Use your Imagination. Apple does not allow use of their icon.
Of the technical variety.
My first computer, bought thirty years ago, was a Mac. Since then I’ve loyally trudged through Mac-Land. I now own a MacBookPro. And, an iPod, iPod Touch, iPad, and, after next week, an iPhone. Except for my son-in-law, I’ve successfully converted my family from PC’s to Apple products. He’s a lawyer. He’s a holdout. It will happen.
If you are technically challenged, and, I am, the learning curve, with each new product, is Mt. Everest. That’s why I belong to Apple’s One-on-One program. For $99 a year, I can take a weekly private lesson to get set up, get trained, and get going on each new Mac device. Admittedly, there are some why’s and wherefore’s to this program, but, let’s just say, I have tenure.
The Apple employee/tutors in this program are amazing, patient, kind and young. How can they be so computer literate at 12 years of age? Which brings me to Troy, a One-on-One tutor at my local Apple store, and the reason for this Post.
During the last presidential election, we were both involved in the campaign. “Fired Up” would be an understatement. I’ve always been a political animal, but this was a new and exciting world for Troy. Being engaged in the democratic process lends importance to being an American and Troy, for the first time, felt it.
Fast forward to three years later.
Following a recent One-on-One session, referring to politics, I asked him, “What do you think?”
In a flash, he responded, “I think I don’t make a difference.”
Subject closed.
His response has haunted me. He’s too young, too smart and too vital to this country’s future to think he doesn’t matter.
His response also begs the question, for me at least, about making a difference. Do I? Beginning in 2011 and continuing for the next 18 years, between 7,000 to 8,000 Americans will be turning 65 years of age everysingle day. We’re in the fourth quarter. So it occurs to me, many Baby Boomers will be asking themselves that very same, legitimate question.
This past week I have had time to ponder this. My husband Michael, who lives in a nearby memory care facility and is under Hospice care, developed Shingles. Not good. Luckily, I had been vaccinated, could ignore the quarantine, sit by his bedside as he slept, and conduct a one-way conversation with myself (if you know me, that’s not all bad).
I liked my answers. Does Relevance still live at my house? Yes. Do I make a difference? You bet. The difference in my now-differences as compared to my past-differences is the key (one more time) difference.
In the past I’ve made a difference not only to my family but also to my students, my employees, board members, and everyone dependent upon me for one reason or another. My students needed a class grade to graduate. As an editor of a small newspaper, operating on a barebones budget, I hired young reporters and trained them well before kicking them up to better reporting opportunities. On charity and nonprofit boards, I organized fundraisers. Girl Scouts? Leader and Cookie Mother. Perpetual Room Mother – cupcakes for every occasion. Sunday School teacher. The list goes on and on. I am no different from millions of others heading into retirement. Like so many, I think I saw myself as more important than I ever was.
As for now, my universe for making a difference and being relevant is smaller but is, and this is my premise to all of you, just as necessary. It may be even more important to you women, like me, who live alone by choice, death, divorce, or health reasons.
First, I am fortunate to have many communities of friends. To every extent, they make a difference to me and I, to them. Friendships must be nourished and treasured, there’s joy and value in each one. Second, while sadly I don’t make a difference to Michael anymore, he does not remember our life together, I make a huge difference to the professionals who care for him. Every patient needs a ferocious advocate and I am his. Ironically, his caregivers appreciate that.
Lastly and what struck me as surprising, is how important I feel I am to my family. Besides loving me, which they do, they make me feel necessary and important and relevant. America is not a country that has ever valued older people. I suggest to you that phenomenon is changing and it’s this Sandwich Generation*, our kids, who are making this occur. So now, I believe, it’s up to us. It’s how WE handle this attitudinal change that will make the difference in our lives and theirs.
Please understand, my children are smart, capable, self-sufficient and very good parents.They both work and are successful. And, more often than not, a helping hand needs to be extended my way rather than theirs. I’ve concluded their lives, albeit happy, are far more complicated, difficult and challenging than mine ever was. That’s why sometimes my role is to listen, not my greatest virtue, offering unconditional support. More often, because I’m able to see the forest, I can suggest a quick-fix. Done. At times, I anticipate bumps and can smooth them out. Many a moment, it’s just the, “Hang on, this, too, shall pass,” advice that they have to hear.
