Now That I’m Old. Where Am I Going?

My loft: packing up

After 13 years of living together with my daughter in a big old house in NE Portland, with my two grandchildren, it’s time for us to part ways. The children are grown and my daughter is seeking her freedom.

If it were plausible and possible, I would stay here for the rest of my life. But now that I’m 77 years old, it’s time for me to have found cheaper digs and fewer stairs.

I’d be lying if I didn’t say that I’m full of trepidation about my physical well – being. I survived polio at 5 years old that left me with a weak right arm, the deltoid not having survived the paralysis. I also survived a terrible bout with cancer and 8 months of chemo when I was 56 years old. One does not escape cancer or chemo unscathed.

I’ve had a very eventful and adventurous life. I went full bore into it. Because of this, my body, my soul, my head and my heart are full of memories. I realize now that there are fewer years ahead of me than are behind me and I fully enjoy reminiscing and writing about my life.

I have said this before and I’ll say it again. I’m not afraid of dying, but I am afraid of living. Age is taking its toll on me with crackling joints and weakening muscles, a slower and less elegant gait and increasing girth.

I understand fully our vulnerability. We are assailed on all sides by decline and a world made very scary by other humans, natural disasters and accidents and by other living things and the intervention of technology. But I have lived bravely and brightly.

So because of my age, I admit to some fear about moving on my own into unfamiliar territory and at this age, when I am not in my prime… not even close to it. And we are living in uncertain times. Let’s not get into politics, except to say:

I would be foolish to not wonder if this country will continue to support me with MY Social Security and MY retirement fund, which I have earned and are not a hand out from the government.

What began this story was when a friend asked if I were worried about my daughter going basically on her own without children and without me. I responded with a resounding, NO! and here’s why:

At her age, I had been divorced. Had started going to university. Spent a year in Mexico, including a semester at the University of Queretero and traveled throughout Mexico with the curator of the Museum of Art of the same cty.

Upon returning I had an amazing 3 year affair with a beautiful Cuban. Moved to Tallahassee on a fellowship, traveled cross country on a train. I found shortly after one semester that the deep south was not for me.

So I moved to Santa Monica to attend UCLA on another fellowship. By that time, I had finished 11 years of university at 5 different schools. I moved back to Portland and started a beautiful career at OHSU as their first and only professional archivist, retiring after 16 years.

When I moved back to Portland, I moved my mother in with me. Fell for an Indian Sikh. Had cancer and survived surgery, and 8 months of chemo. My mother and I lived together 8 years when she passed away. She stayed at home with me until the day she passed.

Since moving back to Portland, I had moved 4 times by the time I moved in here with my daughter. And now, here I am, moving again, not totally by choice.

So do I have any worries concerning my daughter?

She is made up of the same stuff as I am and maybe more. It’s her story so without giving any detail, I will just say, she got her massage therapy license while she raised two children alone and finished her BS degree. She’s now Spa Drector where she has worked as lead therapist for 14 years. She supports herself. She’s physically healthy and strong.

Nope, I’m not worried about her at all, any more than any mother would. For sure this is more about me than about her. But when my friend asked, if I was worried about this time of change, it caused me to reflect on life. Actually, I look forward to hearing about her adventures from here on out, about her brave and bright life.

Forced Words. Hurt.

The grating dissonance of a poem that is supposed to rhyme,

But does not.

Forced words. Hurt.

A flow of words appearing in prose, don’t.

Yet well placed words, like river rocks,

Just the right distance apart as you leap from one to another,

Safely reaching the other side.

That exhilarating feeling of not having gotten wet.

Those words have fallen naturally into place,

Just as those river rocks, being forced only by nature,

By water and earth’s movements,

Creating kind of a chaotic beauty that human hands could never form.

Pleasing to the eyes and to the ears as the water that gives life, rushes over them.

The Cat that Stalks Me

I can’t believe I’m able to do this. I can’t believe that day after day, I can put one foot in front of the other and put one thing in a box, and one thing in a bag, and end the day, still putting things in bags and boxes.

Useless, precious, beautiful objects of my affection. Proof of my existence. And one day no one will care for them nor remember me.

This hard work and I still don’t know what the hell I’m doing or where I’m going. And even less whatI I’m supposed to be doing or where I should be going. I try not to think about it too much. I just keep doing.

This is how I’ve lived my life. When a door opens, I just go in. Not putting much thought into it. And here I am getting closer and closer to the end of my life and still living the same way. But more aware than ever of futility.

And now worry stalks me like a dangerous and silent cat in the wild would. I am it’s prey and it, my predator.

