Monday, August 21, 2017

Aging Gracefully...Or Disgracefully. Reprise.

Hubby and I are still down east at Mum's. And there's still no time for posting. So hope you enjoy this one from 2015. It's pretty timely... sort of. Because it's Mum's 90th tomorrow. And we'll be busy eating cake and talking to all and sundry. And whoever else drops by. 

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There's lots of stuff on the net these days about aging, isn't there? How to, how not to, or how to and look like you're not... or whatever. And as my Mum had her eighty-eighth birthday this week, I've been thinking about aging. And how one copes. And what the heck "aging gracefully" even means.

This is a shot of Mum's haul of birthday cards and flowers. I couldn't fit everything into one shot. I didn't have room for the plant from my cousin. Or the bag of creams and lotions from one sister's drugstore and the cozy shawl from the other sister. The cake from the across the road neighbour also didn't get in the shot. Or the bags of fresh farmer's market beans, carrots, tomatoes, and new potatoes from Mum's cleaning lady/friend/neighbour and my niece. Mum misses her vegetable garden a lot. Because, really, nothing tastes as good as tomatoes, or beans, or cucumbers picked fresh from your own garden. Or new potatoes. New Brunswickers are great potato lovers. That's the Irish in us, I guess.

 Mum's birthday cards and flowers

It may seem funny to be getting vegetables for one's birthday. But really, at 88, as Mum says, what does she need? Except nourishing hand cream, a new cozy shawl, flowers, cake, and lovely fresh vegetables. And a good book. Or five. That was my contribution. A gift certificate to her favourite used book store, which she frequents as much for the banter with Gus, the owner, as for the books. He sighs and says, "Here's trouble," when we arrive, then mum threatens him with her cane. And the thought of Mum and Gus sparring, albeit in jest, always reminds me of the poem "Warning" by Jenny Josephs.

Warning
When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
                                                             With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
                                                         And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick flowers in other people's gardens
And learn to spit.

That's not all of the poem, but you get the jist. We're not that big on aging gracefully in my family. Disgracefully is more our speed. Like the woman in Jenny Joseph's poem.... we don't care to act our age.

My grandmother Sullivan did not age gracefully. This is a shot of Grammy when she was eighteen, in 1917.


My grandmother Sullivan in 1917

This is a shot taken at my sister's wedding. That's my mum on the left. My sister's new grandmother-in-law in the middle; her Swedish husband's grandmother, or Mormor, was ninety-two. And that's Grammy Sullivan on the right, holding Mormor's hand. One didn't speak English and the other had no Swedish, but they hit it off somehow.


Three ladies at a wedding.

This is Grammy at the reception. Not sure how many glasses of that red wine she'd had, but when someone wanted to take her picture, she donned my discarded bridesmaid hat (I hated that damn thing) and folded her hands like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. I love this picture.

On older woman in a floppy hat
Grammy Sullivan in my bridesmaid hat at my sister's wedding.
And just like her mum, my mum is aging disgracefully. Not acting her age at 88. Mum does not drive. But in her seventies she learned to drive the tractor and she and my stepfather got the hay in together for years after that.


Man on a wagon of hay with woman in hat standing beside it.
Mum and my step-dad getting in the hay. Probably 1990's
Mum first learned to use the computer at 84. She reads my blog, (and she's no doubt going to kill me when she sees that shot above) and she 'Googles' regularly. Every morning she does her leg exercises, then puts her Eddy Arnold CD on very loud and gets on the treadmill. Go Mum. 

Don't get me wrong. Aging has its challenges. Painful arthritis. Loneliness at times. Watching friends and family go. Mum lost two brothers in one week, this spring. But she keeps on keeping on, as best she can. She swears in public when she can't get her feet to go where she wants them or when her cane gets caught in the grocery cart. Gives herself a shake when she's feeling down. And then maybe puts on her old sunhat and does a bit of weeding in her flower beds.


So aging gracefully... what does that mean, anyway? I certainly don't know. But I do know this, that contrary to media hype, aging gracefully isn't really about keeping that smooth, wrinkle-free complexion into your seventh decade. Or worrying about "age appropriate dressing" and whether or not one is too old to wear mini-skirts... or pink pants.

