Weighed Down

Biking from Key West to DC, 2011  

My natural indolence, over-indulgence and forced inactivity have caught up with me. I knew it was happening by how my pants were getting tighter. Denial is not a diet. Today I gave in and stepped on the scale. 182. Dang digital scale. So exact. Time to get back on that fad of eating less and exercising more.

The least I've weighed since high school was in 2011 when I rode a bike from Key West to Washington, D.C., with a man from my congregation and some people he connected with through Adventure Biking. Riding 60 or more miles day after day really uses up the calories.

It all began when several of us spent a weekend biking on the Withlacoochee State Trail. While riding next to me, he mentioned he had always wanted to ride up the east coast of the USA, but his wife wouldn't let him make the trip by himself. Impulsively, I said I'd go with him. It seemed like fun. An adventure. (You can read all about it at CrazyGuyOnABike.com)

Grant was on board after we had a meeting, and the guy swore he would take care of me, no matter what. He was a life-long bike rider who could fix flats and repair bikes. He would do all of the logistics. All I had to do was train up for the long days. What could go wrong?

I still don't know what did. Perhaps if I'd taken part in the planning, I would have had a way to voice my needs when things fell apart. But I didn't. It was his trip, his dream, and when after 6 weeks of riding, he decided he would rather ride longer and faster with the other folk, there wasn't much left for me to say. I headed for my sister-in-law's house in Suffolk, VA. The rest went on to Maine. I was so hurt and angry.

In my mind, he never acknowledged that the trip only happened because I had agreed to go. Now I've gotten up on my high horse of self-righteousness, and I don't know how to get off. I haven't really spoken to him again. I've even ducked out of service to avoid saying hi. This is ridiculous. Why am I not able to just forget? There really isn't anything to forgive. He had his dream. I got an adventure.  We were barely acquaintances, so it didn't cost me a friendship.

Yet it still weighs on me. I am embarrassed by how silly I have been. Rather than paying attention to my wonderful life, I let this resentment get in my mind. How is that good for me? To paraphrase Buddy Hackett, while I'm carrying a grudge, they're out dancing. Or riding a bike.

I can't ride for another month, but I can walk. Yesterday, I walked a mile. Today I will do two. At service on Sunday, I will say hi to my bike riding companion. The weight will come off, and I will feel better.

Good Lives, Lived Well

We started our week with a funeral and ended it with a celebration of life. Each was for a woman who was an artist: one a professional singer, the other an amateur painter. We did not know either well, they were dear friends of friends. Monday evening we attended a Catholic mass for Maria, and even though the service and all but one eulogy were in Spanish, we were able to understand the priest and speakers' messages. Grief is a universal language. Hearing her songs sung in that sanctuary was a lovely last concert for a beautiful woman.

Saturday afternoon we attended a celebration of life for a quiet women from our congregation. Her house was full of family, friends and colleagues reminiscing about how much they enjoyed her company. It was also full of her watercolors and other artworks which I had heard of but not seen. I especially liked a larger-than-life closeup of an aloe, greenish grays and blues.

In our covenant group, Joyce was reserved, listening more than talking. Coincidentally our monthly meeting was Saturday morning, and the chalice lighting honored the friends who can be silent with us. She was comfortable being one of those friends.

I am almost exactly the middle age between when my mother (age 54, pancreatic cancer) and my father (age 88, old age) died. This week we celebrated two women who created beauty in their lives and shared it with others. What will be my legacy?

Masks

My Drawing of Myself  

Grant and I have participated in a marriage enrichment group (MEG) for almost 30 years. Using the format from an organization now known as Better Marriages, we meet once a month with other couples to have a dedicated time to work on our marriage. It is not a group effort, but rather a chance to practice talking to each other in a formal dialogue, after which the others may comment on our process, not the content.

The host couple presents a short session about a topic they choose, then we, as couples, discuss it. Last night, the topic was masks from an art therapy perspective. The suggestion was that we draw a mask that shows the face we present to the world and then a second one that shows what we look like on the inside.

It seems to me that my inside and my outside masks are pretty much the same, because I tend to speak my mind rather than keep my thoughts to myself. When does this flow from being a strength to being a weakness? A fond memory was when a minister who had absolutely no filters asked a person to read at a Christmas Eve service. Noting that the reader hadn't been at church much lately, she called him to the pulpit with, "Come on down, you old back slider."

When I am in my right mind, I can be forceful and eloquent without being harsh or mean. Decades of practice keeps my filters in place most of the time. I often remember my friend's admonition about waiting until the iron is cool before striking. Not nearly 100%, however better than if I hadn't tried and better than I used to be.

Thank you to the founding couple of our MEG and to the other couples who have participated with us over the years. My life and marriage are better because of them.

