Reflections on Christmas

Holidays can be difficult for those of us alone, with no nearby family and not a large number of friends. For the past few years, I have traveled to Texas or Oklahoma to spend Christmas with my niece and her family, and it's been wonderful. This year, due to very understandable circumstances, my niece was not able to play hostess, and my limited mobility made me decide to stay at home, here at The Clare.

Lest anyone feel sorry for me, The Clare is a fine place for the holidays: many Christmas trees, concerts and activities, special meals. My niece sent a box of gifts to open on Christmas morning, and they were very much appreciated. I exchanged Christmas cards with some old friends (not as many as in the past, but enough). I had a phone call from one nearby friend, and another came over for lunch before leaving town for her own holiday celebration.

Television provided many cheerful Christmas stories which I enjoyed. While I didnt get out much, I continued to volunteer at the Chicago Cultural Center on Thursday mornings, and was able to enjoy the decoraations and exhibits there.

I even decided to go on the Atkins diet and lose at least ten pounds by the end of January--more on that later.

We have a special New Years Eve dinner and gathering Saturday night, but I may skip those and just enjoy the coming of the new year on TV. My wants are simple, and I don't need a fattening dinner (as nearly all food here is). I'd like to see some snow: it's unusual not to have any here in Chicago yet, but I may regret this wish.

My conclusion? Things are always changing, and I've discovered that I can manage on my own very well. In sone ways it's been a lonely season, but in general, I'm doing fine. Let's hope that continues as I turn 80 next year.

To anyone who reads this: I hope your holidays brought you what you needed and wanted, especially a feeling of peace.

Freedom of Speech

I attended a presentation by a semi-retired federal judge who lives in our building on the subject of the First Amendment, or freedom of speech. Of course I believe in this freedom, and yet it occurred to me that I have often had doubts about it. What about the "Occupy Wall Street" protesters and their offshoots in Chicago and elsehere? Where do their rights stop and the rights of ordinary pedestrians and workers begin?

I am too old to have belonged to the protest movements of the 1960's and 1970's. In fact, I remember being "saved" on the street during a Chicago "Days of Rage" protest back then by an Abraham Lincoln look-alike when I was merely walking home. Those times were scary to me, and I've never had any desire to protest anything. Does this make me too complacent? Perhaps. Of course I see, and have seen, inequities in society, but other than writing letters, I've never felt empowered to change things much.

Another factor: I remember my late husband, who worked in one of Chicago's federal buildings, remarking that there were some protesters around his workplace. When I asked him what they were protesting, he said he didn't know. Somehow, that made me feel that protest was just an empty gesture. Is protesting just to make the protestor feel good, or does it have a more positive effect? I don't know. Aside from the civil rights marches, with their clear and just cause, I don't recall many, if any, positive results from protesting.

I admit to being old and steeped in law-and-order society (although I don't relate to any political party). While I feel a bit guilty for saying so, I guess I've always felt that protest marches and sit-ins were a waste of time. I'll always believe in individual rights and free speech, but I just don't know how they can best be implemented. Fortunately I'm not a judge, and won't have to make such decisions. With many of my peers, I can just sit back and watch, for better or worse.

Rictameters Again

TV

TV:
Guilty pleasure,
Waste of time, yet often,
When the day seems dull, I watch too
Many news shows, same old stories, Cubs games,
But still I lack the strength to break
Away and turn it off
For other things.
TV.


Breakfast

Breakfast:
Favorite meal
To start the day, to wake
Energy, imagination,
Prelude to a day of actiity
Or maybe just relaxation,
Anyway the only
way to begin,
breakfast.

More Rictameters

It's been three years since my little, mostly-unread book of poetry was published (Elder Expectations: My Life in Rictameters is still available on Amazon.com), but from time to time I still write poems in my favorite format, the rictameter: nine unrhymed lines with two, four, six, eight, ten, eight, six, four, two lines, the first and last lines the same. At least one of my fellow Clare residents has become hooked on this form. It's amazing how much can be said in how few words.

For some reason, I've begun to think of new rictameters. They truly are addictive, so I've decided to include some here from time to time. Here are two for today:

I'm Old

I'm old.
Funny things have
Happened: gray hair, wrinkles,
Halting gait, early fatigue, to
Prove the inevitable: my time is
Running out, my future not so
Endless, bright, promising
As once I thought.
I'm old.