We all need to feel valued rather than tolerated, appreciated and respected rather than ignored. For Baby Boomers, life has been all about goals, accomplishments and providing not just good but better and best for our loved ones. To slow down our train is difficult, to climb off, even harder. That’s why, as we step aside and Life continues barreling down the track, we each need to ask ourselves these questions, find our niche and honor who we are.
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* The Sandwich generation is a generation of people who care for their aging parents while supporting their own children.
Traditional: those sandwiched between aging parents who need care and/or help and their own children.
Club Sandwich: those in their 50s or 60s sandwiched between aging parents, adult children and grandchildren, or those in their 30s and 40s, with young children, aging parents and grandparents.
At 26 years of age, unprepared and alone, Strayed spent 3-months hiking the Pacific Crest Trail, a 2,650-mile national scenic route running from Mexico through California, Oregon, Washington and into Canada. Her decision to do this was impulsive. Following through on an impulsive decision was foolhardy.
“WILD” by Cheryl Strayed
“Strayed’s journey was as transcendent as it was turbulent,” writes MarjorieKehe who reviews books for the Christian Science Monitor. “She faced down hunger, thirst, injury, fatigue, boredom, loss, bad weather, and wild animals. Yet she also reached new levels of joy, accomplishment, courage, peace, and found extraordinary companionship.”
Amazon named it a Best Book of the Month for March 2012 and it’s been on the New York Times best-seller list for the past four weeks. WILD has been optioned for film by Pacific Standard, actress Reese Witherspoon’s production company.
This book could share a shelf with Aron Ralston’s Between a Rock and a Hard Place and Jon Krakauer’s Into Thin Air and Into The Wild.
I couldn’t put it down. Read it, cover to cover in ten days.
Also on my bedside table………
Shantaram by Gregory David Robert
Ruhlman’s Twenty, 20 Techniques, 100 Recipes, A Cook’s Manifesto by Michael Ruhlman
This Summer I plan to channel the Dora-the-Explorer within me by sightseeing in my own spectacular back yard. For the past 25 years, living in the West, I’ve been destination-driven, always traveling here-to-there, too busy for stops among those smelly roses. Lately I’ve reached that, “If Not Now, When” point in life, worrying that those pesky roses could wilt. (Maybe, I’m more concerned about me wilting.) Whatever my reasoning, my route is clear. Colorado, Utah. Nevada, and Calli. Bring it on!
The Mike O’Callaghan-Pat Tillman Memorial Bridge, Hoover Dam (roadboystravels.blogspot.com)
It will be difficult to ever top my exhilarating premier adventure. Last Friday morning I walked over the Hoover Dam on a bridge that soars 900 feet above the meandering Colorado River. In a skyscraper, that would put you about on the 65th Floor. Take a deep breath.
Construction on the Mike O’Callaghan – Pat Tillman Memorial Bridge began in January 2005, shortly after we moved here. To watch its six years under construction was to recognize American ingenuity at work. The experience of my then standing on it was, in a word, awe-inspiring.
View from the Nevada side, beginning of the bridge walk
an iPad photo opportunity for a lucky tourist
This is the first concrete-steel composite arch bridge built in this country, its concrete arch being the widest in the Western Hemisphere. Although Colorado’s Royal Gorge Bridge claims bragging rights to being the highest, the Hoover Dam bypass bridge is a close second. This entire project was successfully completed on budget at a cost of $240 million.
I chose to visit early, beating tourist buses and the heat. It’s easy to spot the two kinds of bridge visitors. One is wearing a wide, Holy Cow, grin. The other, terrified, unable to move, clutches the railing with claws of steel. Don’t expect to hear English. Hoover Dam, one of the modern wonders of the world, is a must-stop for international visitors. Unsurprisingly, the experience of crossing this nearly 2000 feet long expanse, has been added to their list. The bridge, part of U.S. 93 and the North American Free Trade Agreement route between Mexico and Canada, connects Nevada and Arizona. It is named after former Nevada Governor Mike O’Callaghan and Pat Tillman who graduated with honors from Arizona State University, played professional football for the Arizona Cardinals and died in 2004, at the age of 27, from friendly fire in Afghanistan. More than 14,000 vehicles roll across the bridge daily.
Another Hoover Dam view, walking to Arizona
From the Arizona point-of-view
At the Apex (pinnacle) of the structure I met a little girl, casually relaxing on the bridge walkway (her family was nearby, albeit not in the photo). As I strolled by, she mentioned, “Daddy’s bridge.” Being the curious journalist and spotting a photo op when I met one, I stopped for an explanation. “Daddy” turned out to be Nic, the Project Engineer for the bridge’s construction. He was joined by Mike, the first Project Manager. Nic and his family now live in Iowa and were making their first trip back to see his bridge-in-action!
