I am discovering that a part of adjusting to growing older involves having to learn to accept an ever increasing number of losses. So many deaths have occured around me within the last few years. Losses seem to be occurring at an accelerating pace now that I am in my fifties. Within the past five years I've said lost my dad, my sister, my aunt Anne, my aunt Gale, my cousins Jeff and Diane, my old graduate school classmate Ginger, several beloved pets, my mother-in-law, and now my neighbor Lorenzo.
Lorenzo lived across the street from me for almost ten years. He was one of the first neighbors I met shortly after I bought my house just south of the University of Florida campus near Bivens Lake. We were fairly close in age. He was an artist, visionary, and dreamer in a big way. I enjoyed hearing him talk about liberal politics, art, nature, and his family roots in Bolivia. Born Larry, he came to embrace his Hispanic identity and changed his name as an adult to Lorenzo. He had conflicted relationships with his siblings and friends. Lorenzo had a girlfriend for awhile, whom he met in a substance abuse treatment program. She moved in with him, and even brought along her sister and younger brother. They seemed like a happy clan for a few years, and then one by one they drifted away, the girlfriend being the last to go. Lorenzo was raising two daughters by former marriages. One left home to get married right after her high school graduation. The other girl stayed home while attending a local college, but eventually she, too, met a guy and moved away to Nashville with him.
Lorenzo lived in a big ramshackle two story house with wood siding. Over the years, the house fell into poor repair, with the roof leaking and weeds taking over the entire yard. Lorenzo didn't seem to care. I heard from other neighbors that he was ill. He became more and more reclusive, seldom venturing out. One day his siblings came and started cleaning pickup truckloads of trash out of the house. His kitty Paco, whom Lorenzo had taken in several years ago after Paco was abandoned by some university students, had been eating at our house with our cats for awhile, as Lorenzo had become a little casual about putting out kibbles for him.
One day I came home and found Paco, waiting for his dinner as usual on our front step, with a huge gaping wound on his neck. I examined him and was disturbed to see his muscle exposed through the long tender gash. He had apparently tangled with some critter, maybe a possum or racoon, and suffered a nasty bite. I wanted to help but wasn't sure what approach to take, with Lorenzo being ill.
Rather than knocking on Lorenzo's door, I decided to drop his daughter an email asking if she wanted me to take Paco to a vet. I was stunned by her reply. She said her father had passed away two weeks prior, and she thought that I had agreed that Paco could live with me. In my ideal world, some member of their family would have contacted me shortly after Lorenzo's death. But reality isn't ideal, and things didn't happen according to my expectations. As I mature, I am finally realizing that life is like that sometimes. I emailed her back with my condolences and an assurance that I would take care of the cat.
A few weeks after antibiotics and daily wound care, Paco's neck is healed. He still hangs around across the street most of the time at Lorenzo's vacant house, but comes over to our place faithfully twice a day to eat. It seems to me that Lorenzo's ghost still hovers near, and I can see him in my mind's eye going for walks along our street, with his glassy blue eyes and mop of graying Einstein-like hair. Maybe he is having difficulty leaving this world. Lorenzo once told me that creatures shouldn't be buried after death because it ties them to a specific place and their spirit can't roam freely. A Google search for his obituary revealed that his remains were left to the Neptune Society for cremation. Nevertheless, I think it will still be awhile before he moves on fully to the next realm.
I'm learning that I must grieve each loss and move on. I cannot live in a world of the past, as this contributes to depression. I must greet each new day and look forward to the possibilities that it brings. I must have more beginnings than endings. Nurturing my relationship, keeping in touch with friends, meeting new people, doing something creative, and being of service to others keeps me engaged with the world and connected to life. Some days when my mood is low, I don't feel like I'm doing anybody any good. My hope that I can make things beautiful and help others gives me reasons to get out of bed in the morning. Making a difference gives my life meaning. Lorenzo is gone, and so his kitty has now joined our family, and I am happy for the opportunity to care for this cat and make a difference for him. Paco is the future.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
End of Auburn
Our big red pickup truck rolls westward over the bridge crossing the Chattahoochee River near the state borders of Georgia and Alabama. We drive on towards the town of Auburn, where you earned your living as a university librarian for twenty five years. As we pull into town, Jack suggests that we go straight to the storage facility before checking into our hotel. All of your worldly goods have been kept in storage there ever since you died a little over two years ago.
