Growing OLD and Staying YOUNG

Living with Grandpa gives us a window into what it's like to grow old. It is one thing to walk slower, hear less, and generally slow down, it's another thing completely to see the way that changes in small things combine to make many, much larger, challenges. Something as simple as pain from arthritic knees creates an entire slew of other problems which significantly decrease his quality of life. Inevitably, because so much of that process is not pretty, watching Grandpa leads us to not only understand this process of growing old, but also to scramble to find ways to stay young...at all costs.

Almost like a yin and a yang, we look at all the ways in which Grandpa has aged and look to find the counter balance which we may still be able to influence in ourselves to stay "young" and thus avoid these less than attractive traits. So far, empathy and enthusiasm are the two "young" traits that I most hope to preserve as the lack of either one of them makes a person SO unattractive and not fun to spend time with.

Empathy, as I've come to understand it with Grandpa, is not so much an ability to feel what others are feeling as much as a simple recognition that they exist and matter. Things like saying please and thank you are not simply societally enforced niceties of good manners but a verbal acknowledgment for another person's actions and efforts. Here's a little story to illustrate:

Today, I got up and got going a little early to make Grandpa's favorite breakfast, biscuits and gravy. He was a little slower than normal getting going this morning so I kept things waiting so as soon as he made it out to the kitchen I could put his plate together with a beautiful and delicious (albeit not so healthy) meal. Drew had made coffee, I had put out his pills with water, and we were all ready to go. It was one of those sun shining, birds singing, hot coffee and delicious breakfast kind of mornings. Yeah!

When Grandpa came out to the kitchen I happily greeted him and told him I had made something very tasty for him for breakfast. He gave a passing glance at the stove and said, "Hmph...is it mush?" Not to be discouraged I told him what we were actually having and he perked up a little with happy little smile. As we were sitting down I asked Grandpa if he would like some fruit or juice with breakfast. He has proven to be vary particular about this and will only eat such fruit related items at the start of breakfast. If you forget to put them on the table before he starts eating the rest of his food, he will push the fruit away in disgust and tell you he doesn't want any. This morning, I decided to empower the man with a little choice, asked what he wanted, and Grandpa said he wanted prunes...but not the petite prunes. Still trying to please, I scurried down to the basement and brought up two jars of prunes (petite ones canned 2 years ago and regular ones canned 10+ years ago). I explained to Grandpa that I wasn't sure the larger prunes were still good as some of the jars had lost their seal and suggested having the "fresher" petite prunes.

Now, despite his mantra of "When in doubt, throw it out" that I whole-heartedly endorse, Grandpa is still a child of the depression and will never actually throw anything out. He gruffly told me that the large prunes were just fine and to serve them up. In the past few weeks, I've been scolded for using extra dishes for serving prunes and have never figured out how he likes to eat them. I'm sure that there is a "right way" that Grandpa ate his prunes and cereal for years but since I haven't figured that out and he seems unable to tell me how he'd like them...I tried my luck with a saucer. Upon delivering the saucer full of large prunes to the table, next to the biscuits and gravy, coffee, pills, and water that were already waiting, I thought that I was done and we could settle down to enjoy our breakfast. As I went to grab my own plate and join Drew and Grandpa at the table I heard, "Damnit! You should have put these in a bowl!" behind me. Nice.

Grandpa isn't one of those people who swears very much so this expletive caught my attention. Glancing over I found him pushing the prunes around the saucer with look of complete disgust. Still trying to please I offered to give him a bowl and that he could put the prunes in the bowl instead but he gruffly rejected this idea and made quick work of eating the prunes...bowl or not.

In the grand scope of things, Grandpa swearing over the way his prunes were served is truly not a big deal but I think it's symptomatic of the lack of empathy that is so frustrating to deal with. Perhaps, the same lessons from my Mediterranean Chicken Pasta (see the earlier post if you're truly curious) should be applied here but I feel like there's something bigger going on. Completely wrapped up in his own ways, Grandpa was blind to the efforts I had gone to in order to make his breakfast a really good one and instead focused only on how he would have done things differently. Ironically, the saddest part about this selfishness isn't its effect on me (although I did want to throw a frying pan at him for a while), but its effect on him. Wrapped up in his own dissatisfaction with the world, Grandpa is immune to the blessings of kindness that others bestow on him. Rather than bask in the warmth of human kindness, he stays isolated in his self preoccupation and immune to things that may actually perk him up. The whole thing just creates a downward spiral that, sadly, may drive him further and further into himself and away from others.