Bright Days

Bright days
Of golden sun
Viewed from highrise heaven,
Everything takes on a golden
Glow that makes the world seem better than on
Grayer days, when troubles, problems
Take the foreground, make me
Long for sunshine,
Bright days.

Eat Alone? Only in my Own Apartment

One of my old friends (old in time, not actual age; she's younger than I am) asked me if I went to eat at restaurants alone. The answer is no, unless I'm traveling alone by car or stranded somewhere. When I was younger, I occasionally went to a restaurant by myself, but later I began to feel too self-conscious to do so. I enjoyed the convenience of having a husband to escort me on eating-out occasions, but that ended more than ten years ago.

For one thing, I have an uncomfortable relationship with food, all of which seems to add unneeded pounds. The less I eat, the better, so a "diet" frozen dinner in my apartment is not only convenient, but satisfying. Although I live in an area full of Chicago's best restaurants, the trouble of dressing up to go to one alone doesn't appeal to me. I look forward to the very few occasions when a friend invites me to a restaurant meal, but I usually just live vicariously through the restaurant revues a fellow Clare resident provides monthly for the resident newsletter I edit. I can't afford some of those places anyway.

Living at The Clare means that three gourmet meals are available each day if I care to partake of them, but I tried breakfast and dinner and gained five pounds in a very short time--even skipping desserts and other obvious temptations. A large part of my non-refundable food allowance goes unused. The food is just too good here, and designed, I think, to keep my thinner fellow residents healthy. I eat only the Healthy Choice breakfast (an egg white omelet with vegetables, orange juice, once slice of whole wheat toast, a small bowl of fresh berries, and coffee) four days a week. The other days, I have cold whole grain cereal with skim milk. Then, on Sunday, I have brunch with three fellow residents. Sometimes it's a regular omelet or scrambled eggs with bacon; sometimes it's luncheon fare like fish with vegetables and salad (and sometimes dessert, I must admit). My lunches are usually cereal or a salad or some cheese or fruit. I do have the special holiday dinners on occasion. Those are quite spectacular.

I yearn to be one of those skinny women who seem to be able to eat anything, and perhaps if I were, I'd venture out to restaurants more often. As it is, though, my fear of food, my lack of outside eating companions, and my shyness keep me at home. It's not a bad way to live, really, for a "hermit" like me. I'm seldom hungry.

Memories and Change

This is adapted from The Clarion, resident newsletter of The Clare at Water Tower, the place where I live. It expresses my sadness that a neighborhood restaurant is scheduled to close.

My first exposure to Bistro 110 came a few years back when a former neighbor of mine, now a suburbanite and still a teacher, invited me to celebrate my birthday. I gladly accepted, partly because I could look out the window and see the structure of The Clare gradually taking shape. That was exciting at the time; you know how long many of us had to wait.

I remember an excellent, expensive (or so it seemed to me) meal, but the only "dish" that I really remember was the Gateau “Paradis au Chocolat,” described as "A giant piece of our famous cake layered with toffee and served with caramel sauce." It's embarrassing for one with a weight problem to mention it, but this was the chocolate cake of my dreams!

I revisited the restaurant last summer, and the cake was still on the menu. I had to have it, ala mode this time! On my third and last visit, I managed to avoid looking at the dessert menu, but it's still there. Perhaps the closing of Bistro 110 will help instill better eating habits in me. Still, I'll miss it. That cake is delicious!

A May Update and a Sad Commentary on Aging

In case anybody is wondering, my cracked kneecap has healed, more or less, and my enforced confinement ended with the month of March. It was a rather depressing time, but somehow, since I had little to do anyway, it didn't matter that much. Anyway, I'm basically O.K. and back to my routine, slight as it is. My doctor said everyone living in a senior facility needs at least three regular obligations to keep life interesting. I have them: my Thursday morning volunteer duties at the Washington Street information desk at the Chicago Cultural Center, my regular Sunday brunch with three fellow residents, and my monthly editorial meeting and the editing process for The Clarion, our resident newsletter. I'm afraid I'm no longer able to take long walks (I haven't been for quite some time), but I'm not entirely a hermit. Of course there are numerous activities here at The Clare, but not all of them interest me. I'd like to add a regular blogging schedule, but so far, I don't seem to have much to write about. Perhaps I'll try harder.