This is our second trip to the storage unit. Jack and I came to Auburn last May with Uncle Jim and Aunt Gale. We brought home your desk and some paintings, and Aunt Gale kept a couple of dolls from your collection. I was too overwhelmed to deal with the rest of it during that trip. I remembered the storage unit as being about the size of a two car garage, with furniture and boxes of personal effects stacked up to the ceiling. Upon our arrival this trip, I was relieved to see that the volume of stuff that had filled your old Victorian house in Opelika for almost twenty years was a little less than I had thought.
We begin loading the lighter pieces of furniture into the back of the truck, including your wicker arch shelves, Danish modern dinette, and a night stand or two. When our truck is full, we make the first of what will be many trips over the next couple of days to Goodwill. Their workers help us unload the goods. We check into the Holiday Inn, freshen up a bit, and then go out to a Mexican place for burritos and a glass of wine. After dinner, we head back to the hotel and relax in the jacuzzi tub.
The next morning we get up early, and put on t-shirts and jeans. At the storage facility, I start sorting through dozens of boxes filled with towels and tablecloths, pots and pans, Christmas ornaments, stainless flatware, and paperback novels. I glance around the storage unit and realize that this room contains all that is left of your existence. It makes me a little sad.
Jack works on arranging the heavier pieces of furniture to make them more accessible for the thrift store workers who are coming for pick-up. Two guys arrive in a large truck with a hydraulic lift. They are happy to receive your floral upholstered sofa sleeper, the mahogany 1980's style coffee table, and that blue velvet arm chair you loved so much. Into their truck goes the oak bed frame Uncle Jim bought you when you moved to Lexington to work on your masters degree at the University of Kentucky, and a large chest of drawers. A dining room table and matching chairs also go into the truck. I'm a little sad to part with your beloved Lane cedar chest, but there's no space for it in our house, so off to the thrift store it goes. I hope it finds a good home.
After the thrift store truck has gone, Jack and I continue to sort through the storage unit. Your sewing machine, an old typewriter, luggage, and several large bags of clothing all go into our pickup. I unfold your favorite pairs of jeans, dresses, and pretty sweaters. I decide to save only a scarf for myself. Your old patent leather clutch purse that was all the rage in 1971 makes me smile. I decide to pass it all along to others who may need clothing and a vintage handbag more than I do.
I look, a little wistfully, through a box filled with some of your favorite childhood books. I remember how you loved Pipi Longstocking and On the Banks of Plum Creek. I'm tempted to keep the books, but then decide pass them along to Goodwill so that other children can enjoy them as much as you did.
I unwrap the colorful folk art paintings of Aunt Jemima Self-Rising Flour and Planters Roasted Peanuts that you liked so much. They adorned your kitchen walls and made you happy, but they also absorbed so much negative karma over the years of your marriage that it hurts me to look at them. Seeing those pictures brings back memories of the two of you standing in the kitchen screaming at one another. I decide to give them to Goodwill so that they can find their way to new homes where they will make other people happy.
We work all day, sorting through seemingly endless boxes of papers, tossing out old bank statements, tax returns, and correspondence. I save some of your birthday cards and old letters from friends and family. Jack and I decide to bring home your beautiful Blue Willow wedding china. I save your photo albums, high school yearbooks, and several pieces of art. I keep your Bible and an unabridged dictionary. We find a blender and several other items we can use at our house. I find one very special treasure, the little white satin ring pillow from our parents wedding. It has the words "Iris and Charles, August 21, 1947" embroidered on it. I am so happy to have it. I find a 1960s modern style lamp, from our house in Myrtle Grove, and I load it into the truck. It has good vibes.