High School Girlfriends

View of Bird Feeders From Porch  

This was my annual long weekend with five women from my high school graduation class. For 4 days, we reminisce, we solve world problems and tricky kitchen remodels, we advise each other on relationships and financial decisions. We sit in our pajamas all day. I watch the song and humming birds coming to the feeders. We are a doctor, an entrepreneur, a banker/finance person, an administrative assistant, and two stay-at-home moms, all retired* except the businesswoman. Three of us had children, 8 total, 2 of which were adopted. We are all currently married, with, over the years, 10 husbands/long term partners. One couple celebrated their 50th anniversary,

After several official class reunions, we decided we were most interested in spending time with each other rather than our whole class. Proving that memory is a fickle beast, we are not exactly, positively sure when we had our first private reunion. We did stay at the Naples Beach Club to celebrate our turning 50. Did we meet before then? Opinions varied.

We got together several other times in Naples, but with only one of us still living there and with only one parent alive, leaving the rest of us with less need in returning, we decided to meet in at a home north of Atlanta. Which we have for the past several years. How many? Opinions varied. Perhaps one of us will go back through pictures and figure this out.

Jane, Me Mickie
Mary, Kathy, Sue 

This year we celebrated our turning 70. After catching up on the past year, our talk was about next projects. The business owner needs a bigger warehouse for her growing business. Is 70 too old to contemplate expanding her operations? Over the weekend, we looked at the question from different angles. Should she cut back on inventory? Sell out and retire? I'm sure she will soon tell us about her new building. Seventy is the new whatever.

Two of my friends have bought second homes in the North Carolina mountains (one e-signed her contract Saturday afternoon), and another one is moving across the country to her new house. The fourth owns the home we meet in plus a condo at the coast. After spending 4 months in my little apartment with no yard cares and 15 minutes to dust mop (if I did), am I such a slacker to want to avoid taking care of even one house? Rather than an RV, perhaps we should find short-term rentals hither and yon, snowbirds without a permanent roost. I would like a place where I can sit and watch birds, especially hummers.

Rent a while, stay with a child a while, repeat. The only consideration is that to keep our low property tax assessment, we have to have a new Florida homestead by January 1, 2021. Maybe a condo in Gainesville we could rent out during Gator football season. If I haven't made a decision by next girlfriend weekend, I know our collective wisdom will help me.

                          *                            *                            *                            *
*I recently read that women always work. The difference whether we are employed or not. I wish I could give the author credit, but I didn't take notes at the time.

Maine Trip

Zimmerman House, Manchester, New Hampshire  

I am noticing a big tension between wanting to see and wanting to sit. My sisters and I are spending five days in coastal Maine, up and out every morning to walk in the woods and see what birds we can find. The first day, since we flew into Manchester, NH, we toured the Zimmerman House, a perfectly preserved Frank Lloyd Wright-designed home that reinforced my preference of light over dark interiors. Obviously, Mr. Wright and the Zimmermans did not share that preference. Cherokee red counter tops and concrete floors with cypress walls and ceiling absorbed the light from the overhead lamps and south facing windows. A cool retreat in the summer. I can't imagine how dreary it would be in midwinter. From there, we drove to Harrison, Maine and saw our maternal grandparents’ home and graves, sadly, fairly rundown, before reaching our hotel in Freeport.

Betsy, Peg and Me with Lenny, the Chocolate Moose  

Sweetser's 207-year-old Apple Stand  

 In three days, we walked at four state parks and four Audubon centers*. The temperatures were mid-60's and the parking lots were empty. Unfortunately most of the birds had migrated south with the tourists, but the walks were still lovely. I really enjoyed seeing the sights, watching for wildlife, and eating lobster at least once a day. However, I needed a break to just sit. Without that,  I loose crispness in my memory, and the several days jumble all together.

Mast Landing Sanctuary, Freeport, Maine

But when we have a limited amount of time, we tend to pack so much into our days. The day after my sister was married in New Zealand, my girlfriend, son, and I took what we named the Bus Trip From Hell to see the north island. Driven by a young manic, our tour was a series of get off the bus, rush through an area, get back on the bus, and repeat. Just about the time I’d start looking around, the driver would insist time was up, and we had to move on. An exhausting day.

Cape Reinga, North Island, New Zealand in 2008  

However, we got to see the huge kauri trees, 40 Mile Beach, and the very top of the north island, where the Pacific Ocean and the Tasmanian Sea meet. Without the crazy pressure to go, go, go,  I would never have seen that beautiful line where the two different colored waters press against each other.

Audubon Marsh, Scarborough, Maine  

How do I balance wanting to see it all and wanting to think about what I’ve seen and its meaning for me? Perhaps renting a place for a few weeks or months would be an option. With a deck or porch with a view and comfortable chairs. We could use it as a base of operations, with day or longer trips radiating out. The downside would be finding furnished places that rent by the month rather than the day or week. Plus we would still need a permanent location so that would be mean double housing expenses, which full-time campers avoid. However, the thought of continually finding campsites seems overwhelming. Maybe once I got into the habit, it would get easier.

* State Parks:

• Wolfe's Neck Woods and the Center/Campground next door
• Mackworth Island
• Two Lights
• Ferry Beach

Audubon Centers;

• Mast Landing Sanctuary
• Gisland Farm
• Marsh in Scarsborough
• East Road Marsh

Meditation

I was quite pleased with myself for having focused my mind on just my breathing for two breaths at mindful meditation practice this morning, which meant I immediately lost focus and wandered off into thinking how I would compose this post. I've not meditated since my fall. Too painful to sit up straight even with pillows. I solved that today by slumping. No more excuses to skip meditating.