Now, I'm not saying that Grandpa is a wet blanket and a grump all the time, or that he doesn't appreciate anything. He has, in fact, said thank you a few times, and we do have good laughs about things from time to time. He give good "bedtime hugs" and will always come along with me to run errands and is generally pleasant in the car. That said, there are enough good things that he ignores, belittles, or complains about that I think he's missing out on a lot of goodness that, in all honestly, he really needs to keep him going. In focusing on themselves I fear the the selfish (and the elderly if this is the path they choose) fail to recognize that other people exist and close themselves off to the warmth that they may bring to their lives.

Staying "young" then requires selflessness, openness, and gratitude. Just like babies surrender to their mothers for comforting, just like young people explore and try new things with vigor, and just like children are giddy with delight over things like their favorite foods, Christmas gifts, and little surprises, so too must we maintain ourselves. In all of these acts, even in receiving gifts, we have an opportunity to recognize other people, be thankful for them, and allow them into our hearts. It's a funny paradox that being selfless means recognizing others and their actions which may simply mean accepting their kindness with gratitude. That, along with enthusiasm...which I will have to blog about later...will do much to keep us "young" and at the very least make us pleasant to be around. "Damn it!"

As a COMPLETE side note, to update everyone on our deer situation, I've discovered that people here really do build 7' fences to keep the deer out. I've decided that for the time being I can use old wire fencing stuff to create a shorter but hopefully equally effective labyrinth over my young and already severely munched on sprouts. Unfortunately, the labyrinth will also make the veggies impossible for me to get to and harvest but if I don't keep the deer out there won't be anything to harvest anyway so we'll try this for now. Wish me luck! :)

WHAT we do and HOW we live

The deer in the picture here have nothing do do with this post but we see them a few times a day so I thought I'd share their picture. They're a pain in the ass when it comes to the garden (they love bean shoots) but I still like seeing them around. So...back to my post...Drew and I went for a really great hike yesterday. It was good to be out and about, sweating profusely, and chatting our way through the moss covered woods. It was great.

On the way there we somehow landed in an old debate as to whether or not a person's small, individual actions make a difference in the grand scope of things. We generally have this conversation in regards to environmental issues and the idealist in me just can't concede that he may be right. Drew has always been of the opinion that small efforts, while nice, do very little to impact the global problems of the modern world and, even worse, may distract people from the bigger issues and steps that actually WOULD make a difference.

I, being the bleeding heart idealist, cling to the ideal that me drying my clothes on the line instead of using the clothes dryer will in fact save the world in some small way and that it's "worth it" to go to such lengths to do my part. We drink organic milk, try to buy local produce, recycle all we can, and even shower together...just to save water ;) It seems like if enough people did these small things, it would matter and that the world would indeed be a better place to live. The conversation carries extra weight because I feel like it's resolution, on one level or another, should dictate both small and large decisions I make.

If it does matter, I should continue to shop and work as I do despite the fact that I often don't see all the big-picture benefits to those decisions. If, however, it doesn't matter, we're free to hedonistically do whatever we please. Theoretically, these things can work together. I may drink fair-trade, organic coffee because it flat out tastes better, not just because it's better for the earth. Similarly, I may teach school because it's flat out enjoyable (sometimes) regardless of whether or not it makes any difference for the world. Somehow, however, I feel like I need the reassurance that it DOES matter because perhaps, just perhaps, some of the enjoyment I get out of things depends on my belief that they DO make the world a better place somehow.

When we moved here I had two goals in mind. One, was to try to live up to my lofty standards of living well. Indeed, since Grandpa came home I've enthusiastically thrown myself into my role as full time Domestic Goddess and have tested myself to "live well" in doing so. I planted a little garden (with Mom) as a first step towards growing a little more of our own food. I've started drying our clothes on the line, I've sought out local farms, written more letters, made more home made baked goods, sent goodies to friends around the country, and generally tried to do all the other "good" things that a modern do-gooder woman does. These are all things that I aspired to do in my other, busier, life but didn't feel like I could keep up with. Honestly, I've always harbored romantic illusions of living off the grid and on our own (building our own house, growing our own food, depending on ourselves and on the land a little more than our credit cards and stores). I imagined this time in Oregon to be a chance to explore that lifestyle in small ways to see if I really liked it. Really, a person has to like something well enough to sustain her when it seems like it's not making a big difference right?

My second purpose or hope for this time here (for myself anyway) was to create a physical and emotional space for me to figure out what the heck I want to do with myself in the future. I know I'm pretty well done with teaching but still feel strongly drawn to education and learning. I know that from my time in Ecuador working with natives in the jungle to my time with Grandpa here, I approach the world as a teacher. I like the challenge of figuring out how to help other people make sense of their worlds and the new things that come into those worlds. As I talk with teachers back in Colorado I still feel strongly connected to the work they're doing and I long to plug myself back into the system in one way or another.

