Things I don't do well but can't give up

 It seems that much of growing older has to do with giving up. It begins with giving up our job, sometimes a life-long career, and that involves giving up part of our personal identity. Then we move on to giving up stuff (we call it downsizing), giving up relationships (more of our friends are dying), and giving up activities we used to be good at. We move on to giving up the car and, sometimes, giving up our teeth and other body parts. We fear someday giving up our dignity as people have to care for us as though we were infants.

Grim.

When my thoughts about all this become too grim for comfort, then it’s humor to the rescue. So I made a list of “things I don’t do well but can’t give up, at least not yet.” Here’s the list:

1.     --Cooking: Actually, I’m not sure I’ve ever done this well. I have a history of bland casseroles, substituted ingredients that didn’t turn out, forgetting the cheese, stuff burnt on the bottom of the pan, and so on. Hal and our grown kids reassure me they enjoyed my meals, but they are all very nice people and wouldn’t say anything else. At any rate, I’m even less fond of cooking now than I ever was. But I’m not ready to give it up. We have a kitchenette in our apartment, so I cook. And when I’d can’t bear the thought, we go down to the community dining room where other nice people fix our meals.

2.     --My guitar: This is another activity I’m not sure I ever did well, but it gave me a lot of joy. I got my first guitar in high school when folk music was the rage. I loved Joan Baez and wanted to be like her, and so—the guitar. I’ve plunked and strummed for many years now, but never arrived at any proficiency. There are two reasons for this: 1) I don’t have the musical gene and 2) I hate to practice.  Right now the guitar sits propped up against the book case, along with her daughter, a ukelele (which I also used to play). I keep thinking I’ll begin playing again and get really good at it. And tomorrow would be a good time to start. The thought of getting rid of them makes me sad.

3.   

--Tent camping: Hal and I used to do this. But the last few times we’d begun to wonder. Those air mattresses seem to be getting thinner and thinner, our backs in the morning stiffer and stiffer. Getting up several times in the middle of the night to wander through the trees to the camp bathroom doesn’t seem as adventuresome any more. To be honest, the last time we hauled our camping equipment to some lovely state park was before the pandemic. But the stuff still occupies much of our storage container—tent, tarp, air mattresses, pump, sleeping bags, propane stove, pots and pans, lantern, and numerous other essential camping stuff. From time to time, we talk about getting rid of it, but we just can’t bring ourselves to do it. Not yet.

4.     --Art supplies: These occupy space in our apartment and I also have a locker down in the community art room. I’ve never considered myself an artist, but after retirement I began to experiment and enjoyed it. I’ve even taken a few art classes here in the retirement community. So I dabble and sometimes I get it right. I’ve become good enough for personal greeting cards, including some really funny birthday cards for the grandkids. However, along with my missing music gene, I was not born with an art gene. When I say, “I’m not really an artist,” my friends tell me never to say that. But it’s true. Still, I’m keeping the art supplies for now and using them. It’s healthy. And fun.

5.     --House plants: Some people kid about murdering their house plants. But I won’t kid about it; I am that criminal. And yet I love the idea of filling my rooms with beautiful leaves and blooms—real ones. Plastic doesn’t appeal. So I’m going to keep trying. I’ll just stoically throw out the dead plants and buy more as needed. My plants look really good for at least a year.

6.     --Poetry: Like so many serious writers (even writers of humor), I periodically wrestle with doubts. Some days I look at my books and think, “Wow! I like these poems!” Other days I want to throw everything I’ve ever written in the garbage. Pathetic, right? I wonder if I’m losing my edge as I age. But then I think that if I write a poem a day, out of 365 poems a year, some are bound to be good. Really good. Simple statistics. At least that’s what I keep telling myself. I’m in no way ready to give this up.

7.   

 --Prayer: I used to think I had a special calling as an intercessor—praying for family, friends, enemies, against all sorts of illnesses, and, of course, for world peace. I still wistfully hope I have this calling. But then why do I fall asleep every time I sit down to pray? Pacing and praying makes me dizzy. Is there a new technique I need to learn? (I hope not. I’ve always resisted praying by technique.) I still want to go out on a limb as I pray, asking God for impossible things, like world peace. I just also need to pray that the limb doesn’t break. No, I’m definitely not willing to give this up.

This list could go on and on, but that’s enough for now. Life goes on. I probably will give up the guitar and the camping equipment. But for the time being, I’m hanging on to the rest.

I’m not giving up.

For as long as I live--I will sing

Memory plays strange tricks on us as we age. Not only are the edges of the past blurred, our priorities get mixed. Take music, for example. Songs. What songs do we remember from the past? What has slipped away?

