Aging and Attitude

By Fran McNabb

It happens to all of us. One day we’re young and carefree with small children and new houses and lots of energy. Then we open our eyes one morning and realize those days are long past. We are no longer young. Our children are grown. Our houses are older and empty. When we find ourselves in this situation, what should we do?

Growing old doesn’t have to be depressing. Being old is a matter of perception and the attitude each of us has toward it. I know fifty year olds who act old and I know seventy and eighty year olds who are still young at heart and don’t let the age thing keep them down. I hope I’m considered in that last category.  I think how a person looks at life makes all the difference in the world.

If you’re reaching the senior citizen age, how are you approaching it? Many businesses start giving senior citizen discounts to people as young as fifty. Really? It’s nice of businesses to give a discount, but at fifty? At fifty most of us are still quite active and resent when they are put into that classification. I passed the fifty year mark years ago. I seem to be more active now than then since I was fighting RA at the time. Now with the miraculous new drugs on the market, I’m much more active and enjoy life to the fullest.

Hubby and I are realists and do understand we can’t continue forever doing some of the things we love to do, such as boating and doing the beach scene. We are both seventy-one. That’s hard for me to imagine since I don’t feel that way. In a few weeks we’re driving eleven hours to our son’s house where we’ll get on a boat with some forty year olds and go to Bimini in the Bahamas. We’re excited to be invited because it’s one of our favorite places in the world. We will try our best to keep up with the “younger crowd” on this trip and enjoy what will probably be our last trip out to that island. After returning from The Bahamas we are planning to drive into the Keys (our next favorite spot in the world) to enjoy a few days there. We're not letting age stop us from enjoying this trip.

As authors I think the “age-thing” influences the type of characters we write about. I know I stay away from twenty-something characters because I don’t think like them anymore. Other than that I’m not sure I let age stand in my way.

No matter how old you are, when it’s time to be considered old, I hope you have done all that you’ve wanted to do. We might be a little slower and we might choose not to do some things in life, but, hey, don’t let age get in your way. Want to do it? Try it.

FRAN MCNABB tries to live life to the fullest along her beloved Gulf Coast. She enjoys boating, fishing, reading, and of course writing. Many of her nine published novels are set along the coastline. One is set in Key West. Check them out at  www.FranMcNabb.com or write her at mcnabbf@bellsouth.net

SUMMER

I can’t be the only one who, on the twenty-first day of June, starts to get anxious about summer being over. Even though I’m mostly retired and travel and vacate nearly as much during the other three seasons, summer will always mean vacations and good times. But every year, from the first official day of summer, I start to fret about it almost being over.  Come the third week in August, I go into panic mode as the sun sets earlier and the evenings get cooler knowing autumn is just around the corner 

There are theoretically, three months to summer:  mid-June to mid-September.  But most of us, even if school was fifty years ago, still think in terms of the school year and summer vacation so it’s really less than three months. That’s not a lot of time to pack in all that summer brings.  

My list of wants combined with the Northeast’s relatively short season means there’s simply not enough time to cover it all. It doesn’t help that this June it also rained almost every single day.

So what is it about summer that is so great?  Being outdoors for starters.  Come November through mid- March, unless you’re a skier and I’ve hung up my skis, we Northeasterners are mostly inside. But in the summer months, you can be outside all the time—unless it’s raining. 

Most spectacularly there are the lakes and the ocean and even the backyard pool to enjoy. Besides the sports that come with being by the water, including sailing and kayaking and swimming, there’s the wonder and beauty of simply sitting beside water either in a lounge chair or a hammock with a good book and a glass of rosé or iced tea—pure heaven.       

But back to the salad days of summer, which are just now beginning. Besides the pleasures that come with the beach or the lake, there’s grilling outdoors followed by dinner on the deck or in the screened in porch alight with candles as the sun goes down. Rocking on the front porch with a friend or that same book and of course, a glass of wine.  There’s also playing golf. Whether you’re ready to go pro or are a duffer, there’s still the joy of being outside in a beautiful place. 

And when not golfing or reading and drinking wine? Outdoor concerts, summer theatre and midweek potluck dinner with friends fill the days and evenings as do celebrating Memorial Day, Fourth of July and Labor Day outside with old and new friends..

Perhaps summer is really be a symbol of what I love best, socializing, being outside and enjoying life and all it has to offer.  It is probably also about childhood memories of the beach and the lake and long carefree days when I wasn’t responsible for anyone but myself. Regardless, it is my favorite time of the year, not because I’m able to tan to a beautiful bronze, I freckle, but because more than any other season, it represents the little joys that life brings and reminds me to stop rushing so that I can enjoy them.