Small Croc at Fob Beach 

My sisters left early today after spending the weekend here. We had such fun going to the beach which was absolutely clear of Sargasso seaweed. I could not believe it. When I had gone before, the sand was covered with it, and the water was filled with it. It was yucky to walk in and creepy to swim in. I mostly passed. (In late June, a small crocodile enjoyed blending in with it and wasn't visible unless it came ashore. American crocs aren't aggressive, but no one seemed to want to swim with it.)
Now the beach could not be better. We floated and floated at what we call the fob beach (one has to have a fob from the community center to open the gates.) Another day we drove down to the state park and walked in the water against the current. I guess Hurricane Dorian blew away the sargassum as it went up the Atlantic. I plan to go to the beach as much as possible before more floats back in.

Having all three of us together meant we could go through the four boxes of family photos and mementos I brought to the apartment. I have to admire our mother' and grandmothers' commitment to making scrapbooks. However, do we want them? We decided that Mother's diaries would be kept. We wept a little and reminisced about old family friends while going through all the sympathy cards and notes from flowers we got when she died, then recycled the lot. I still have a big box of photo albums and scrapbooks to look at, but now I know what my sisters want and what I can toss.




One find was a scrapbook and keepsakes from the Coe (paternal grandparents) and Spaulding (maternal grandparents) memberships in the Tin Can Tourists, a group of campers that began coming to Florida each winter in the 1920's. I think Grandpa Coe built their trailer, although my sisters aren't sure. The Spauldings had a tent then later bought a trailer. The TCT would make arrangements with different cities for the group to spend the winter in a local park, although they were not universally welcomed since TCT members tended to be frugal (cheap) and not spend much money in the communities.

Betsy searched the Web and found the TCT has been revived with all the hipsters' interest in vintage trailers. The president responded to her inquiry immediately. They would love to have our memorabilia and would pay postage to have it shipped. By the time I was back from my orthopedist appointment Monday morning, the scrapbooks, et al, were on their way. At first I was a little sad I hadn't had a chance to look at them more (like I didn't do for the 40 years it all sat in my garage), but that thought passed quickly and was replaced by the relief that it was gone.

The less I have, the lighter I feel. Occasionally I think of something I vaguely wish I had not gotten rid of, like the little wooden desk that I used to display books on. Mostly I remember that I really don't miss it. I have more than I need. This weekend was wonderful.

Plus, Peg has six more boxes of family photos in the eaves of her barn. Perhaps I should offer to come up so we could do the same triage on them. I will meditate on that.

Shorn

Finally, after 16 weeks between haircuts rather than my usual 6 weeks, I have had my locks sheared off. Blame the time frame on my broken pelvis since I was overdue for a haircut when I took that fall. I've waited so long because sitting in a salon chair did not appeal to my sore butt.

My hair grows fast. This time one of my sons asked if I were growing it out. As if. I wore my hair long for years and years, but when my older daughter was getting married, I had it all cut off, voting with scissors not to look like an aging hippie in her wedding photos. What a good decision. No more hair in my eyes; no more waiting for it to dry; no more fighting the cat for ponytail holders (and one wonders why they like to play with them).

I pay more for a haircut here on Key B ($45 +tip) than I did in Fort Lauderdale ($17 total), but it's a fancier process. The results are about the same, longish pixie cut, but Alex's effort is more intense. He cuts off bits with the razor, measures each side against the other, cuts some more, measures some more, repeat, repeat, repeat. When I think he is done, he gets out scissors and snips here and there. A little more with the razor, more snips, measuring, different scissors and more snips, more measuring. Eventually he deems it done. I have to say, a great hair cut.

When he used a hairdryer to blow off all the little snips and razored bits, some got in my nose and reminded me of when I made a cape and muff from my Grandmother Spaulding's vintage mink stole, which was refashioned from a full length coat originally belonging, I think, to a great aunt. This was my first time working with fur, and I cut away with my scissors, not thinking that I would be cutting the hair at the same time as I cut the skins. I was sitting where a fan blew on me, so tiny bits of mink fur swirled around, and, as I breathed in, a lot went up my nose. I quickly figured out to cut the skin from the back with a sharp knife and eventually sneezed out all those tiny bits of hair.

Me in the Original Coat in Front of Our Trailer  

The cape and muff were Christmas presents for my older daughter the year she was reading the Little House on the Prairie series by Laura Ingles Wilder. My daughter was enchanted by the cape and muff worn by one of the characters. Even though we lived in South Florida, my daughter and her girlfriends loved dressing up as pioneers wearing mink. After being worn by other children and friends, the mink cape and muff are now in Okinawa, waiting for our granddaughter to be old enough to enjoy them. I have some pieces left from the stole, and someday I may use them in another project. The pelts are in good shape even though they must be 70 years old. I hope I can say that about myself in a few weeks.