There is not enough room in our truck to bring home the big white wooden bookcase that was in the bedroom we shared as little girls in our house on St. Regis Drive. Sadly, we also have no room for our Grandaddy's rocking chair. I call the minister at the Unitarian Universalist Fellowship of Auburn. She says we can drop those items off at the church and promises to give them a good home. I also give her your flower pot decorated with pretty painted irises, your little ceramic dog bank for her grandson, and your Robert Frost poetry book for the church library.
I look around at familiar landmarks as we drive through this quaint little college town. I wave goodbye to the library. At the cemetery, I place a bouquet of silk tulips on your grave, as well as two little ceramic angels I found carefully wrapped in tissue paper in a box with some other figurines.
This is our second trip to the storage unit. Jack and I came to Auburn last May with Uncle Jim and Aunt Gale. We brought home your desk and some paintings, and Aunt Gale kept a couple of dolls from your collection. I was too overwhelmed to deal with the rest of it during that trip. I remembered the storage unit as being about the size of a two car garage, with furniture and boxes of personal effects stacked up to the ceiling. Upon our arrival this trip, I was relieved to see that the volume of stuff that had filled your old Victorian house in Opelika for almost twenty years was a little less than I had thought.
We begin loading the lighter pieces of furniture into the back of the truck, including your wicker arch shelves, Danish modern dinette, and a night stand or two. When our truck is full, we make the first of what will be many trips over the next couple of days to Goodwill. Their workers help us unload the goods. We check into the Holiday Inn, freshen up a bit, and then go out to a Mexican place for burritos and a glass of wine. After dinner, we head back to the hotel and relax in the jacuzzi tub.
The next morning we get up early, and put on t-shirts and jeans. At the storage facility, I start sorting through dozens of boxes filled with towels and tablecloths, pots and pans, Christmas ornaments, stainless flatware, and paperback novels. I glance around the storage unit and realize that this room contains all that is left of your existence. It makes me a little sad.
Jack works on arranging the heavier pieces of furniture to make them more accessible for the thrift store workers who are coming for pick-up. Two guys arrive in a large truck with a hydraulic lift. They are happy to receive your floral upholstered sofa sleeper, the mahogany 1980's style coffee table, and that blue velvet arm chair you loved so much. Into their truck goes the oak bed frame Uncle Jim bought you when you moved to Lexington to work on your masters degree at the University of Kentucky, and a large chest of drawers. A dining room table and matching chairs also go into the truck. I'm a little sad to part with your beloved Lane cedar chest, but there's no space for it in our house, so off to the thrift store it goes. I hope it finds a good home.
After the thrift store truck has gone, Jack and I continue to sort through the storage unit. Your sewing machine, an old typewriter, luggage, and several large bags of clothing all go into our pickup. I unfold your favorite pairs of jeans, dresses, and pretty sweaters. I decide to save only a scarf for myself. Your old patent leather clutch purse that was all the rage in 1971 makes me smile. I decide to pass it all along to others who may need clothing and a vintage handbag more than I do.
I look, a little wistfully, through a box filled with some of your favorite childhood books. I remember how you loved Pipi Longstocking and On the Banks of Plum Creek. I'm tempted to keep the books, but then decide pass them along to Goodwill so that other children can enjoy them as much as you did.
I unwrap the colorful folk art paintings of Aunt Jemima Self-Rising Flour and Planters Roasted Peanuts that you liked so much. They adorned your kitchen walls and made you happy, but they also absorbed so much negative karma over the years of your marriage that it hurts me to look at them. Seeing those pictures brings back memories of the two of you standing in the kitchen screaming at one another. I decide to give them to Goodwill so that they can find their way to new homes where they will make other people happy.