Thoughts on Father's Day

Father's Day has come and gone again. Since my own dad's passing in 2012, I always find a bittersweet element to this nationwide celebration. Of course I honor my husband, the father of my children, and do my best to help him feel appreciated. Now that all of my children are parents, I honor the fathers of my grandchildren as well. Somehow, it isn't the same without a dad of my own.

So I spend part of each Father's Day remembering my dad. Born in 1922, Dad grew up in a small farming community nestled in a valley of the Gila Mountains. Born on the Arizona side of that valley, he grew up on the New Mexico side, near Silver City. Throughout his life, he loved driving through well-tended fields of productive farmland. He was even more thrilled by the pastoral scenes. Whenever I drive past fields of green grass where Black Angus cattle graze peacefully, I think of my dad, knowing how much he would love that sight.

He gardened throughout his life, also tending fruit trees, berry vines, grapes, and other crops. He and Mom chose homes with a little land around them, so he always had animals to tend. My sibs and I grew up on healthful, organically grown milk, meat, eggs, and produce whose provenance we all knew well, since we had helped to grow it (sometimes, when Dad let us or insisted).

Dad loved horses. As a pre-teen girl with horse-crazy friends, so did I. When I was a young teen, he bought a sweet old mare who gave my sister and me some interesting rides. Then Dad traded Belle in on a young, "proud-cut" gelding who had a little too much spirit for my taste. I rode Star occasionally and my sister liked Star better, but Dad loved him. As a young man, he had ridden on cattle drives. In his early adult life, he had worked for the U.S. Forest Service, often riding in to the fire lines, leading a pack mule that carried additional supplies. A spirited horse was exactly his style.

He was a teacher who had never really wanted to teach, whose students all adored him. He made up fantastic stories that he set in the history of the nation or the world, making the history he taught personal enough that his students could grasp and appreciate it.

Because of his birth in 1922, Dad was the right age to go to war with the Greatest Generation. He joined the Navy and became a sailor who was violently ill whenever at sea. He did better when assigned as a radioman and tail gunner for a small airplane in a smaller air field on an even smaller island in the Pacific. He seldom spoke of his war experience, usually only to say he had never been in combat. When he was in his 70s, he finally began to talk of the side of the war he had seen, including plenty of death and sorrow.

He adored babies. Whenever the family gathered, Dad gravitated toward the little people. Almost every child born in our extended family up to the date of his death has been held, rocked, and sung to sleep by my father. When my own grandchildren cry now, especially that inconsolable cry all babies sometimes manage, I wish for my father to soothe them. I wonder, sometimes, if he might be there.

On this most recent Father's Day, I cooked a special meal for my husband, sent e-cards to all the other fathers in the family, and let them all know I love them and appreciate the fine work they are doing in raising the next generation. But in my private moments, I thought of my dad. I probably always will.

Susan Aylworth is the author of 18 novels currently available as e-books. PARIS IN THE SPRINGTIME and SUNNY'S SUMMER, the first two books in the "Seasons of Destiny" series, are also available in paperback. Book Two chronicles the aftermath of the deadly Camp Fire. She lives in northern California with Roger, her husband of 49 years. She loves hearing from readers. Find her at www.susanaylworth.com, @SusanAylworth, on Pinterest and Instagram, and at www.facebook.com/Susan.Aylworth.Author.

Travel - Anticipation and Anxiety

by Karen McCullough

Image in public domain, from Wickimedia Commons

Summer is about to officially begin and that means travel time!

I love traveling.

I hate traveling.

I love going to new and different places, collecting new experiences, and seeing things I’ve long dreamed about visiting.

I hate all the hassles of getting to those places.

I love the excitement of airports, with the anticipation of travel to exotic (or even more mundane, but different) places. I like window-shopping in fancy stores, picking up a few last-minute things, and watching the planes land and take off.

I hate the anxiety of getting to the airport on time, getting through long security lines and pat-downs. I always seem to trigger a pat-down, though I have to be the least threatening looking person in the entire airport. I hate worrying about getting to my gate on time, the crush of people all trying to board as quickly as possible, and settling into a seat area that’s impossibly tight even for someone who is 5’1” and 130 pounds. I hate the inevitable delays and worry about making connections, especially for international flights.

I love relaxing into my seat, getting into a book or movie, having someone bring drinks and food to me.

I hate being confined in a small space for hours on end, having to climb over people to get around, using an airplane lav, the bland tastelessness of most of the food, and my own complete inability to sleep on a plane.

I love landing in a new place, finally getting off the blasted plane and stretching my legs, anticipating the adventure ahead.