I just know that as per family tradition, when I'm in my eighties, I'll probably start wearing floppy 70's bridesmaid hats and listening to Eddy Arnold. And hopefully I'll have inherited some of the aging disgracefully gene. I mean, I already swear in public, so there's a good chance.

If you get a minute check out this lovely  video from the creators of the CBC radio show "Wire Tap." Advice from nine year olds to ninety-five year olds on aging gracefully. It will definitely make you smile.






Thursday, August 17, 2017

Lost in the 'Hood Reprise

Hubby and I are back in the 'hood again. But there'll be no time for posting this year. So I hope you'll enjoy the post I wrote about our trip home last summer. See you in a week or so.

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Hubby and I are back in the old 'hood this week. Downeast. Staying with my mum for a few days. Fishing and reading and visiting. Drinking too much tea and talking, talking, talking.

On Thursday we were up before dawn to set off for the long drive. Truck loaded with bikes, fishing gear, suitcases. Big cooler packed with fresh veggies from our garden to take to Mum. Thermos mugs of strong tea. Breakfast would be a few hours down the road. Our picnic lunch tucked into our trusty travel cooler that's been everywhere with us from New Zealand to the Yukon to France, was behind my seat. By 5:00 A.M. we were packed, loaded, belted in, and ready for the ten hour drive.

Then we took a wrong turn... or didn't take the right one. Didn't get off the new highway that takes us around Montreal in time to avoid going an hour out of our way. Sigh. How the heck did we do that? Ah well. We'd never actually seen this part of Quebec. What's one more hour? But we added another hour when we stopped for supper in Woodstock and then took the old road down along the Saint John River from there. That drive was like taking a step back in time. We drove past the old farms that I remember visiting with my step father. Past the place where my best friend Debbie and I used to go horseback riding. I tried to pick out the place where we went to the Saturday night dances in the back of someone's truck, reckless teenagers that we were. The old road was bumpy and crumbling and tree lined. And lovely. Well worth that extra hour, even at the end of a long day of sitting.

Dawn on highway 417
On the road before dawn

The next day Mum and I did what we always do first when I get home; we made our usual foray to visit Gus at the best little book shop in the world. To us anyway. Gus and Mum are buddies although you couldn't immediately tell that if you listened to them bicker. Only the fondness in their tone reveals that Mum thinks he's the cat's meow and I believe he feels the same. Last year I popped in to his shop by myself to get a gift certificate for Mum's birthday. He told me that when he saw me through the window on my own, he thought, "Oh no, this is not a conversation I want to have." And considered locking the door. He'd assumed that arriving without Mum, I was the bearer of bad news. He and Mum reluctantly posed for the shot below. Then Mum said, "Enough of that. Back to the books."

Book shopping at Gus Books
Mum and I shopping at our favourite book store

I love to talk books with Gus. He is an avid reader, no surprise there. And he knows a ton of wonderful author trivia. I have yet to stump him with an author he hasn't read or doesn't at least know about. We discussed mystery writer Stuart McBride the other day. How his books are too graphic for me. But wonderfully written. I quoted a line from one of McBride's books that I've never forgotten. Describing his unkempt co-worker, the main character says: "Her hair looks like it was styled by seagulls." I love that line. Then Gus quoted another thriller author who said that a character's hair looked as if it was styled "by grenade." Then Mum said that my grandfather Sullivan used to say my uncle Dick, who had very thick curly hair, always "looked like he combed his hair with the egg beater." Good one Grampy. You get the prize for best line. Love that.

That's my grandfather Sullivan below. He was a big man. With very long legs... which we all inherited. I love looking at Mum's old photos when I'm here. I get buried in her boxes of pictures and come out feeling as if I'm in a time warp. An identity warp, more like. Catapulted from retired teacher, wife, blogger back to youngest child, little sister, tomboy, budding artist (ha), frizzy haired drama queen bookworm.