Through all of this, I come back to the same questions that are at the base of Drew's and my little discussion and I find I still don't have many answers. I worry about whether or not what I do matters and I worry about what I will do next and how it will matter. Today, I look for fulfillment in the ins and outs of my slower paced life here and think about my friends who are starting the new school year today. As much as I loved/hated teaching, I didn't like the person it reduced me to. As much as I like puttering like a part time farmer and full time domestic goddess, I can't help but feel like I'm missing out on some sort of greater purpose that's waiting for me. Finding that calling now would mean less time to bake bread, weed the garden, and tend to my "eggs" that I'm so looking forward to. At the same time, protecting all that time to putter could mean missing out on something that lets me use my skills to do more good than put food on the table.

I firmly believe that it DOES matter not just WHAT we do but HOW we live.

I, like my peers, want to live well and feel like my daily actions somehow make the world a better place. I know that more than one of my other girlfriends are struggling to juggle family and career (both of which are immeasurably meaningful and fulfilling). I empathize with them feeling trapped in a similar tug-of-war but perhaps with less clear opposing forces. I wonder where I will find my own balance between home and just living right, and a career or other work that allows for greater expression of my self. Is it possible to create a synergistic combination that will satisfy all my life's passions and whims AND pay me enough to support my half of this household? Is that too much to ask for?

I think that when it comes down to it, people want to do the right thing. They want to do the right thing from the everyday choices they make all the way up to the big ways of how they divide or unify the competing demands on their time. As I search for the golden eggs of this Oregon adventure I can only hope I will find the right thing for me. Until then, I'll be drinking wine, watching the sunset, and keeping vigil over the garden to try to keep the deer out.

Gratitude and Attitude

Last night a very unusual thing happened. We had settled down for a dinner of "Mediterranean Chicken Pasta" and I was feeling quite pleased with myself. I had made yummy pesto sauce with fresh garlic and basil from the farmer's market and tossed it together with feta cheese and fresh tomatoes from my favorite little garden stand. Grandpa had given me a fair amount of ribbing for the fancy title I put on our dinner and gruffly said that I must have made it up because he had never heard of anything like that before. I replied, with no shyness, that I had indeed made it up and that I thought it was delicious.

Grandpa, for all his service to the world and "easy-going-ness" is not very complimentary about much of anything. I guess that in 86 years you've seen enough that you're not very easily impressed and you've done enough work of your own that you're not going to gush over anybody else's job well done. I've learned to accept, "Right" as a sign that I've done something as expected and have now stopped waiting for him to say thank you for much. Although I know he appreciates my efforts as house wife for two, it has been made clear that he is not going to express it verbally.

So last night we were eating our Mediterranean Chicken Pasta on the back patio (not so unusual) when Grandpa scooted the bowl over and helped himself to seconds. The only other times that this has happened (over about 50 meals together now) are when I made biscuits and gravy and scalloped potatoes (both culinary hits for Grandpa's taste as far as I could tell). So last night, when he took seconds of the chicken I thought we had reason to celebrate. "You must have liked this Mediterranean Pasta OK if you're going back for seconds Grandpa!" I happily exclaimed, feeling pretty good about myself. "Naw," he replied, "I just have to put something in my belly to fill me up." I think my face must have fallen EXACTLY like he expected because the Old Grump started cracking up.

The laughter that ensued was the same laughter that bubbled out when he told me about his late wife's experience with the dishwasher and regular dish soap (a foamy explosion to say the least). He grinned and laughed and grinned some more with a mischievousness I hadn't seen since he drove a motorized cart in donuts in the grocery store.

At first, I was shocked thinking that he was taking joy in saying my dinner was just "something to fill me up" and then I realized he was laughing because he was teasing me and I had totally fallen for it. I realized that my frantic hustle and bustle must look pretty silly to him sometimes, even if it is the very effort that gets food on the table at meal time. In all my efforts to be a well put-together domestic goddess I must look like a puppy dog doing unsolicited tricks for treats and trying desperately to impress her "master." This realization gave me pause to consider Clinton's perspective a little more and what it must be like for him now; back in his own home but not able to live the life he's had in this home for the last 45+ years.