So here goes: last week, the Chicago Tribune published an article entitled, "This Old Soldier Won't Just Fade Away: Pushing 90, vet battles to stay in apartment where he and his wife have lived for years." The story affected me, because I've done a lot of thinking about the plights of old people, many of whom may not be as fortunate as I am.

The veteran in question and his wife have lived in a tiny apartment in a Near North high-rise building for a decade, and now the management wants them out by May 31. The issue apparently is not financial; one stated issue is bedbugs, which the vet claims came from extermination efforts next door. However, the real reason seems to be doubts that the couple, childless, can continue to live in a building that doesn't offer social services or help of any kind. The man's wife is described as having "cognitive impairment" and was found roaming the building halls alone and confused after her husband was briefly hospitalized after a winter fall.

I suspect that situations like this are not rare. According to the couple's lawyer, the old soldier feels disrespected, and doesn't want to move. The management has switched from forced eviction to an offer of a month-to-month lease continuation, allowing their lawyer to find the couple more suitable living quarters, but they don't want to move. With military pride, the vet defends his years of military service and points with pride at the mementos hanging on the walls.

It's impossible not to have synpathy for this man and others like him. What is the answer for old people without relatives to watch over them? Where do individual rights end? Aging is inevitable, and cognitive impairment is more common than we like to believe. So what should happen to old people like this? That's a very big problem our society must face, and those of us with the foresight and the resources to avoid such a situation should consider ourselves lucky. One of the problems of aging seems to be resistance to change, and change is inevitable, in more ways than one.

Reading in the 21st Century

As an avid reader of books, I determinedly resisted the lure of the Kindle and its cousins, the electronic readers that have become so popular.

This Christmas morning, among my niece's array of gifts placed under the Christmas tree, there were a beautifully wrapped Kindle and a red leather case with my name on them. Since I never do much about gifts, I was pleasantly surprised. I decided to give the Kindle a try. I was amazed at how fast and easy it was to download a best-seller (John Grissom's The Confession). I like a good crime story once in a while, and this one had many twists and turns to keep me interested. I read it in no time and ordered another book. I'm now nearly finished with that one (Jonathan Franzen's Freedom). I wanted to know what all the excitement was on Oprah. The cost? $9.99 for the first, $12.99 for the second, nearly paid for by the $20 Amazon gift certificate I also received.

So there you have it: I'm hooked on the Kindle. That doesn't mean I'll give up all "real" books, but I'll certainly read more best sellers in addition to the self-published books I've emphasized for a long time. Most of those aren't in Kindle format unless they have amazing sales, as most don't. It's not worth the cost to offer my own books for Kindle publication; they'll never be best-sellers.

We seniors need to give new technology a chance; with a Kindle and a wi-fi connection, a whole world of reading is available, and you can make the type size as large as you like. Pages turn easily, and the device is easy to hold. It's another near-miracle of the modern world.

Christmas Again!

I just returned from Tulsa, Oklahoma, where I spent Christmas with my niece, her family, and my brother. This once-a-year family reunion has become a tradation, and a great one at that.

My niece, Cindy, loves Christmas and Santa Claus. She always has her house beautifully decorated; she actually had her Christmas shopping done by November 1 this year, and the number of gifts under the tree was enormous. The whole process overwhelms me to the point of paralysis, so I'm glad to have someone take care of the whole holiday. Cindy is a great cook, too, so I ate more meals than usual, including desserts. I haven't had to courage to step on the scale yet.

My favorite gift was a Kindle book reader. I had been very skeptical about this, being a lover of real books, but during this holiday I got hooked. Reading seems faster and easier on this little machine, and it's easier to hold, too. I'm not ready to give up real books entirely, but it's nice to know that I can download almost any best-seller for about $10 before it comes out in paperback (I've always been too frugal to buy hard cover books).

I want to thank my niece Cindy, her husband Scott, and their daughter Lauren for getting me into the spirit of the season. I hope this tradition lasts for a while longer, and that I will remain well enough to travel (airport walks are a problem, but there's always a wheelchair if I choose to use one; I didn't this year).