We work all day, sorting through seemingly endless boxes of papers, tossing out old bank statements, tax returns, and correspondence. I save some of your birthday cards and old letters from friends and family. Jack and I decide to bring home your beautiful Blue Willow wedding china. I save your photo albums, high school yearbooks, and several pieces of art. I keep your Bible and an unabridged dictionary. We find a blender and several other items we can use at our house. I find one very special treasure, the little white satin ring pillow from our parents wedding. It has the words "Iris and Charles, August 21, 1947" embroidered on it. I am so happy to have it. I find a 1960s modern style lamp, from our house in Myrtle Grove, and I load it into the truck. It has good vibes.
There is not enough room in our truck to bring home the big white wooden bookcase that was in the bedroom we shared as little girls in our house on St. Regis Drive. Sadly, we also have no room for our Grandaddy's rocking chair. I call the minister at the Unitarian Universalist Fellowship of Auburn. She says we can drop those items off at the church and promises to give them a good home. I also give her your flower pot decorated with pretty painted irises, your little ceramic dog bank for her grandson, and your Robert Frost poetry book for the church library.
I look around at familiar landmarks as we drive through this quaint little college town. I wave goodbye to the library. At the cemetery, I place a bouquet of silk tulips on your grave, as well as two little ceramic angels I found carefully wrapped in tissue paper in a box with some other figurines.
I will miss traveling the long peaceful country roads across west Georgia, seeing signs along the way for towns with amusing names like "Ty Ty" and "Cussetta". I'll also miss stopping at the Merritt Pecan Company in Weston, Georgia for pecan divinity and cashew brittle. I'll miss the miles of crop fields, farm houses, pecan groves, and red clay hills. I will miss stopping for coffee at the Starbucks in Tifton, just off I-75.
The storage unit is empty and our goal accomplished. We begin our trip back home to Florida. You named me as the executor of your estate in an unsigned Will, written before your marriage, that I found in your safe deposit box right after you died. I'll never know whether you still wanted me to take care of your belongings after all those years since you never updated the Will, but your almost ex-husband agreed to drop off the key to the storage unit for me at a lawyer's office. You were my sister, and I am happy to do this in honor of your memory. I traveled to Auburn so many times over the years to spend Thanksgivings, Christmases, and summer vacations with you. I don't know when I will come to Auburn again, as you are no longer there and your soul is somewhere else in the universe. So this is the end of my travels to Auburn for awhile, as I no longer have ties to the area. But I promise you that someday I'll come back and put flowers on your grave again.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Googling Ginger
Dear Ginger,
I just learned about your death today, even though you've been gone for more than a year. Now that I am nearing the end of my government career, I spend quite a bit of time daydreaming about the possibility of opening up a small part time private counseling practice after I retire. Today I thought about the psychotherapy practice you started after we finished graduate school. I decided to "Google" you to look for information about your work on the internet. But when your name popped up with a link to Legacy.com, I realized at once that you were gone.
I was already familiar with the Legacy.com website. My sister's obituary was posted there after she died in December, 2007. Your passing was almost a year to the day after hers. I'm sure you recall meeting Carolyn when she came to Gainesville for Christmas one year. I have old photos of us celebrating the holiday at your place. You and my big sister were a lot alike in some ways.
You and I became fast friends after we met as graduate students in Psychology. We took all of the same classes. I remember late night study sessions at Perkins Pancake House, and the two of us as 30-something divorced gals, sipping wine at Friday evening happy hour in a local night club, hoping to meet some handsome eligible guys. I learned how to read Tarot cards from you. I can still see us sitting cross-legged on the living room carpet in your condo so many times, seeking spiritual guidance and insight from your Rider-Waite deck. Those were happy times for me, and I valued our friendship. I remember riding to St. Augustine Beach in your old Mustang, our hair blowing wildly in the wind because it didn't have an air conditioner, and stopping at the Dairy Queen to cool off with a dipped cone. You loved having fun.
