Unpacking Fifty Plus Years

Thanks to Doug Wolfe for this photo - and the much-needed name tags. We’re minus two who gabbed too long to get here for the Golden Hour shot…

It has taken me longer than usual to unpack from our trip to Ohio to celebrate with dear childhood friends the fact we graduated from high school 50 years ago. And that unpacking has nothing to do with luggage or clothes.

Turns out the journey and the visit pulled deep memories from well beyond the halls of Malabar High School, back to teachers and events at Johnny Appleseed Junior High and Woodland Elementary School - and before that, nursery school in the church. 

After all this time, those memories bring along with them the ghosts of teachers and parents and friends long gone with a sense of comforting gratitude for their place and the gifts they shared along the way.

The reunion events drew a solid cohort back to our hometown from the East Coast, West Coast, South Coast, and even Germany. And the hometown contingent showed up as a welcoming force, offering tours of renewed landmarks. 

It was truly a gift that ever-talented Doug produced name tags with our high school photos to trigger recognition of once-familiar faces. With the cue of 50-year-old pictures, and a slight squint of the eyes, there they were again. Same smiles and laughs peeled away the years of absence. 

I learned that a number of my childhood friends carry trauma marks from our shared fourth grade teacher. With the perspective of time, I’m sure she was equally appalled at our general lack of decorum and respect for authority. I suppose that’s because we were coming of age in the mid-1960s - an era that generated the revolutionary change that continues to mark our life paths.

I learned we were also marked by deep admiration for those teachers who inspired lifelong passions in music and the arts, in athletics, and the sciences. There was deep reverence expressed for the good ones - the band and orchestra leader who provided both memories of great joyous moments and opportunities for organizational leadership that have marked many lives. The choir leader with high expectations that still inspire achievement. 

Many of us are retired from our professional pursuits at this point - but not all. Some are recognized for their exceptional expertise in fields ranging from geology, dentistry, the law, to the impacts of space exploration - and continue to be sought out for their advice and counsel. Others have made their mark on society by raising another generation (or two) of productive citizens contributing their talents to this ever-innovative world of ours. 

Some faces I haven’t seen for the full 50 years of absence - and was so grateful they were there. The former cello player who has pursued social equity as her life’s mission. The talented musician who leaned into his passion - and is living happily in Philadelphia. I loved seeing the compassionate and kind friend who has made his life in Germany and finally meeting the love of his life who drew him overseas those many years ago. 

I’m guessing most high school classes think of themselves as somewhat exceptional. We sure do. So many noted how remarkable it was that - with all of the deep divisions roiling life worldwide right now - we created an oasis of compassionate engagement, tapping into a shared history that put the elections on hold for the weekend.

We also may have been sobered by the display board of 43+ faces who have passed on from our class of 220-something - making all of us realize that life is too short not to hold on to the gratitude that we’re still here to laugh with and hug our childhood and our friends.

Collapsing Time

I’ve known these two for more than six decades - and they haven’t changed a bit!

I’ve worked with a group of brilliant networking scientists – some of whom actually were engaged in the background of internet development – who still speak with wonder at the collapse of distance and time brought on by the launch of the world wide web. Sure. The Internet did suddenly provide instantaneous links with humans anywhere on the globe – regardless of the time or space between.

But if you really want to experience the collapse of time and space, work with a bunch of high school friends on a 50-year high school reunion. Time peels away and we are all suddenly back in the halls of Malabar with all of the teenaged angst we experienced in the 1970s.

One person in our group, who can count, figured out last fall that our 50th was going to happen this year and gosh, wouldn’t it be nice to plan something special?

As that person in the gang who works most often with Google spreadsheets and Zoom meetings, I was drafted to keep us relatively organized. Despite my best efforts – including a hip replacement and follow-up Achilles snap – I failed to get out of the work. (Those McConnell twins are ruthless!)

We started planning last fall with a couple of zooms where we spent most of our time in a “do you remember…” fog of laughter. We finally got to planning and tried out a couple of SurveyMonkeys to see if we could figure out the best timing for most, and the general interest in gathering.

Turns out that the mere fact of surviving for 50 years following high school graduation may be enough of a reason to celebrate.