I think it’s always been with me. I used to not notice it. But these days, I’m made aware of it by weakness creeping in, by my slowing gait, by increasing frailty.

I’m aware of its footsteps falling almost imperceptible except for a rare snap of a twig, or a small tumble of a stone. but still closely behind. I’m beginning to hear it’s heavy breathing when I hush. I hear its snuffling at my foot prints left in the soft soil I call my life.

It is there in the night with only the stars and the moon as my companions… no protection at all but, I remind myself, I still can call up fire. But it never rests and so neither can I. I can sometimes see its eyes glowing in the flickering flames.

During the daylight hours, I am distracted mostly, but these days, not like in the past. What will I do when I can no longer move forward, when I must lay down, when rest is needed more than life itself?

Then I will lie down. Then worry and wonder and unknowing will no longer stalk me. Then I will rest.  Then, I will no longer need the strength that now I do.

So now, before I lay me down, I will put some more things in bags and I will put some more things in boxes.

Good night, big and beautiful and wild cat. I hear you breathing softly.

The Owl and the Flight of the Crows

I wanted to tell you something just in case I forget. It was New Year’s Eve and…

we were out on the sidewalk about to get in the car to drive to a party. We were stopped in our tracks and we quickly hushed. Was that an owl? Yes. It had to be a big owl because it had a very big voice and its message was urgent, if I might extrapolate. It was in the fir tree next door to our house.

I was surprised because I hear owls all the time in our yard, but they’re small owls. Neighbors have been able to catch photos of them but I have only heard them on *Merlin. We live just blocks away from a large park where predator birds are regularly seen.

This might have been a forewarning of what was to come at the party that evening.

The story is about crows and owls and not the disturbing occurrence at the party that night. But there was a huge upset that evening. We left the party early. I didn’t think of the owl’s presence and warning until days later.

On our way home, we drove downtown to look at the Christmas lights and the street parties going on. Cafes, bars and restaurants were in full party mode. People filled the sidewalks and were walking al】nd standing in the streets as music emanated from indoors.

The annual Christmas tree in the square was lit up and probably could have been seen from space. The theaters were emptying out after shows onto the streets.

In the square, live music was playing, and it was packed out with people streaming in, dancing and laughing and talking. Everyone was in a party mood.

On every street corner, there were people selling the most amazing lights suspended on poles. They looked like giant dandelion seed heads of iridescent colors swinging in the night air.

In spite of the upset at the party, the night ended well. When we got home, we made mimosas and stayed awake until the clock struck midnight and we welcomed in 2026.

I didn’t think again about the owl until the day before yesterday, I woke early in the morning just at daybreak and looked about a block away at a very, very large deciduous tree. The entire tree was covered in crows. I mean covered. More ornamental than bobbles on a christmas tree.

More crows were attempting to land on the tree but there wasn’t much room, so an occasional displaced crow would fly into the sky while another landed. Suddenly, the sky was filled with crows, heading for that tree from the east.

There were hundreds of crows in the sky, and the crows on the tree flew up into the air as well, turning the sky almost black with a riotous noise of crowing.

At the time, I couldn’t imagine what might be going on that there was such a gathering. Was it an event of the local groups of murders? Was it something in the air, at a specific date and time? Was this an ominous warning from the crows that I should be paying attention to?

All of a sudden and all at once:

they headed towards our yard and like a black cloud they landed in the maple tree next door to our shed and in the maple in our yard. It was mind blowing, to say the least.


What I didn’t know was that Hannah was outside, under this huge flight of crows, so she had a better view of what was really going on.

In the maple tree was a gigantic owl. Could it be the same one that had been warning us on new year’s eve? As the crows came in for a landing, the owl stretched its huge wing span and took to the sky.

Hannah swears that the crows were chasing the owl out of their territory. As the owl took off, the crows lifted from the trees where they had landed and soon vanished.

It was absolutely amazing. I know the Audubon says that we need to accept the crows as the new urban bird. But I’ve struggled with that because they do eat the eggs of our song birds. But it was both beautiful and frightening… ominous.

I’m so glad I woke to see it.

* Merlin is a free bird ID app by Cornell Lab of Ornithology

I Don’t Want to Live Long… Unless:

What are your thoughts on the concept of living a very long life?

Unless you’re physically and mentally in good health, it is my opinion that one should, as well as might be accomplished, pass on gratefully and peacefully.

When I say, ” in good health”, both physically and mentally, I am aware that good health is relative to each individual. I intimately know what it means to me. I have been nigh unto death twice in my life.