I saw you for the last time about ten years ago, on a Saturday afternoon before Easter. You waved to me from across the sidewalk at Thornebrook Village shopping center. You were heading into the chocolate shop, apparently to buy some Easter treats for friends. You were always generous and loved giving gifts. One of our professors once said that you possessed personality traits that tend to be pleasing to people. You were deeply touched by his remark. Two of the gifts you gave me are still among my favorite pieces of art and have hung on the walls of my home for many years. You brought them back from a summer vacation you took to visit your sister Joy in Colombia.
I waved back at you that afternoon, and you came over to the table where my friend Glenda and I were having lunch at an outdoor cafe. I introduced the two of you, and you sat down at our table to chat. That's when you told me about your private practice. You handed me your business card, and we told each other we would keep in touch. You were reaching out, and had moved beyond the anger and pain that had ended our friendship. I wanted to put up a protective wall and keep you at arm's length, even though years had passed, and not risk being hurt again. I hadn't yet learned never to throw anyone away. I sent you a Christmas card the following year, and you didn't respond. I never followed up.
Both you and my sister could push my buttons and wound the vulnerable place in my soul deeply beyond all my strength to cope. I don't even remember what our quarrel was about that hurt me so badly I didn't feel that I could continue being your friend, even though I had been in touch with you almost every day for over two years. Pressures were mounting as we neared the completion of our masters program, and maybe we took our stresses and strains out on each other. Maybe there was more to it than that. You left a message on my answering machine at the end of our last semester, congratulating the both of us on passing our comprehensive exams. We hadn't spoken in a couple of months. You were reaching out, but I was sensitive and my heart just hurt too much to reach back. I didn't return your call.
I am sorry that I didn't reconnect with you. You're a beautiful soul. I'd like to be friends with you again in some future lifetime. I learned that you'd had at least one other troubled friendship. Another therapist in the local mental health community told me in 2006 that you and she had broken off communication after a tumultous time, and were no longer in touch with one another. I realized then that the problem between us wasn't all me.
I read on Legacy.com that you died of cancer at the York Hospice House. I hope it was a good death, in that beautiful hospice center, free from suffering, surrounded by loved ones and caring people to ease your transition into the next life. I remembered your abnormal Pap smear, and I vaguely recall something about a spot on your chest x-ray that was diagnosed as a benign nodule at the time. When I read your obit today, I wondered if the seeds of the cancer that took you were already planted way back when. I think we knew each other well on some some levels, yet still remained strangers to one another in other ways. I learned a lot from you, Ginger girl. Especially today. You just taught me the paramount importance of healing broken friendships while there is still time. I thank you for that lesson, my dear.
I just learned about your death today, even though you've been gone for more than a year. Now that I am nearing the end of my government career, I spend quite a bit of time daydreaming about the possibility of opening up a small part time private counseling practice after I retire. Today I thought about the psychotherapy practice you started after we finished graduate school. I decided to "Google" you to look for information about your work on the internet. But when your name popped up with a link to Legacy.com, I realized at once that you were gone.
I was already familiar with the Legacy.com website. My sister's obituary was posted there after she died in December, 2007. Your passing was almost a year to the day after hers. I'm sure you recall meeting Carolyn when she came to Gainesville for Christmas one year. I have old photos of us celebrating the holiday at your place. You and my big sister were a lot alike in some ways.
You and I became fast friends after we met as graduate students in Psychology. We took all of the same classes. I remember late night study sessions at Perkins Pancake House, and the two of us as 30-something divorced gals, sipping wine at Friday evening happy hour in a local night club, hoping to meet some handsome eligible guys. I learned how to read Tarot cards from you. I can still see us sitting cross-legged on the living room carpet in your condo so many times, seeking spiritual guidance and insight from your Rider-Waite deck. Those were happy times for me, and I valued our friendship. I remember riding to St. Augustine Beach in your old Mustang, our hair blowing wildly in the wind because it didn't have an air conditioner, and stopping at the Dairy Queen to cool off with a dipped cone. You loved having fun.