And here we are, less than a month from returning to our hometown and the memories are returning with the RSVPs. When I heard from Pam, I suddenly flashed back to the many hours I spent in the orchestra with only Mr. C separating my violin section from Pam and her cello.

Then there was Sue, who can’t come back, but we went to grade school together too – and that brought back Mrs. Lashey’s fifth grade class and the quilt we all made together. Oh, Rusty Kiser just couldn’t pull his knots through, much to Mrs. Lashey’s chagrin.

These flashbacks are a clear reminder that I still carry my childhood with me. No matter where I go or where we live, I carry Mansfield, my memories, and their impact along with me.

I launched from Mansfield with the singular drive to run away from living in the Midwest with a husband and two children. And here I am, living in Minneapolis with a husband and two grown children – still the Midwest, just slightly north-left of Ohio.

Turns out we are always who we are – and there is truly something comforting in knowing that, despite all of the changes in the 50 years since 1974.

Serendipity

Expanding our family - and only one of us wasn’t quite ready…

I’ve spent a lot of time recently thinking about serendipity and all of those times in my life when I was in just the right place at just the right time with just the right people for magic to happen. 

This deep dive into the wonder of serendipity began as we were celebrating my son’s marriage to a most wonderful young woman. As I looked about the room, I realized that if my husband had not been friends with Peter who was friends with a fellow from Chicago, then I never would have met him. 

My grad school roommate at the time was friends with the same Chicago fellow - and Mr. Chicago had arranged to meet up with a group in a chic DC bar. It was a classic 1980s D.C. gathering featuring a group of cocktail drinking 20 and 30 somethings, with the women trending towards the 20s and the men on the other end. I had joined my roommate because the bar was cool and I had my childhood friend, Dayna, visiting from out of town. 

As the evening rolled on, a cute man broke away from the crowd and went to the bar to order some food. His hamburger arrived, and Dayna and I sidled up to ask what he’d ordered. 

“A Lauren Bacall burger,” he said. 

To which my friend Dayna answered as only a girl from my hometown could, “Oh. Malabar Farm.”

“Malabar what?” said the normally introverted Jacques. “What are you talking about?” 

Dayna laughed and then proceeded to explain that Malabar Farm was where Humphrey Bogart married Lauren Bacall and was just outside of our hometown in Ohio. It was the home of writer Louis Bromfield who had come to know Bogart and Bacall and had offered up his home for their nuptials in 1945. 

And now, Dayna said, she was doing a project there, and gosh, wasn’t that all interesting, and by the way, how was that hamburger?

And that, my friends, is how I met the man who became my husband nearly 43 years ago. 

Without Peter, my roommate Kathleen, and Dayna - and the now-forgotten friend from Chicago - I never would have met Jacques, Ben would never have been born, and we wouldn’t have celebrated a wedding to the lovely Nellie last week. 

Home Again, Home Again, Jiggity Jig

Leaves all came out while I was away…

We take so much for granted until it’s just not there, don’t we? Spending most of April and May away from home while recovering among my fellow aged was truly eye opening in so many ways.

This week, the final cast came off, replaced by a walking boot and the Achilles is back to work again. Kinda achy, honestly, but anything that just hangs around for six weeks with no work can get achy in this well-seasoned body of mine.

Having a walking boot means I can once more mount the steps of this old house of ours. I can walk about the house, and stand to prepare food. I can even garden – a bit – and generally return to this thing we call life.

I will admit that I miss some of my new friends from The Home. Lovely women and men with interesting life stories who are very much living dorm style among their peers. I brought this up with my college roommates since we’ve retained our weekly zoom meet ups beyond the pandemic.

After imagining how much fun we would all have, reliving our college years with the communal living escapades of our early 20s, we all realized we had a few years – maybe decades - to lean in to the fun we still have when we gather. None of us are ready to truly imagine leaving our home communities in Vermont, the Carolinas, Ohio, Minnesota, or Florida. Well, our Florida friend may be interested in moving away from the climate impacts on that state…

The college girls are all planning a trip to England in September – one I will miss as it coincides with my high school reunion – a Big One to celebrate 50 years since graduation. And that is something I truly look forward to experiencing.

