with the same stereotypical perspective, especially if they “look” old and grumpy and mussed up. I don’t feel compelled to get to know them. They aren’t attractive.

(How I perceive young women with purple hair and noses rings is much the same problem.)

I feel a sense of conviction. Helen looked old and grumpy and mussed up. And I think I do too at times. Learning how to see people as God sees them isn’t automatic. It’s hard. It’s something to be aware of and to work at.

A person’s age and how they look don’t define them. People are full of surprises. Especially old people. I don’t want to miss out on any of it.

A baby, a book, and playing with words

 I know I’m a bit old for this, but I gave birth last week. So far the baby is not doing much more than sleeping, but she’s about to wake up.

Her name is The Language of Light: poems of wit, whimsy, and (maybe) wisdom.

That’s right. The baby is a book. A new poetry book and I’m pretty excited about it.

Having a book published is very much like having a baby. First comes conception when a seed is planted and gets fertilized. And then come the work and the long wait. This period of labor took about two years and involved a certain amount of pain. But now it’s over. And she’s lovely. I can’t wait for you to meet her. (I’d even say I’ll sell her to you, but that’s taking a metaphor too far.)

This book is a little different than my previous collections of poetry. It’s not mystical, heavy, or complex. (Actually, neither were the others.) It’s light in the sense of laughter. It’s a recognition that humor produces a certain lightness of spirit. It lifts us up and gives a more gracious perspective of reality. Humor can also turn stuff on its head, helping us see people/problems/culture (especially our own culture) from a different viewpoint.

But it’s not just laughs I hope to achieve. I also use the word light in the sense of illumination. Often laughter precedes insight. I hope some of the poems in the book do that.

You can decide for yourself. I’m having a book launch this coming Friday at 3:00 in the auditorium of the Retirement Community. I’ll be reading poems from the book. These events always give me the jitters beforehand. I ask myself silly questions: Will anyone come? Will they like the poems? Or will they throw lettuce? (You would never do that, would you?)

More than anything, I think the book is playful. I love language. I especially love the English language. And I love playing with words. So I hope the event will let us all participate in some lightness and play.

Rather than share some of my poems in this blog, I’m going to post a poem my granddaughter Gwen wrote a year ago.

Grandma’s Poems

A small collection of Grandma’s poems
lay scattered over my bed.
As I soaked in the rich creativity
I happened upon a small poem.
It was a silly play on words
and I could hear her laughter as I read it.
At the bottom in her
curvy haphazard handwriting
were the words,

“Play. Just play.”

Advice from her I will
hold with all seriousness.
Play is no joke
for genius is born from it.
I have the proof right here,
scattered over my bed.

 

[Note: speaking of Gwen and babies, my granddaughter recently gave birth to a real baby and is now learning the joys of motherhood. She’s finding that playing with little Ariah is even more fun than playing with words.]

 

Grandma goes camping

 Hal and I went on our last tent-camping trip just before the pandemic hit. We were five-years younger than we are now and beginning to feel the physical challenges of “roughing it.” In fact, we came home one day earlier than we had intended. That was then.

The camping trip I went on last week was not anywhere near wilderness camping. I attended a women’s retreat at a Christian campground. Only mildly primitive. But, even so….

The grounds were rustic, something a group of middle-school kids would relish. I’m years removed from middle-school, and “relish” is not a word I would use about last week. I’m speaking of the physical realities, not the spiritual experience. I had to take my old sleeping bag out of storage. It had been a while and I had not remembered how restrictive sleeping bags are. I’m a restless sleeper these nights, so as I turned over, parts of the bag turned with me and other parts stayed put. I ended up in a twisted tunnel of bedding and had to pull and tug a bit to get comfortable. This happened multiple times throughout the night.

The simple wooden bunkbeds were arranged in rows in cabins. Five of us slept in my cabin, which meant none of us had to occupy a top bunk. (In that case, I would have gone right home.) It also meant little privacy, which one can live with for a limited time. But the bathroom was housed in a separate building which presented a problem. As you all know, older bladders shrink, along with other internal organs, which can mean multiple trips to the bathroom. But one can also adapt to that situation if it’s for a limited time. I just kept my slippers, robe, and flashlight close to the bed. However, those forays out into the night made it harder to get back to sleep. (Stop, grumbling, Nancy, I told myself over and over. It could be worse. You’ll live.)

I didn’t sleep at all the second night which was especially problematical since the following day was the all-day fast out in the wilderness. Actually, I had been looking forward to it. I fast at home sometimes, usually for 24 hours. This was a longer fast. We were all sent out to find private spaces in the forest or along the river. We were given a back pack with a notebook of spiritual teachings and prompts for reflection and writing, and a supply of water and sports-drinks. We also carried a folding camp chair.

I knew it would turn out to be a warm day, so I dressed lightly. First mistake. The morning was cold. I had chosen a large field with a spectacular view of the surrounding mountains. But the tall trees to the side kept the sun from reaching the field and I began to shiver. Then shake. My dizziness increased and I did not feel spiritual at all. I finally got up and went seeking another spot, finally finding a lovely place in the forest with sun coming through the trees and a view of the river. But two hours had passed in the meantime.

Our pack included sports drinks, which I usually don’t consume, but I thought that extra electrolytes would help me, so I drank both bottles, noting how much they tasted like colonoscopy preparation.

I made it through the day, fighting my lack of sleep and my dizziness the whole time. When we gathered at the meeting room at the end of the day, our leaders led us through some debriefing exercises. They went on longer than I had hoped for; I was anticipating a small nourishing meal to end the day. Then our leader told us our fast would end at breakfast the next day. Slight let-down. But sleep awaited.

And I did sleep well. After breakfast the next morning, I discovered why the sports-drinks had tasted like colonoscopy prep. They were colonoscopy prep. Or very near to the real thing. I experienced painless but uncontrollable diarrhea all morning long, meaning I could not participate fully in the teaching. I did manage to sit in the back of the room by the door in case I needed to dash out. The staff was understanding, even did an extra load of laundry for me. But I was exhausted.

OK. So much for this tale of woe!

In spite of the challenges, by the end of the week I had no doubts that the Holy Spirit had touched and refreshed me. I was meant to be at that retreat. I wondered why at different points. Most of the teaching and the experiences the staff led us in I had been experiencing all my life. It wasn’t new stuff. But I came to realize that certain spiritual practices never get old, that for the rest of my life I still need to seek healing for past hurts and wounds, to let the Spirit reveal areas of sin in my life that need confessing, show me people and events that I still need to forgive. This is all deep stuff and the Spirit ministered to me in all these areas.

Even during that long, difficult day of fasting. At one point near the end of the day, a phrase popped out of one of the readings and I felt God giving it to me, something to carry with me into the future. The phrase was Live the glory! I’m looking forward to understanding what that means. Near the end of the afternoon, we were told to open the packet of letters written to us by family and friends. Hal had collected them in the weeks before the camp. The letters were like light coming through the leaves, warming and blessing me. Through the letters, I received a second word from God: Write the glory! An affirmation of my life’s calling. Yes.

The blessing and refreshing touched all of us at the retreat, regardless of age. It’s good to remember that.

However, I need to consider the physical challenges the next time I have a retreat or camping opportunity. Hal and I are still hanging on to our little two-person tent, the camping stove and dishes, the blow-up mattresses, the sleeping bags, and other valuable paraphernalia. Sunday evening as I was telling him about my experience at the retreat, I added, I think it’s time to give away all that stuff to whichever grandkid wants it.

In fact, maybe we could exchange our camping equipment for a few nights at a resort hotel. That sort of camping I can still do.