I remember the silly songs from childhood—Old MacDonald and his farm, the alphabet song, “The Itsy Bitsy Spider” of course, and the irritating “Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall.” It helps memory that we taught these songs to our kids (except for the beer song).

But I also remember some totally inane rock-n-roll songs from early adolescence. I can sing all the verses of “Splish, Splash, I was takin’ a bath,” “Wake up, little Susy, wake up,” “The Purple-People Eater,” and of course the incomparable Elvis—“Jailhouse Rock” and “You Ain’t Nothin’ but a Hound Dog, yapping all the time.” These songs often come back to me at inappropriate times, like when I’m taking a prayer walk or sitting in church. What does that say about me?

I wrote in a December blog about this past Christmas season when Hal played his harmonica, joining two ukulele players, preforming in the memory care unit of our retirement community. When the trio broke into “Here Comes Santa Claus,” “Frosty the Snowman,” and “Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” the residents began tapping their feet, grinning, and singing along, memory loss and all.

This community recognizes the value of music to the elderly and offers all kinds of opportunities. A music committee oversees activities such as a mixed choir that gave a marvelous Christmas concert and is already planning for Easter. Music plays an important part of the on-campus worship services—chiefly Sunday morning worship and Wednesday evening prayer meetings. Informal hymn sing-alongs and piano concerts regularly take place in the lobby. From time to time, guest musicians give special presentations. There’s lots of music going on around here.

Hal and I have our tickets for the Portland Symphony concert next door in the university auditorium. Every year this famous orchestra gives a concert in Newberg, offering 35 tickets to our retirement community (first-come-first-served). I made sure to get ours early. This year it will be a pops concert featuring the music of Gershwin. Can’t wait!

Our wider local community also offers opportunities. Hal plays his French horn in the Cheleham Valley Community Band. Its membership includes all ages, from high school on up to the elderly. Its intergenerational nature makes it more fun. Hal struggles with wondering whether or not it’s time to give it up. He says he’s not as good as he used to be when younger; plus the once a week night rehearsals and the need to practice every night (a goal not always met) challenge his stamina. I’m telling him, “Not yet, please.” That time will come soon enough.

Unlike Hal, I don’t have the musical gene. My voice range is one octave that squeaks at the top. As far as instruments go, consistently keeping the right rhythm is more than I can manage. And yet I love the idea of playing an instrument. I’ve strummed the guitar since high school days, never reaching any level of proficiency. But I’m not giving up. Last year I purchased a Great Courses series called, “How To Play the Guitar.” It promises that if I persist through all 24 lessons, I will “master” all that is taught in one college semester.

Sounds good. I’m finding it a lot of fun and especially feel good about finally learning how to read music. But this will take more than a semester. I’m slowly working my way through the DVD and Hal tells me I’m sounding better. But a sneak-peak at the advanced lessons gives me grave doubt. I might stop while I’m still having fun. At any rate, it’s stimulating my aging brain, or so the experts tell me.

It’s without doubt that music ministers to the elderly in ways we can’t always understand. Hal and I used to visit my dear friend Harriet before she died at 104-years-old. She loved it when Hal brought his harmonica and played old hymns. Some times she sang along. When it came time for us to leave, she would always say, “No! Play more songs!” Usually we stayed a while longer.

Hal’s parents spent their last months of life in a care home. Both were suffering from dementia. Conversation was difficult as both memory and logical thought processes had decayed. Yet when we sang together, all the words of the old hymns were there, accessible, and they sang with joy. All the verses.

Hal’s mom had been an accomplished pianist; most of her skill had left her, but she could still play simple tunes in the key of C. But when Hal sat with her at the old piano in the care home, he would play his harmonica and she would follow along on the keyboard, her fingers remembering more than she thought she knew. A big smile would light up her face.

On the last few days before her death, family members would gather around the bed, talking in low voices, praying, and singing. Mom remained unconscious. On the day before her death, while we were singing, I happened to look at her feet, and they were moving back and forth, keeping perfect time to the music. She was responding on a deep inner level.

I love it when the psalmist proclaims: “I will sing to the Lord all my life; I will sing praise to my God as long as I live” (Psalm104:33). That sounds like a healthy intention—mentally, emotionally, even physically. Music makes a different. It’s a life-giving component of the aging process.

I intend to go on singing, maybe accompanying myself on the guitar, for as long as I am able. I may even enter into heaven singing.

It probably won’t be “Jailhouse Rock.”

 

 

[For those of you who responded to last week’s blog about the branches falling on my daughter’s house, here’s an update. While the damage is extensive, the structure is sound and insurance will cover the repairs. These will be extensive—replacing the roof and several walls, as well as the deck. They are staying with friends now, divided among three households, looking far a temporary rental where they can be together. The story continues, but the family’s spirits are good.]