Taking a short rest of her Daddy’s Bridge
Mike, first Project Manager, Boulder City (left); Nic, Project Engineer, Iowa
Friday was a beautiful, lucky-to-be-alive, 80-degree day in Nevada. As I lingered at the Apex of this daunting example of design and engineering, my exhilaration could not help but be tempered by the tragic Tillman story, still a recent and bruising national memory. Although this was uncomfortable, I considered experiencing sadness an appropriate part of this journey.
The bridge is open to walkers from dawn to dusk. I know I’ll return, again and again.
Plaque marking the Apex, the highest point of the bridge over Hoover Dam (flickr.com)
I cannot decide if the problem was my being away for 11 weeks, spending the winter on the central California coast, or returning home 2 weeks earlier than expected. When I drove into my driveway, saw the uncut lawn, caught a glance at the runaway shrubbery, and spotted those errant weeds, I channeled the Lomax. “I speak for the trees, for the trees have no tongues,” he whispered, with a grunt, groan and tsk, tsk, tsk.
It gets worse. My small 11-foot patch of grass in the backyard? Half gone. While Mama was away, those pesky rabbits did play. Two of them, who had no fear, were still in residence, munching away. Although I’d hired people to care for my lawn, it obviously had not gone well. Let’s rephrase that. Well, it had gone. Since I’d been up all night and had just completed an 8-hour drive, I simply wanted to unpack my car and sleep the day away. First, however, I wrote my groundskeepers their last check, slapped a stamp on an envelope and walked to the mailbox.
Survival of the fittest. Some fruit must be picked off now to allow others to grow..
Flowering Dwarf Fruit Tree
PART TWO:
The great French novelist Marcel Proust wrote, “Let us be grateful to people who make us happy; they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom.”
Proust knew his prose. What I needed was a charming gardener who would do some soul-blossoming. After prowling the neighborhood, soliciting suggestions, I had the names of several good candidates. By midweek, I had found a new best friend, Peter Bruno of Anthem Landscape & Design. By the end of the week, Pete and his crew had carried 12 humongous plastic bags of cuttings to the local landfill. Remember, I live in the desert and my property fits on a postage stamp. Think, overgrown. Then, supersize it.
A sunny day in Nevada, preparing to replant my herb garden.
Planting new herbs among the well-established perennials
Now, to the challenging issue. My backyard lawn. Please keep in mind, I don’t like fake things. I want my fences to be wooden, my shingles to be shake and my grass to be growing. Although this was more an obsession than addiction, it was clearly time, my friends thought, for an intervention.
My neighbor, Ray, “Mary, I think you should consider artificial turf for your back area.”
My friend, MIchelle, “Mary, look at my yard. It’s fake. No watering. You’ll save money.”
Over the back wall, another neighbor, Bobby, yells, “Mary, it’s okay. The artificial stuff looks better than it used to look.”
Pete is amused. “Let me show you top-of-the-line turf, Mary. It’s good quality.”
I overheard Bobby say to his wife, Adriana, “She’s not going to win with the rabbits. Either she goes artificial or gets a dog.” (Although a dog is in my future, any self-respecting Golden Retriever puppy would be hatin’ me when the Vegas summer temps rise to 110 degrees.) I chose fake.
The artificial turf is applied quickly before I change my mind.
This is NOT a Golf Course or Putting Green. Honest.
Three days later Pete carpeted my backyard lawn. The next day southern Nevada was blessed with its first rainstorm in months. My first thought? “Terrific, the new grass will get a good soaking!”
Oops. Then, I remembered. Even if it looks good, I will never admit it.
PART THREE:
Miracles do happen.
Despite Pete’s do-over and ongoing assistance, I am not a Checkbook Gardener. If something’s going to be planted in my yard, I want to be the one to dig that hole. Thinking to myself, I have a Master’s Degree and can outsmart any four-legged Thumper without declaring war, I sought a solution.
Container Herb Gardening
Container Herb Gardening
This week I reenergized my herb garden but moved all the bunny-friendly food, the basils, the parsleys, to huge pots. Every container owns a new drip line, its private source of water. Although container gardening is nothing new, it is a novelty to me. I’m enthusiastic, however, and my inventory of planters is expanding as fast as I can find plants to put in them. If there’s a future Queen of Drip Lines, I might win the crown.