As for me, I do not want to live disabled,  physically confined to a wheelchair nor in a bed nor in a nursing home staring at the walls. Nor would I want to live with dementia. My grandmother had dementia, and it was torturous, more so for her, but also for those of us who loved her dearly.

As my mom used to say when she was dying on hospice, I do not want my heart to keep on beating when my mind ceases to function. I am in complete agreement with that sentiment.

Many members of my family have lived very long lives, some even passed one hundred years. When I was younger, I thought I wanted to follow in their footsteps. I no longer have that wish.

Now that I’m nearing 80, I know what pain is. I know what it is have your organs begin to fail. I know what it is to feel myself getting weaker, though I work on my physical body constantly.

I know what it is to be disrespected by those that are younger. I know what it is to be disregarded, though I am educated and my intellect is still intact. I make an effort to learn new things every day.

But in spite of all of that, I love my life. I enjoy my memories. I love each season in turn. I have had an adventurous life. I have been loved good and bad. As I like to say, “I have been ridden hard and put away wet”.  And I have no regrets. I can say with a keen certainty that I fear life more than death.

For now, I will live my life just as I wish… anyway, as well as my diminutive finances will let me. I am satisfied with what I have. But I don’t wish to live without my health and an ability to keep a roof over my head and food in my belly.

When I was younger, and my life was full of new experiences, I often said, “Leave when you have to; stay as long as you can”. I realize now that wasn’t always the best advice. But it sure made for an interesting life.

The Mountain Hare Hat: what a challenge.

What am I working on now, you might ask. Well, I’m working on my frustration and trying for patience and acceptance. Let me tell you why.

This is Alice Starmore’s, Mountain Hare Hat featured in the publication, “Glamourie”, by same said author. It’s quite a substantial hardcover publication with 278 pages, containing 11 knitting patterns and 7 costumes and stories illustrated to go along with the patterns.

I’ve had my heart set on making this hat since I saw it online years ago. I purchased the kit and borrowed the book from the library. But that wasn’t good enough. I had to buy the book even though I knew I wouldn’t be making any of the other patterns contained within.. But it’s just a glorious book and worth having in one’s own library. The photographs and the stories are enough in themselves to justify the price. The price is substantial but like I said before, worth having.

I knew when I bought the kit, and contemplated, making the hat that it was not a beginers level pattern. But I was just over the line of a beginner and had been knitting sweaters and mittens and hats and shawls and scarves and socks, etc. There were always expected challenges in everything that I knit., but this pattern is kicking my ass.

The kit came with the yarn only and no pattern attached, which is unusual, but I bit the bullet because I was so in love with the hat. The yarn is Alice Starmore’s Hebridean, 2 ply. The colors are well named pebble beach, corncrake, driftwood and sundew. It was the colors that drew me in and the one of a kind design. The yarn is rustic and the hand dyed colors are taken from nature.

So what could go wrong? Everything, it seems, from cast-on to working with the chart. I started and ripped out at least 4 times before I put the pattern, the book and the dreaded object aside. I was worried that knitting, and then ripping it out too many times would ruin the yarn. For some reason, I left it sitting out on my baskets of yarn and it bothered me, it bothered me bad that I couldn’t get it done. It wasn’t the pattern’s fault, nor was it the yarn’s fault… there is only one other thing to blame and it is me.

So, after I finished christmas knitting and the new year celebrations had come and gone, I decided to start on the Mountain Hare Hat once again. I tore out what I had already started and left abandoned and wound the yarn into balls. Then I made my first mistake.

I started my cast-on with the larger needle size and it was supposed to be the smaller needle size indicated in the pattern. But by the time I realized it, I was through with the brim. The next mistake was that I thought that it would be alright. Well, as you can see, it’s not alright. As I began on the body of the hat, the brim gave kind of a flare. Dammit, I’m not going to tear it out again. I’m going to just keep going.

In the brim are a row of french knots. I was supposed to make them with a contrasting color but after the first few knots, I said to myself, f*** it. I was following the instructions, but somehow the knots were ending up on the inside of the brim. So not only are they not the right color but they’re on the inside of the cap. But I quickly convinced myself that I can push them through. They’re not happy about it, but I think I can do a little fixing to make them stay on the right side.

So, “soldier on”, said I to myself. I’m not ripping this out again. At this point I decided that, make all of the mistakes that you will, but I will not rip back. Sure, I will “tink” back if I’ve made a knit stitch where I should have made a purl stitch, but I’m not ripping back for anything. I will finish this hat and wear this hat, be it a big fat mess or at least acceptable.