Next comes New Years, and I'm back at The Clare for that. We'll have a special New Years Eve dinner. It's time to get busy on the January newsletter, and I have a lot of puzzles to do and lots of material to read. Winter isn't so bad after all!

Photo: Clare tree in the Ambassador Lounge

A Rictameter: Time Flies

Time flies:

An old cliche,

Yet oh so true these days

With meetings, puzzles, TV shows

All designed to keep us busy, content.

In youth, time seemed to crawl along:

Plans were made, lessons learned.

Now, not enough.

Time flies.

Conferences and the Aging

I attended some parts of the National Federation of Press Women's annual conference, held this year at the Union League Club in Chicago. It was a very successful, well-run conference, with interesting speakers and excellent meals. My main purpose in going was to support the organization, of which I've been a member since 2006, and to receive my third place award for the Clarion, the residents' newsletter that I edit.

This conference reminded me again that I'm old. I can't say I didn't enjoy some parts of it, but I got very tired and overfed, and I skipped one reception, one banquet, and one cocktail party during the two main days of the conference and the evening before. First, I found that the speakers were addressing matters that didn't much concern me: dressing for success, getting a book published, making money. I know that my books will never attract traditional publishers, and the process of finding an agent, writing book proposals, etc., which were spelled out skillfully, just made me tired. I found out long ago that I'm not cut out to be an entrepreneur, and that's what a writer must be to succeed. I enjoy writing, but I just don't have the interest or the ability to promote my work. If I expected the world to come to my door, it just hasn't happened.

Another problem is my hearing. With my state-of-the-art hearing aids, I can hear the amplified speeches (unless the speaker has an unusual accent or mumbles), but the general level of chatter in a large dining room is really annoying. I can't hear colleagues across the table, and I can barely hold a conversation with those nearby because of the background noise. I feel that I miss out on a lot of interesting conversation, and I probably appear either mute or stupid, or both. No, I'm not the oldest member of the group, but some people seem to have retained their mobiity and their hearing much better than I. This conference made me feel a bit sorry for myself.

I wrote last year about problems with that year's NFPW conference in San Antonio. Of course that involved air travel, rainy weather, inappropriate plumbing fixtures, etc., things I avoided this year. Still, I have a feeling that I'm finished with conferences. Conferences are good for the young and agile, and I used to enjoy them very much. Now, they just seem to be too much work. I need a shot of energy--and better hearing.

At least one good thing came out of this conference: I may have been inspired to write more again, mostly just for myself.

Further Reflections on the IWPA Awards Luncheon

As I wrote earlier, I was fortunate enough to receive a first-place award from the Illinois Woman's Press Association Saturday at the annual awards luncheon at the Union League Club. The award was for editing The Clarion, our resident newsletter here at The Clare at Watertower. Of course I was pleased by the award, but my real inspirations from the occasion probably came from the beautiful paintings in the Club's main dining room, and more importantly, from the student journalists' awards.

Each year, the organization encourages high school newspaper sponsors to encourage their students to enter their best efforts for judging. I was impressed by this year's crop of winners. The young people were quiet, respectful, and well-dressed for the occasion: no baggy pants or holey jeans in sight. There was at least one short, short mini skirt, but the wearer had just the figure and legs to wear one. I'm not so stodgy as to object to such apparel at that age; there will be time for sedate business suits later. Some of the male winners did, indeed, wear conservative suits and neckties.

In an age when the newspapers and TV broadcasts are filled with gang crime and teen shootings, it was encouraging to see such an attractive lot of highschoolers. Granted, these were mostly suburbanites, not Chicago ghetto dwellers, but it is encouraging to see students who care about writing and do it well. Perhaps if more writing were encouraged, the crime rate would decline even in depressed nieghborhoods. In fact, today's Chicago Tribune featured poetry written by residents of a local juvenile detention facility. There's nothing like writing to free a person's thoughts and encourage sharing.

I've long encouraged writing for everyone, from children to senior citizens, so I'm happy to find a bit of evidence that there may be something to that idea. Perhaps it's because writing promotes thinking that it works so well!

Awards Again!

Every year at this time, the Illinois Woman's Press Association holds its annual awards luncheon. In each of the past three years, I've received first-place awards for one of my books: Reinventing Myself, Seniorwriting, and Elder Expectations. I've also received awards for this blog and for various individual blog posts and book reviews.