My grandfather Sullivan


The picture below is one I found from the late fifties. My brother Terry, sisters Carolyn and Connie, and me. I'm the one in pale green with the big head. Brother Terry is looking suitably serious and big brother-ish. When we were growing up, he could do no wrong as far as I was concerned. I was, to his chagrin I imagine, his ninth birthday present, since we were born on the same day. He was (and still is) the best of big brothers. Generous to a fault. With a wry sense of humour and his Grandfather Sullivan's (and our mum's) gift of delivering a great line. My favourite being one night at supper when I was around eight, which would make him seventeen. My mum decided that we should have the "talk" about sex. And Terry quipped," Okay, Mum. What do you want to know?" That still makes me laugh. I'm pretty sure I never got "the talk" that night.

My brother has had many, many health challenges in his life. He's a paraplegic due to an operation to remove a spinal tumour twenty years ago, a double amputee now due to circulation problems. And he's battled other issues too numerous to mention here. My last two visits home he's either been in hospital, waiting for surgery or recovering from surgery, or confined to bed at home. The van he had newly fitted for his wheelchair sitting idle in the driveway. And only in the past few weeks has he been given the go ahead to get out of bed. For the first time in almost a year. The first night after Hubby and I arrived, we heard Mum's doorbell and there he was on the deck. Grinning. In his motorized wheelchair, with a bag of fresh corn in his lap. He'd stopped at the nearby vegetable stand. He's back on the road again, in that new van, all on his own, just him and his dog. What a feeling of freedom he must feel. Of life regained. Makes me tear up as I write this.

My brother and sisters and me, 1959
In our Sunday best, 1959

Yesterday Mum and I drove up to Terry's in the little blue car we'd rented so Hubby could be free to use our truck to go stream fishing or golfing... and we could be free to "run the roads" as Mum says. On the way we unexpectedly pulled in at Freddy's Family Farm vegetable stand. Freddy has known Mum and me since we moved to the farm over forty years ago. He grows potatoes and corn, and used to keep a large herd of milk cows. Back when he farmed full time and cut hay on his island lots, he took his machinery over to the big island in the Saint John River on the farmers' ferry that my stepfather ran in the summer. As a teenager in the 70s, I used to take over running the ferry to allow my stepfather to go up to the house for lunch or supper. The first few times I manned the controls, the farmers laughed, and teased me, tickled at the novelty of being shuttled across the river with their big machines by a skinny, frizzy haired girl. So on Sunday when Mum, gesturing at the vegetable stand, said, "That's Freddy standing there in the green jacket," we pulled a u-turn and went to say hi. Freddy leaned in Mum's car window, smiled at me and said in his slow quiet voice," Well... it's Susie. You come to run the ferry boat for the summer?" I chortled. Delighted that he remembered that small piece of my history. As I said to my mum later, there are not many people left who remember that particular part of my past. See? That's why it's like being in a time warp coming home... or identity warp... as I said.

That's me on the ferry below... in the hat and rubber boots, with my mum, a neighbour, and my step-father in the wheelhouse. It was May 1983. I was home for a week from Ottawa and we were heading over to the island to pick fiddle heads. A spring rite of passage here in New Brunswick. I don't have any pictures of me actually running the ferry. But you can take Freddy's word for it that I did.

On the farmer's ferry, Douglas New Brunswick
On the farmers' ferry in 1983

So as you can see, while Hubby and I are here, back in the 'hood, I've been a little lost. Who the heck am I when I'm here anyway? Little sister, youngest child, frizzy haired dreamer, ferry-operator (part-time)? All of those? Or none? Grown up and gone for more years than I lived here, it still feels disconcerting to return. Disconcerting in a good way. I think the layers of identity we accumulate over our lives, especially when we don't live all of our life in one place, can be kind of like when we delete something on the computer. The bits are all still there on the hard drive... just scattered. Or in the case of identity, buried under the subsequent layers of grown up selves. And it can be good, I think, to try to gather those scattered bits. Unbury those buried selves. If only to remember who we were. And recognize how far we've travelled to become who we are.

Gad. I am waxing profound tonight. Time to wrap up this post. It's way past my bedtime. And Mum is just down the hall. I might get in trouble.


How about you, folks? What's going "back home" like for you?