So back to being home again – we move on, don’t we – leaving the experience of feeble dependency behind. And now to reengage in the exercises of my daily life – gatherings with friends, activities with the family, work – lots of work, and there’s always laundry.

Ah – sweet life!

Home Stretch Lessons

The final of three casts is on. The Achilles is healing, and I’ll be home in twelve days. 

What a strange period of time this has been - a month ago, I was in surgery to put that pesky tendon back in place, then off to a TCU, and now a more independent respite location where I can wheel myself about with the rest of the senior citizens.

One big lesson coming out of all of this is that yes, I’ve entered the realm of senior citizen hood. Should have figured that out when we first got discounts at the movie theater, but it appears I’ve been so in my head with the busyness of life that I missed the advent of this distinction. 

Turns out it’s not just the availability of senior discounts or access to a remarkable federal insurance program called Medicare, or to the deference paid by colleagues several decades younger than I am. It’s the stark recognition that physical bits one could pay scant attention to in earlier eras now require tending and maintenance. 

Here in this Home, I regularly take meals with my cohort of seniors, being regaled with stories from former lawyers, doctors, U professors, and moms who all seem to have chosen this location to be closer to their kids. From New York, Wisconsin, or North Dakota, they have chosen to complete their life journey in a place convenient for visits by their progeny. And it appears some of that progeny is better about returning the favor than others. 

Again - a moment to note how lucky I am that my family is already nearby and pops over to just drop in as I work to hold onto being among the most cognizant here as well. Time and dates do seem to flow together when one is outside of normal.

I actually enjoy my discussions over meals as the food is excellent. There’s an accomplished chef who turns out three meals a day that even Jacques finds so enjoyable that he’s timing his visits with the 5 pm dinner hour. 

But back to the maintenance issue. The other day I was sitting at a table with a couple of 88 year olds. One popped out of her chair to go get another glass of ice water from across the room, and came back to complete the story she had begun before thirst called her away. The other lovely lady could barely lift her fork to her mouth, required two hands to hold her glass to her lips, and enjoyed listening to, but unable to contribute to, the conversation about her. The difference in the impact of the years appears to be the regular focus on exercise and movement that characterizes the life of my spry 88 year old friend. 

This afternoon, I’ll roll down to the lounge for a memorial video of a revered former resident who died a couple of weeks ago. Catherine did yoga every morning, and played piano every afternoon for residents, and displayed a vibrant sense of humor and engagement in her surroundings. I learned that she had gone to the building’s beauty salon one morning to have her hair done and told the salon owner that she had been exceptionally tired that day and was planning a nap after her appointment. She went to sleep and passed on with lovely hair in place at 102 years old. 

And that’s the lesson I’m taking away from this six-week experience in enfeebled and senior living. Stay active - physically and mentally. Be engaged with your community of friends and family. 

And always, always choose the fun when wearing a cast - now featuring our NBA Timberwolves colors for the playoffs. 

Respite

Well, friends, I’ve moved on from The Home. No more morning wake ups to take a blood pressure reading that was never an issue, nor the issue, that brought me to the Transitional Care Unit. However, rules are rules so twice a day, a usually well-meaning nurse arrived with the arm band, a pulse oximeter - totally familiar after 2020 and COVID - and a forehead thermometer. And twice a day, the readings were well within the normal range. 

Normal I can do.

Mobility remains the issue. 

My one-legged pivots and hops however have progressed to the point that I was able to move to a short term respite apartment in a senior and assisted living building. Turns out this place is home to people almost a decade younger than I, which is truly an eye opener. It is meant to be accessible in an ADA sort of way.

And it sorta is. The wall-to-wall carpeting makes propelling a wheelchair quite the upper body workout challenge. All in all that’s just fine, since I need arm strength to hoist myself in and out of the wheelchair. More progress.

I was almost sad to leave The Home. The friendly aides really helped the time pass - and I always knew I could buzz for help whenever I needed. But my old friend Julie reminded me that I was raised in central Ohio where we are all about grit and determination to keep moving forward - and forward meant moving into greater independence.