I've been writing much less lately, so I was surprised yesterday by a first-place award for two issues of The Clare's resident newsletter, The Clarion. The category (one of many) was "Publications Edited Regularly by Entrant," a new category for me.

The judge (not an IWPA member, but a member of the local writing community) commented as follows: "It's clear this is a "home-made" newsletter and labor of love and, despite the fact that its audience are residents and not a professional organization, its features and stories are really interesting, the photos well-chosen, and the organization and content informative and reflective of the active, interesting, accomplished residents." I suspect that this is the first senior residence newsletter entered in the contest (most are newsletters for professional associations), so I was elated. Perhaps this will draw attention to the fact that we seniors are still alive and kicking, and that seniors (the many contributors to The Clarion) can write.

I plan to share this honor with my staff and all the residents of The Clare who have contributed their talents and their stories. For me, this is a labor of love. Now The Clarion goes on to the National Federation of Press Women's national contest, where it will probably be overshadowed by the professional organizations' newsletters, but I believe I've made my point. I'm so glad I began this newsletter, now in its second year. It gives me a sense of purpose and achievement.

Writing careers, even those as unprofitable as mine, need never stop. There is at least one IWPA member (the organization is 125 years old) who is ninety, and several are in their eighties. Write on!

Tests, Tests, and More Tests!

It seems that as I've grown older, my spring ritual has included going for all sorts of tests and medical examinations, even when I'm not sick. I no longer have the youthful outlook that nothing will go wrong; I'm always expecting something.

For the last few weeks, I've had appointments with my heaaring aid specialist, my dentist, my internist, and my opthalmologist. I had to make a special trip to have blood drawn, as ordered by my doctor. She also ordererd a stress test, the chemical kind, since I can't necessarily walk on a treadmill long enough and fast enough for the desired result. That is not fun; I've had such a test before, and it requires shots of chemicals, probably dangerous ones, and much waiting.

First, I had a tooth extracted, but since it was in the back of my mouth, I figured I didn't need it. It took a while to recover from the extraction. Now my dentist will want to put in an implant to replace the tooth, but I see no need for that. We'll see. My next visit is coming up.

My new hearing aids seem to be working as well as possible (no hearing aids give perfect hearing), so that was a quick visit. I got new transparent plastic "wires," the ones that go into my ears. So far, so good.

The doctor visit and blood tests didn't turn up anything especially frightening. My cholesteral is up, so I need to take a statin medicine again. My blood pressure was within reason, but the medication may be making me tired, so I'm trying a new one. Now I have to have my blood pressure checked again, but fortunately, I can do that here at The Clare. I got new prescriptions for all six of my meds, so I'm set for another year. I sometimes think it's crazy to take so many, but when I stop one, odd things seem to happen, like the new shoulder pains when I tried stopping Celebrex. Oh, well.

I passed the stress test. The doctors always get a bit uneasy because I have a slightly irregular heartbeat, but so did my mother, and she lived to age 95.

The worst news from a financial standpoint is from the opthalmologist: I need new eyeglasses. Granted, mine are quite old, but they've served me well. Buying three new pair of progressive bifocals (one regular, one spare, one prescrription sunglasses) costs an arm and a leg, even though I don't go for the premiere designer frames. I still haven't filled the new glasses prescription, but I probably will do so next week.

Now I have nothing to worry about until the bills come in: the yearly Medicare deductible will apply. I'm always tempted to skip these yearly tests, but I guess I'm brainwashed by the medical community. I hope that if I do get some dread disease, it will be discovered early and be curable, but then I remember an acquaintance who did fine on his stress test and died of a sudden heart attack soon thereafter. He wasn't even old.

So now I'm all tested and medicated and hoping for a healthy year. But who knows what is in store for me? Getting old is not for the weak.

The Trouble with being a Good Samaritan

I've lived in Chicago for a long time, so I don't have the country fear of crime that bothers others. In general, I trust people. I've become more mellow living in a senior residence where nearly everyone exudes helpfulness and sympathy. Of course I don't fall for those Internet schemes involving Nigerian con men eager to give me money if I'll only send some of my own. I always thought I was quite alert and savvy.