I hate lines at passport control, the crush of luggage retrieval, and the search for the taxi stand. Especially in a country where I don’t speak the local language, I worry about communicating with the taxi driver, getting ripped off, and making it to the right hotel or Airbnb. Or if I’m renting a car, I worry about the hassles of that process and then finding my way to my destination, hoping the GPS on my phone works in this place or the maps I’ve studied were correct.

I love settling into new quarters, starting out to explore the new terrain, finding new delights and surprises around every corner. I relish trying new food at local cafes and eateries, making notes about interesting details as research for a possible future story setting, and even watching the people. Soaking in the atmosphere of a new place, talking to local people, shopping for souvenirs, taking in as many interesting sites as possible all feed my soul. Large dramatic sites, like the Colosseum in Rome or Stonehenge (or as I hope this summer, the Acropolis), move me in odd and profound ways. The beauty of small objects in museum also touches me. I feel the history of a place as almost a living thing when in direct visual contact with the creations of people throughout history. They speak to me through the stone or glass or clay. I could spend days in art and archaeology museums, or at least hours – until my brain starts to complain about overload.

I hate that occasionally my stomach rebels at all the new foods and different waters, though it doesn’t happen often, thank goodness, and there are medicines that help. I wish I didn’t have to be careful about what I eat because I’m allergic to nuts and they’re hidden in a lot of things. And I sometimes wish my feet could handle more miles, though I wear good shoes for walking and in fact, can do a lot of it. I’m not good at packing the right things, although that’s mixed because it can give me a good excuse to pick up something I wouldn’t otherwise have bought.

I love the way travel expands my mind and my imagination.

I hate the way it empties my pocketbook and bank account. But I count every penny worth the expense.

College Reunion

Next weekend I’m going to my 50^thcollege reunion. I went to a women’s Catholic college in the 60’s, Newton College of the Sacred Heart.  In those days, single sex schools, for those who’ve forgotten or are too young to know or remember, except for big state universities, were the norm.  Harvard undergrad was men, as was Yale, Brown and Dartmouth.  Women went to their sister schools, i.e. Radcliff, Pembroke, or one of the “seven sisters.”  Most of these women’s colleges, Catholic or otherwise, have closed or merged with men’s schools.  Newton merged with Boston College in 1974.

But my reunion is just my class, or what remains of the original 225 women.  

Although it was a small school and I knew everyone by sight, the school was cliquey.  I imagine most women’s schools were.  Someone once suggested that it was a way to maintain your privacy.  You only talked to your friends.  I’m not sure if that’s correct, but I do know girls’ schools can be hard places to socialize. You stay within your group. 

The other unspoken rule was conformity.  This was the mid-sixties, just before the “cultural revolution.” In those days, at least in any school I attended, you never wanted to be different. If you were unable to hide your differences, you were ostracized unless you were super cool. I wasn’t.

In spite of these limitations, I loved college.  I was away from home in a beautiful town within easy distance to Boston.  I had boyfriends and a social life—which was at the time my primary concern.  In hindsight, there was so much I didn’t know or understand.  If I had to do it over, I don’t know if I’d have gone to school in such a rarified atmosphere where everyone, at least on the surface, was almost exactly like me and where privilege and a sense of place and decorum were so valued.  What I do know is that it’s part of who I am today and it’s almost impossible to assess the benefits and negatives.

When I went back to my high school reunion I was surprised and charmed to find that the old cliques no longer applied and that everyone was at least as curious about me as I was about them.  We all had our stories and not everyone’s life had turned out the same.  There were some widows, some who’d never married, and because it’s a Catholic high school, some who became nuns and some who still were. 

But although we weren’t all alike, we had that common high school experience, those values that had been emphasized all four years, that made coming together in some ways like a family reunion.  We discovered, in spite of our differences, we had more in common than not.  That was a reality I was not expecting, had never, until that reunion even recognized, and since then have cherished.  I may have come from a family with its own values and credos but I also attended a high school that gave a strong message that I’d, unconsciously adopted.

I’m not sure that’s the case with college.  I think by the time you’re 18 your core is formed.  But I’m open to the idea and certainly curious as to how everyone in my class turned out.

I left Newton an untested immature idealist who then acquired some grit and maturity in my days struggling in New York City.  That time in the city helped me become more confident and aware than I ever felt at graduation.  It also has served me well into maturity.

What about my classmates? I can’t be the only one who had a time of struggle.  Not everyone’s marriages are easy even if they look that way from the outside.  I’m sure some wrestled with their identity, their purpose and/or financially.  I’m also assuming some of those classmates won’t be at the reunion. No one wants to return and report they couldn’t do it or never figured it out.  I’m guessing most of the attendees who will be there are the success stories or the ones with lots of friends attending so they can surround themselves with those they know and avoid reaching out to those they don’t.