I saw you for the last time about ten years ago, on a Saturday afternoon before Easter. You waved to me from across the sidewalk at Thornebrook Village shopping center. You were heading into the chocolate shop, apparently to buy some Easter treats for friends. You were always generous and loved giving gifts. One of our professors once said that you possessed personality traits that tend to be pleasing to people. You were deeply touched by his remark. Two of the gifts you gave me are still among my favorite pieces of art and have hung on the walls of my home for many years. You brought them back from a summer vacation you took to visit your sister Joy in Colombia.
I waved back at you that afternoon, and you came over to the table where my friend Glenda and I were having lunch at an outdoor cafe. I introduced the two of you, and you sat down at our table to chat. That's when you told me about your private practice. You handed me your business card, and we told each other we would keep in touch. You were reaching out, and had moved beyond the anger and pain that had ended our friendship. I wanted to put up a protective wall and keep you at arm's length, even though years had passed, and not risk being hurt again. I hadn't yet learned never to throw anyone away. I sent you a Christmas card the following year, and you didn't respond. I never followed up.
Both you and my sister could push my buttons and wound the vulnerable place in my soul deeply beyond all my strength to cope. I don't even remember what our quarrel was about that hurt me so badly I didn't feel that I could continue being your friend, even though I had been in touch with you almost every day for over two years. Pressures were mounting as we neared the completion of our masters program, and maybe we took our stresses and strains out on each other. Maybe there was more to it than that. You left a message on my answering machine at the end of our last semester, congratulating the both of us on passing our comprehensive exams. We hadn't spoken in a couple of months. You were reaching out, but I was sensitive and my heart just hurt too much to reach back. I didn't return your call.
I am sorry that I didn't reconnect with you. You're a beautiful soul. I'd like to be friends with you again in some future lifetime. I learned that you'd had at least one other troubled friendship. Another therapist in the local mental health community told me in 2006 that you and she had broken off communication after a tumultous time, and were no longer in touch with one another. I realized then that the problem between us wasn't all me.
I read on Legacy.com that you died of cancer at the York Hospice House. I hope it was a good death, in that beautiful hospice center, free from suffering, surrounded by loved ones and caring people to ease your transition into the next life. I remembered your abnormal Pap smear, and I vaguely recall something about a spot on your chest x-ray that was diagnosed as a benign nodule at the time. When I read your obit today, I wondered if the seeds of the cancer that took you were already planted way back when. I think we knew each other well on some some levels, yet still remained strangers to one another in other ways. I learned a lot from you, Ginger girl. Especially today. You just taught me the paramount importance of healing broken friendships while there is still time. I thank you for that lesson, my dear.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Changes
My high school science teacher, Mr. Charles Bennett, once said that the amount in which a person changes from the first grade to adolescence is equal to the amount of change you'll experience every decade of your life. I was incredulous and found this difficult to believe when I was sixteen. At that stage of my life, I thought I was blossoming into the kind of adult I was going to become and would maintain a steady course on a straight path throughout all my days. I could never have imagined all the changes that my life would bring.
After graduation, a whole new world opened up for me, as it does for most young women, in college, work, relationships, and self-exploration. By the age of 30, I had started a career, returned to graduate school to pursue another career, been married and divorced after seven years of matrimony, and had started to deeply examine my faith, world view, and relationships with friends and family. During my 30s and 40s, I tried out a variety of different paths. I lived in a log cabin on a farm with a small herd of polled Hereford beef cattle and Nubian milk goats. I read Sufi poems, Jungian psychology, and feminist literature. I had come from a conservative fundamentalist Kentucky family, and in some ways I felt like I didn't belong anymore.