Order has been restored, bringing honor to the advice of the Lorax to the Once-ler:
SNAP # 32 – Do you recognize the name? Giuseppe Arcimboldo? Doesn’t ring a bell?
Skokloster Castle, Skokloster by Giuseppe Arcimboldo, courtesy Smithsonian Magazine
Two years ago I met Arcimboldo during an exhibition at the National Gallery of Art in Washington D.C. He was hanging on the wall. http://www.giuseppe-arcimboldo.org/
Perhaps Arcimboldo, an Italian painter who is now 485 years old, got shoved aside by the likes of Raphael, Michelangelo, Titian, Tintoretto and Caravaggio, artists who flourished during the Italian Renaissance. Although destined to be a side story, Arcimboldo (1527-1593) painted brilliant portrait heads created entirely of fruits, vegetables, flowers, fish, and books. These painted representations, unique collections of objects, were arranged to form a recognizable likeness of the portrait subject.
Rudolph II by Giuseppe Arcimboldo vertumnus.jpeg
This artist was playful, imaginative, all about nature and fantasy during a European artistic period that was somber, dealing with religious themes and Greek and Roman mythology. His work, displayed in a 2010 National Gallery exhibition entitled, “Arcimboldo, 1526-1593, Nature and Fantasy”, was memorable, each portrait brimming with delight.
I had an hour to meet this artist but I wanted more time with him. So, I brought him home. In researching Arcimboldo, I discovered Piatnik, a Viennese playing card company founded in 1824. http://www.piatnik.com/ Today Pianik also markets games, producing 1000-piece jigsaw puzzles of paintings by well-know artists. Seurat. Van Gogh. Klimt. Renoir. Caravaggio. And, Arcimboldo. I $napped that one up.
A 1000-piece jigsaw puzzle produced by Piatnik
Summer by Giuseppe Arcimboldo, in 1000 pieces
If you want to know and understand an artist’s work better, put one of his paintings together piece by piece by piece,1,000 times. In Arcimboldo’s painting, Summer, 1563, I am seeing fruits and vegetables as they appeared to his eye in the 16th Century. Some of the included produce, I only am now discovering, as I look for the puzzle pieces.
Next, I will be moving on to Velazquez‘ four portraits of Infantin Margarita Teresa. Then, Klimt, Portrait of Adele Bloch-Bauer .
Portrait of Adele Bloch-Bauer I by Gustav Klimt
There’s nothing puzzling about this SNAP: Study art. Do a jigsaw.
SNAP # 30 – The thing is, whatever space I have, eventually, I’ll fill it up. Promise.
Eight years ago, when I moved from a 4,000 square feet-house to a 2,000 square feet-house, I did the math. Half the house requires half the stuff. Pat myself on the back, three gold stars, the moving van carried only fifty-percent of our belongings to Nevada. When I settled in, I still had, uh, a full house. (Okay, I’ve lived in Vegas way too long!)
WHAT TO KEEP. WHAT GOES. DECISIONS. DECISIONS. DECISIONS.
Fast forward to 2012. Even I recognize that I still live in a 2,000 square foot home but now have enough belongings to fill a home twice the size. How did that happen? As a result, I’ve decided to bite the hand that carried the stuff into this house and do the Spring-thing. De-clutter. Toss out. Donate.
For example, I’ve already left several heavy wool sweaters in our Colorado storage closet so I probably don’t need the five others I brought here. The 15 cartons I packed in Colorado and have not unpacked here. Gone. Extra DVD, printer, and iron? Bye, bye. Two broken chairs, waiting re-gluing? Not my problem anymore.
WHO WOULD LIVE LIKE THIS? YOU’VE GOT TO BE KIDDING.
Nothing’s exempt from my scathing editing eye. I’m being ruthless. Sorta. My five-hundred rubber stamps? Keepers. My kitchen inventory? Don’t even……… My turkey platter collection? Boxes of ephemera saved for craft projects? And, books, books, books. I just mayyyy need them someday.
You can see it’s not going to be easy.
But, here’s the SNAP. Lighten your load to lighten your life. “Things” are a responsibility. Too many things, I think, are a liability. The Spring thing, cleaning up your act, join me. I’m giving myself a month. Day 4? It’s going well.