So what happened? A week or so ago, I fell for a young woman's sob story in the grocery store parking lot. She was obviously pregnant, or perhaps bolstered with a pillow (I don't know much about pregnancy), and she claimed to be about to give birth and needed a ride to a hospital quite far away. She told me where she lived (probly not true) and babbled on a lot, but I couldn't understand much of what she said. I made the mistake of offering her money, and she saw where my wallet was. She strongly insisted on a ride, so I agreed to drive her to an el station; the hospital was too far away.

I stowed my purse, with wallet inside, on the floor beneath my feet, but my car is very small, and the woman was supposedly in pain, so she moved around a lot. I just kept my eyes on the road and was in a hurry to get rid of the woman before something happened. (This being Chicago, she might well have had a gun, so I began to worry). After quite a bit of driving around (I wasn't sure of the location of the el stop), she finally agreed to get out as a bus approached. I heaved a sigh of relief to get rid of her, and proceeded home.

I started to have nagging doubts when I later observed that, although my wallet was still in my purse, it seemed out of place. Sure enough, when I took it out, it was very light. Most of its contents were gone. The cash was gone, of course: probably about $80 or so, but I'm not sure. More importantly, my major credit cards were gone, and probably some minor ones I no longer use and can't remember. Fortunately, my driver's license and medical cards were left, as well as one credit card that was in the purse but outside the wallet.

I immediately called Chase Bank and Bank of America and cancelled two credit cards and a debit card (my pin number was not in the wallet, so the thief couldn't have used that very much). By the time I called, soon after the incident, one card had been used, but for only a small amount. I'm glad the thief was not a big spender! Apparently she made a few other small purchases--small enough so as not to be asked for an ID. I've not found any large charges on any of the cards, but more could be on the way.

Anyway, I now have new cards with different numbers, and I've used my new debit card successfully to replace the cash. I'll check out future statements very carefully. I am ashamed for being so gullible, but the woman must have been an experienced thief to grab the wallet, strip it, and return it to my purse without my noticing. Some slight of hand must have been involved.

While I've always believed in people helping people, and although I could probably afford to lose what I lost, I know I'll be more wary from now on. No wonder city people, especially, sometimes seem so cold and distant. The big city is not a friendly place for good samaritans, and I'll probably never try again to be one.

Facing Reality

It didn't exactly come as a surprise, but one of the features of senior living that I hadn't devoted much thought to is the frequency of loss among this age group. In the year since I've moved in, a few residents of Independent Living have been moved to assisted living or nursing care, and two or three others have died.

None of these people have been close friends; it's just that a semi-familiar face (in one case, a man I've worked with on a resident committee) simply disappears, and is soon mentioned in an administrative publication.

In addition to those cases, the number of people transported to the hospital after falls or other disasters is and always has been impressive. I've signed a lot of get-well cards.

Somehow, when I lived among the younger, such things seldom came to my attention. It's sad but rather different when I hear that some old acquaintance across the country has died. That somehow seems less shocking and more understandable. Of course the main shock comes when a much younger person dies. One of my younger cousins died recently of cancer, but that wasn't entirely unexpected.

Here at The Clare, many residents are in their eighties and nineties (the oldest is over 100). We 70-somethings are getting a lesson on what it means to grow old. Some residents are remarkably active, regardless of age, while some seem to gradually fade away. For some, the deterioration is obvious; for others, all seems well.

All this is a bit hard to handle. All I can do is resolve to stay as active as possible (although my main activity of writing and editing is a rather sedentery one) and remain optimistic. If I live as long as my mother did, I'll have eighteen years left, but If I had followed my father's pattern, I would have died seven years ago. I know which I prefer, but the choice is not really mine.

At any rate, I'm learning to face reality without becoming depressed. I guess that's one of the realities of senior living.

The Failure of Democracy, or Why I Ignore Politics: A View from 360 BC

"His inclination was to turn his back on p0litics--it seemed altogether too hopeless a mess. He had no faith in the rule of the rich, nor any confidence in the ability of ordinary citizens. The rich, as he saw, had mostly their special interests in mind, and during the time of their regimes they had shown to what length they could go to defend the advantages of the few against the majority of ordinary people. But the rule by the many was no remedy, because ordinary people were too easily swayed by the emotional and deceptive rhetoric of ambitious politicians. Politics, in other words, seemed an irremediably corrupted affair, and all a rational person could do was to attend to personal matters, and to pursue wisdom in the privacy of one's solitude and a small circle of friends."