But I’m betting on a few surprises.  People who are interesting and who are interested.  People who will help me understand what went on during our four years and how it affected our futures.  It’s probably the main reason I’m going.  I want to know how my classmates turned out and I’m hoping to learn from what they know what it means for the rest of us.

Transitions - A part of life

by Fran McNabb

My eight-year-old grandson said something this past weekend that made me think. He plays baseball and next year he’ll be transitioning to a league where he’ll be with older kids. He is already worrying that the older boys will be much more experienced and will play better than he does, but as he talked, he immediately started going through reasons why he would be okay. He realizes he's a big boy for his age so he won’t look smaller, and he knows he has learned so much this year that he is really good at the sport and will even be on the All-Stars this summer.

He was doing what we all do when we find ourselves having to move into a new situation. It might be starting a new job, moving to a new area of the country, marrying someone and starting a new life, or maybe trying something new with what we already know and do.

As writers we sometimes have to move away from what we feel comfortable writing. Maybe our genre isn’t as popular as it once was, maybe our publisher is dropping a line, or maybe we need to find a new area to keep our enthusiasm high.

If we find ourselves facing a new situation, we do what my grandson did today. We find the good in what we have to offer. It’s simply human nature to do that. We build our confidence up so that we can face our new situation with our heads held high, even knowing that there is always the possibility to fail—or maybe “fail” is too strong a word. When we move into a new situation, we do know there is no guarantee that it will be the right move. But that’s part of life. Sometimes we have to try new things to come up with what we want to do.

Maybe next season my grandson might decide he doesn’t want to play baseball anymore, but unless he tries playing with an older group, he’ll never know what his capabilities are. This summer as he makes that scary transition into his new area, I hope he understands he’ll be transitioning into new situations for most of his life. They might not be easy, but they are a necessary part of growing.

If my fellow writers are going through a transition with their writing, I hope the process will be easy and successful. Sometimes change is just what we need to keep the creative juices flowing.

FRAN MCNABB writes sweet romance and has nine published novels at present. She lives along the Gulf Coast with her husband and uses this setting in many of her books. Besides writing, she loves painting, boating, and reading. Visit her at www.FranMcNabb.com or at mcnabbf@bellsouth.net.  

Memories of Mom

We've just passed Mother's Day, my first without my mother. She passed last July with me at her side. She was 93, blind, and in constant pain from a broken arm that could not be immobilized. That made it easier to let her go, but it hasn't taken the sting out of her loss.

As we drew near the annual holiday, I found I missed her more each day. Many times I found myself wishing I could just pick up the phone as I once did. Even though I can't, I do sometimes still talk to her when no one else is watching. Oh, how I wish I could hear her replies!

Of course, with the missing come the memories. An early one comes from when I was about four. Some of the kids in the neighborhood were into the books featuring Doctor Dan and Nurse Nancy. Looking at them, I told Mom I might like to be a nurse. Teasing me, she said I was too squeamish for that. I took umbrage, insisting I'd grow out of that, and she said, "Then why not be a doctor?" In the mid-50s, this was not a popular position, but Mom saw no reason why her daughters couldn't do anything her sons could. That attitude stuck with me.

Around that same time, our family was in a car accident. On a narrow, graveled mountain road, Dad skidded on gravel, went up onto the side of the mountain to avoid plunging down the other side, and rolled the car as a result. When the dust settled, we crawled out through the windows to take stock. Dad was okay. My little sister had some bruises, but she was fine. So was I and Mom said she was. Since it seemed no one was injured, we all hiked to where we could summon help. Only after we were home did Mom mention the stiffness in her neck. It turned out two vertebrae were fractured. She lived with neck pain the rest of her life, dealt with it, and seldom said much about it.

Mom made most of my clothes, even when I reached the age for formal dances. My "homemade" prom dresses were every bit as stunning as my friends' off-the-rack examples or even moreso, since Mom was excellent at the sewing machine. Both my sister and I benefited, though Mom stopped short of tailoring my brothers' suits. I'm certain she could have.

It seemed Mom could do everything well. She and Dad laid their own circular driveway, studded with pebbles gathered at the beach. She made rag rugs and eclairs and the best apple butter you can imagine. She painted walls and pictures, canned mountains of fruits and vegetables, and did most of it while teaching full-time. Hundreds of adults can read today because they were in Mrs. Hubbard's first grade classes.

Like most mother-daughter relationships, ours was complicated. I was the oldest child and was therefore expected to be perfect, an expectation I found impossible and confining. Mom and I saw the world in very different ways, a matter which bothered her endlessly.

Nevertheless, as this Mother's Day came and went, I missed her. Terribly. And wished I could share a few minutes with her once again. If you still have your mother, why not give her a call. Today, while you still can.