As I approached the age of 50, I discovered that I didn't feel so far removed from my Appalachian roots after all. In a Buddhist meditation group last year, I realized that I'd forgiven the hurts and disappointments of my past. I learned to see my parents as people who were just doing the best they could, and I realized that I am a continuation of them. My past is a guide post but not a hitching post, and I create my world anew every day as I go along. That's my philosophy at my current stage of development.
I really couldn't have imagined how the world would change technologically as the decades unfold. In the 1990s, I was delighted by car phones, cordless phones, and cell phones. The new millenium brought online banking, laptop computers, and so many wonderful things that make my life easier. I think about my grandmother back home in the hills of eastern Kentucky. She cooked without a microwave oven for a family of five. She never could have envisioned the internet, email, or Skype. She wrote me letters by hand, licked a stamp, and sent them by snail mail. I sill have all of her letters. I think about how humans will live in the future, like Star Trek, probably traveling to other planets and taking it for granted. They will think the way I've lived is primitive. Their kids will laugh when they learn in school about fossil fueled cars, antibiotics, dental fillings, and how we couldn't control earthquakes and the economy. When I look at my grandmother's old flax spinning wheel, passed down from HER grandmother, I am glad that those days are over. Spinning looks like incredibly hard work. Life will probably be easier in the future but more complex in ways I can't even imagine. When I was Christmas shopping in Best Buy last month, I was astounded that I knew so little about state of the art electronic equipment! The technology changes so rapidly that I can't keep up with it all anymore. I feel as though I'm becoming a dinosaur. Like my high school teacher said, I've changed and my world has changed tremendously each decade. It will be exciting to see where my 60s take me, and beyond.
After graduation, a whole new world opened up for me, as it does for most young women, in college, work, relationships, and self-exploration. By the age of 30, I had started a career, returned to graduate school to pursue another career, been married and divorced after seven years of matrimony, and had started to deeply examine my faith, world view, and relationships with friends and family. During my 30s and 40s, I tried out a variety of different paths. I lived in a log cabin on a farm with a small herd of polled Hereford beef cattle and Nubian milk goats. I read Sufi poems, Jungian psychology, and feminist literature. I had come from a conservative fundamentalist Kentucky family, and in some ways I felt like I didn't belong anymore.
As I approached the age of 50, I discovered that I didn't feel so far removed from my Appalachian roots after all. In a Buddhist meditation group last year, I realized that I'd forgiven the hurts and disappointments of my past. I learned to see my parents as people who were just doing the best they could, and I realized that I am a continuation of them. My past is a guide post but not a hitching post, and I create my world anew every day as I go along. That's my philosophy at my current stage of development.
I really couldn't have imagined how the world would change technologically as the decades unfold. In the 1990s, I was delighted by car phones, cordless phones, and cell phones. The new millenium brought online banking, laptop computers, and so many wonderful things that make my life easier. I think about my grandmother back home in the hills of eastern Kentucky. She cooked without a microwave oven for a family of five. She never could have envisioned the internet, email, or Skype. She wrote me letters by hand, licked a stamp, and sent them by snail mail. I sill have all of her letters. I think about how humans will live in the future, like Star Trek, probably traveling to other planets and taking it for granted. They will think the way I've lived is primitive. Their kids will laugh when they learn in school about fossil fueled cars, antibiotics, dental fillings, and how we couldn't control earthquakes and the economy. When I look at my grandmother's old flax spinning wheel, passed down from HER grandmother, I am glad that those days are over. Spinning looks like incredibly hard work. Life will probably be easier in the future but more complex in ways I can't even imagine. When I was Christmas shopping in Best Buy last month, I was astounded that I knew so little about state of the art electronic equipment! The technology changes so rapidly that I can't keep up with it all anymore. I feel as though I'm becoming a dinosaur. Like my high school teacher said, I've changed and my world has changed tremendously each decade. It will be exciting to see where my 60s take me, and beyond.
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