From Plato's The Republic, 360 BC

So what's the answer? Democracy is imperfect, but I've never observed a better, fairer system of government. Thanks to my brother, John Marshall, for alerting me to this quotation.

A Short Lesson on Chicago Politics

There I was, sitting at the Washington Street information desk at the Chicago Cultural Center, reading a book on a day when the cold weather deterred tourists from coming in, when I noticed an assembly of large men entering the lobby. They were obviously waiting for someone; the guard informed me that the Mayor was coming soon. He was appearing at a meeting in the building.

This information aroused my interest only slightly; I've seen Mayor Richard M. Daley before. I'm not very interested in politics, and he's no hero of mine. I do have a picture of him handing me an award for teaching some years ago.

As time passed and I read on, the retainers began to get slightly anxious. Then, finally, the Mayor entered in his characteristic hat; he handed the hat and his overcoat coat to one of his assistants and proceeded toward the elevator. Imagine my surprise when he looked my way, came to my desk, and shook my hand, as a camera flashed. I am a political nobody, just an elderly Cultural Center volunteer, and he's not even running for office this year. An aide handed me a card for claiming a copy of my picture with the Mayor, but I'll probably decline.

This experience reminded me how politicians work. They seem to be on the lookout for hands to shake, even when they are being ignored. I remembered that when I lived in my Old Town condo, at least three other residents of the small building also displayed pictures of themselves with the Mayor. He surely gets around. I guess that's one of the secrets of getting elected: greet everybody like a long-lost friend and shake many hands. It seems to work for Mayor Daley. Will I vote for him next time around? Probably not, but I can see why he's popular.

Trying My Best

This is a NuStep cross trainer exercise machine. It is one of two machines from the Clare fitness room that I can use, but unfortunately inertia often sets in and I stay away. I am, at best, a reluctant exerciser.

I'm sold on the value of staying active, but I seem to be the ultimate recliner potato. I am lazy and tend to be inactive. Anyway, every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday (barring special appointments and responsibilities) I appear for exercise classes on the 19th floor. The leader, Jan, is wonderful: always complimentary and encouraging no matter what one does or does not manage to do. "Modify this exercise" is her frequent instruction, usually directed to me. Why?

Some parts of the exercise routine are simply impossible for me. For one thing, I cannot raise my right arm; it's been that way since an accident in 1942, followed by another in 1952. By then, my arm was misshapen and nearly useless, although I continue to write with my right hand. Due to arthritis in my shoulders, my left arm can't be raised very far, either. Despite various bouts with physical therapy, arm exercises are a lost cause.

My legs don't work especially well, either. Two knee replacements helped, but I still lack strength and a sense of balance. I'm the one who can't get out of a chair without using my hands, and the one who clings to the back of the chair during most standing exercises.

Fortunately, my fellow senior exercisers are not toned athletes, but some of them, including some of those considerably older than I, do very well indeed. My many unathletic years seem to have caught up with me. I'm overweight and clumsy, even after more than a year of these exercise classes. It bothered me when our oldest resident, age 101, connected to her oxygen tank, did some of the excercises better than I did.

Many times, I've thought about discontinuing my participation in the exercise program. Still, I keep going. This is one area in which I cannot be a perfectionist, but I'm conquering my embarrassment and trying my best. Some movement is undoubtedly better than none! I'm reminded again, though, that old age is not for the weak. And I'll try to visit my favorite exercise machine regularly soon!

More on Senior Travel

I've noted a lot of concern about the new air safety rules. On my recent trip to Tulsa (or actually on the way home) I was exposed to a full-body scan for the first time. Actually, it was easier for me than the usual pat-down brought on by my two knee replacements always setting off the alarm.

Privacy? Perhaps younger people feel differently, but I just don't care. My ugly, misshapen body is sure to be ignored once explosives are ruled out, and I'm sure no one will bother to look further. Yes, all these security measures are a bother, but they seem necessary. Safe flights are a high priority for me. Such things wouldn't be necessary if we lived in a perfect world, but that's not the way things are. Let's welcome full-body scans as long as they are needed.