So, as you can see from the image, it’s not a big fat mess, but it’s barely acceptable. I’ve tried it on and it fits great. In spite of all of these problems that I’m having with this pattern, I’m having fun. I am what they call a process knitter and not necessarily a product  knitter. Maybe when I’ve finished, and I’ve blocked it, some of the mistakes will be buried by this beautiful yarn.

I still have a long way to go. I’m only on row 27 and there’s upwards of 60 some rows, then there’s all the french knots to make throughout and the finishing touch of a felted button at the very top.

I’m determined to go on no matter how many mistakes I make. When I finish, I will post a photo of it.

My moniker isn’t “abundant imperfections” for nothing.

I Won’t Apologize

I will never apologize for what I haven’t done,

Even if it would give your mind ease, to think you are right and justify how you treat me.

Accuse me and blame me without evidence all that you want,

But still, I won’t apologize for what I haven’t done.

Dislike me, or hate me at whatever level of intensity pleases you. it matters not to me,

I won’t apologize for what I haven’t done, just to see you satisfied.

Tell lies about me. Tell lies about my life. Try as you will to hurt me,

Still, I won’t apologize for what I haven’t done.

Do your best to destroy my relationships with others with your tall tales, your tales of victimhood.

But still I won’t apologize to try to save
my love, not even their love for me.

And rest assured I will not use what I know about you to hurt you or to shame you or to justify my means.

I will stand in my defenselessness. I don’t need to prove my innocence, not to you nor to anyone.

I stand here accused and judged by you, ” the blameless saint”, and by the jury. I have stood before you claiming my innocence.

Yet not one word out of my mouth is believed. Why should I speak? My guilt is already determined.

I am not imprisoned by your words of judgment, nor by the sentence you will try to enforce.

My innocence will stand against your hatred. It stands against the venom that spews from your mouth, the darkness on your face, your gestures, the fire of hell and brimstone in your eyes.

Your judgment and hatred has in actuality been your prison for all these years.  Your suffering has been and is self inflicted, while I have walked free.

I will not apologize for what I haven’t done.

From what I can see, you have sentenced yourself to a lifetime of imprisonment. And though I have offered you clemency, you have refused.

Though you did, and still label our old love, “a neurotic attachment”, that is not how I see it. But my words will not convince. I will no longer try for peace.

Though I have forgiven you a thousand times in a thousand ways, I will not ever again stand in harm’s way… And:

I swear to you, and it is a promise to myself, that I will not ever, ever, apologize for what I have not done.

Things he said to me

Some things he said to me left deep footprints in the mud part of my mind.

This is not love. It’s a neurotic attachment

You’re more stupid than my mother

You are stupid, shallow and ridiculous

You’re cold

And why did he say those things?

Was it revenge? A payback for hurting him?

He hated my fat and insulted me in front of friends, family and visitors.

He even ḥit me a few times and pushed me and then wanted me to make love.

I couldn’t, though I loved him and I tried but I drew back,  repulsed, not by him but in defense, I suppose,  I really don’t know.

When the Moon Wakes Me

The moon woke me gently last night,

Briefly on his journey southward.

He knew that I would be waiting for him,

But I was deep in slumber.

The moon, and the planets and the stars,

All know that I wait for them

But I live in Portland, in the deep valley,

West of the Cascades and east of the Coast range.

Where the clouds hang in between, heavy with rain.

Autumn brings wet and blustery days and a promise of snow.

But tonight was the…. moon  the nearest he will pass by this year.

Too my chagrin, I opened my eyes as the clouds were passing by on their journey north,

They crisscrossed as though they were dancers in the sky.

Giving me only a glimpse of his majestic beauty.

I greeted him. But I cried at his departure. How fleeting was our visit.

Probably not Presentable

I’m truly turning into that stereotypical old woman.

I wear the same clothes every day for at least a week, unless they’re too dirty to be seen in public. At home dirty clothes are all right with me.

I don’t change my underwear every day unless they smell.

I only change my sheets every couple of weeks, sometimes, only once a month.

I don’t wash my face every day. I don’t like to shower except after I’ve been in the pool for aquafit classes, and so I don’t.

I’d rather eat a hamburger out every day than cook. I rarely eat salad. I want cookies and/or candy every day.

I wish I could get away without brushing my teeth, or ever going to the dentist. The same goes for visiting the doctor.

I don’t really ever want to leave the house. I’m happy with staying home with my knitting; nothing could entice me to travel.

I’d rather concentrate on memories than making plans. Dying doesn’t scare me but living does.

But in spite of that, I went to the “Christmas Revels” last night, and it was wonderful. I put on clean clothes, brushed my hair and my teeth and washed my face. I had aquafit in the morning, so I had a shower.

I was, for a night, what you might call, presentable.