So here I am - this apartment will be rented out “permanently” at the beginning of June, so my short term stay until May 20 works just fine. I have a kitchen that allows me to make my own coffee, and long enough arms to reach the faucet without having to stand on one leg, although I suppose I could do that, too.

The view of downtown Minneapolis is lovely from up here, and the wifi is way better. Time will pass and it’s only 18 days until I’m in a walking boot that will allow me to go home. But who’s counting? 

Progress @ The Home

The first cast is off - on to the second of three and the foot is a slightly more normal angle to the leg. The ballet point of the purple cast has been replaced with a better angle, and that means my toes are out of the way when I wheel about.

Small improvements - hopping is coming along, and I’ve graduated to “modified independent” on my wall chart. That means I don’t need to press the button any more to ensure there’s an aide in the room when I do the transfers involved in getting from chair or bed to wheelchair to walker to toilet. 

Big news here in the world of The Home. And another measure of regaining autonomy. And another lesson in humility. 

Among the lessons the Universe is providing by this unexpected experience is how hard it is for me to need and ask for help. Even worse is having to ask permission to do tasks I mastered when I was three. But here at The Home, there are rules. And the rules say that until one is cleared to accomplish certain tasks, one needs to push a button to summon an aide to be there to assist. 

The aides are busy around here so summoning an aide can take time. Turns out that waiting for help is another skill I lack. 

The upside is that all of the nurses, aides and PTs and OTs are wonderful people. A necessary attribute because, boy, do they put up with a lot! 

For example, it’s hard for those with memory issues to remember about the little call button, so shouts of “HELLLOOOOO!” ring down the hall. It’s alarming when they switch to calls of “HELLLPPP!” But that does get the feet running. 

Then there’s the gentleman who refuses to put on pants. He wheels about in his chair with open-backed hospital gown which is only alarming when he chooses to prop his leg over his other knee during group PT. Then I have a deep appreciation for the importance of perspective - and roll myself over to the parallel bars for a little standing one legged work.

My time here at The Home will be over soon since, other than this pesky snapped Achilles, I have no other medical issues. So I’ll transition to short term respite care at a different facility - and am looking forward to another learning experience enabled by this saga of snap. 

Life in The Home

As I approach the end of week two in the TCU here at The Home, I have to admit that living in this island of time and space isn’t all bad.

The cast of caregivers remains compassionate and attentive. My compatriots are all somewhere on the spectrum of variously enabled and frequently amusing but always kind souls. And I’m learning which menu items are simply a bad idea when prepared in an institutional kitchen.

So for the upsides - I was told by one of the chatty aides that I’m among the most cognizant on the hall. Woohoo! Sure, that may be a low bar, but at least that’s one bar I can exceed here. 

My hopping skills are progressing. My left foot no longer feels like it’s glued to the floor as the useless right foot just dangles in its raised position, rather than dare to come anywhere near its rightful weight-bearing role. Side note? It’s really difficult to keep your brain informed that the role of the right leg has shifted from useful appendage for walking into a heavily casted somewhat useless object for the next five weeks.

I’ve tested out a knee scooter which seems like it could be promising, if I didn’t feel like I have T-Rex dinosaur arms based on the narrow width of the handlebars. Still seems like it could be kinda tippy for much use and tipping is one thing I’m working to avoid at this point. We shall see if this will be useful.

I met a lovely woman in the PT gym. It took me three tries to get her name right after she said it. “Is that Claudette?”, I asked. “No,” she said, repeating her name. “Ah, Claudine!” I said.  Again no. She finally carefully said, “Claudith - like Edith.” And then shared that she was the eighth of her mother’s children and her mother ran out of names she wanted. So she asked her cousin for a name for the baby….at which point, Claudith pauses…and he was a drunk, so that’s how I got my name. 

She’s in her late 80s and has repeated that story her whole life. Clearly a cautionary tale for taking care with the names we give our children!

And a note for all my friends. If you’re ever in The Home where restricted diets are the norm, be sure to ask for salt and pepper for your room. It’s truly the difference between edible and inedible when it comes to most foods.  

Ben was right - this place is a wellspring of content!