I think that it must, ironically, be hard on him to have so much be done for him. Even if he was a "kept man" whose wife cleaned, cooked, washed and ironed, he still used to have an important role in the household. As an ex-mechanic and shop teacher, Clinton could be counted on to fix just about anything. He could grill meat, tend to the garden, and keep the car going in tip-top shape. Now, through no fault of his own other than continuing to live, Clinton is confounded by the remote control for the TV, exhausted by a walk out to his shed, unfamiliar with half of the items in the garage, and now, after all that, confronted with new-fangled hippie food instead of good-old fashioned meat and potatoes like he's used to. It makes my enthusiastic bustle seem sweet...and a little silly perhaps.

There is a sacrifice of not just independence but of self determination that comes with age. We're taught to be strong and independent in our youth; to not need help and to take care of our things. Clinton moved out west from Nebraska to Oregon during the dust bowl days of the great depression. He was used to making do with whatever they had and just getting by. As a young adult he was drafted into service and was a tank driver in Patton's army. In the war, he likewise made do with what he had, completed his service, and returned home to open his service station only a few miles away from where we live now. Today, despite Clinton's impaired state, still holds these lessons of "making do" and independent strength dear. Although no one probably likes doing their laundry, there's something that gets taken away when you no longer have the choice because you just can't lift the detergent anymore. This cannot be an easy adjustment to make.

Beyond the laundry, decreased mental and physical capabilities surrender your control over the food in your kitchen and on your table, the chores around the house that do or don't get completed, and even the condition of your toenails which, sadly, may be out of your reach no longer how long they get. Despite a whole history of successful independence, Clinton is a prisoner of his age and stuck watching me bustle around him in busy circles doing all the things that he would probably like to be able to do for himself...all the while, waiting for compliments and gratitude.

Perhaps, then, I should not be surprised when I get far more attitude than gratitude. While Clinton has surrendered to however it is that I'm going to do things I must remember that it was maybe not an easy surrender. I will remember that while Clinton will dutifully take his pills and momentarily forget his frustration with trying to understand what they all are and what they are for, he doesn't like it. I will remember that even as he swallows he's still trying to understand why his multi-vitamin comes in a different bottle than what he's used to and what that other bottle the pharmacist gave him is for (it's a muscle relaxer that he doesn't need anymore but the pharmacist filled the prescription anyway). He will play along because he doesn't have a choice but it's perhaps a bit much to expect him to be gleeful about it, even if the service and the food ARE great.

In all honesty, Clinton did like my Mediterranean Chicken Pasta and he does like having me around. Regardless of this affection and gratitude, I guess it's OK that Clinton is not going to fall over himself to show it. Perhaps, that would be a little too close to admitting that he needs the help. Looking at it in this light, I'm much more excited to serve pot-roast and potatoes...at least one night this week.

Welcome, and a note of explanation.

At the ripe old age of "Still Not 30" I resigned my position as a high school Spanish teacher, got married, and moved 1,000 miles away to care for my new husband's grandfather. Before moving I had all kinds of romanticized ideas of how great it was going to be. I may not have been wearing a cape in my day-dreams but I was definitely saving the world one elderly grandfather at a time. Grandpa would look, act, and feel 10 years younger under my care. He would spring from his recliner to dance his way out to meal times and then follow me outside to putter on our various projects. On top of that dream, I was going to be a natural gardener, chicken rearer, goat milker, cheese maker, local eater, party hostess, jewelry dealer, and all around enlightened modern (but oh so traditional) woman.

Now, after 2 weeks of fun fun fun on the Oregonian home front, I'm confronting a new fangled thing called "reality" and working to find my way again. I keep telling myself and others that this will be a "good learning experience" and that I'll probably look back on these days as some of the best of my life but I think that people tell themselves those kinds of stories any time the road is rockier than it appears.

A bit part of my plan (projects to keep me busy) here was to raise chickens. They, like Grandpa, would adore me and I, in turn, would keep them well fed and happy. I had visions of airy and savory soufflés crafted from their gladly surrendered eggs and a well groomed and fertilized garden too. It took me a week to build the coop (more on that later) and now I'm just waiting to return from a week visit back home to bring the ladies home to roost. In the mean time, I've had time to pause and reflect on the imagined Golden Eggs or the big Goose Egg that this Oregon adventure will bring.

They say that when life gives you lemons you're supposed to make lemonade. Here, I'm on an adventure to make all my eggs golden. Over the next two years I'll battle a sometimes grumpy grandfather, cloudy skies, long distance friends and family, with a commitment to give it my darnedest to make sure my "eggs" end up sunny side up. This blog will explore the nuggets of learning I'm able to glean from days on the farm and, hopefully, help me keep my sanity despite relying on Grandpa and chickens to take the place of my amazing friends and family back home in Colorado.