Sunday, August 13, 2017

Seeking Fall Inspiration

Fall will be upon us before we know it, folks. And when it comes time to look critically at my fall and winter closet, to do my inventory, and make my list of what I might need, or want, I plan to be ready. And ready for me means having a sense of the looks that have walked down the runway, and featured in fall ad campaigns, and an idea of the trends that are being espoused. Whether I buy into the trends (or buy them literally) is another matter, of course. In other words, I'm currently seeking fall inspiration. So when fall comes I can make good decisions about what I will, and will not, buy. 

I did a quick run-through of three of the big fashion prognosticators: Vogue, Bazaar, and Elle. According to them, red will be everywhere. Along with plaid, checks, and florals. Lingerie as daywear, men's-wear inspired jackets and suits, and western inspired whatever. Puffa coats, track suits, and polka dots. Futuristic patterns and retro hats. Crazy fur and/or feathers, and shiny silver and glitter. Phew. That just about covers everything I would want to wear, and most of what I wouldn't be caught dead in. The wouldn't-be-caught-dead-in stuff is easy. Anything shiny or with glitter, lingerie as a dress, cowboy boots (at least not anymore; they kill my feet), florals that look like drapery, and feathers of any kind. 

For what I might covet come September, I usually look to the designers I admire, and not at the runway reports. Designers like Brunello Cucinelli. For louche and luxurious looks, you can't beat Cucinelli. The epitome of retirement chic, don't you think? See all the Brunello Cucinelli looks here

coat and track pants from Brunello Cucinelli
From  Brunello Cucinelli 

 blouse and pants from Brunello Cucinelli
Brunello Cicinelli

Brunello Cucilelli pants, sleeveless jacket and sweater
Brunello Cucinelli

I also love Fabiana Fillippi. Like the looks below from her website. More Fabiana Fillippi looks here and hereNot that I can afford either Brunello Cucinelli or Fabiana Fillippi. This is just for inspiration, you understand.

three fall looks from Fabiana Filippi
Looks from the Fabiana Filippi website here and here.
And because readers of this blog who live in the UK have mentioned Margaret Howell to me a few times, and since I will be in the UK in the fall, I checked out her fall and winter offerings. This shot is from the Autumn-Winter 2017 campaign on her website. I love the narrow, plaid, mid-calf skirt with the sneakers. 

Margaret Howell jacket and skirt
Margaret Howell Autumn-Winter 2017
So while I love these looks, I'm not really any closer to being ready for fall shopping. But I'm just getting started. I'll be seeking inspiration for a few weeks yet. And I may be up for a bit of a profile change. I didn't have any luck with wide-leg trousers for spring, but this fall, I might reconsider. Maybe with a chunky sweater, and a blazer, and boots?  And maybe a long skirt to wear with boots, and my short tweed coat? Hmmm. We'll see. Until then, I'll be dressing for summer, but falling asleep each night with visions of chunky-knit sweaters in my head. Chunky-knit sweaters and long skirts, caramel coloured corduroys and tweed jackets, and boots, lots and lots of boots.

And to get us in the mood for fall fashion and all the nonsense of those HUGE September Issues, here's a weird little video that I found on Vogue.com. All about how Vogue shot their September issue with Jennifer Lawrence. Shooting a magazine cover is complicated, I guess. All those creative types. And farm stylists...even. Ha. Still, Jennifer Lawrence is adorable. And she certainly seems to be having a "moment," as they say. 



But seriously, I know you don't take all this trends stuff to heart. All the furor of fashion. Neither do I. But I just love all the textures and colours of fall. All the gold, and burgundy, and green, and chocolate brown. All the tweed, and leather, and the cozy knits. I don't pay too much attention to what I'm supposed to be longing for this season. I just want to wear clothes that suit me and make me feel fabulous. Or good, at least. I'll settle for good. 

Hubby and I are heading down east tomorrow. In fact, when you read this we'll probably already be there. We'll be at my mum's for a week or so, and we'll be spending a few days in Saint Andrews, New Brunswick. Saint Andrews is Canada's answer to Cape Cod. Except smaller, and with fewer tourists. I haven't been there for years. I'm really looking forward to it. I won't be blogging when we're away, but I've scheduled a couple of relevant posts from previous years. If you haven't read them already, I hope you enjoy them. See you in two weeks. 




And in the meantime. Back to fall fashion. What is inspiring you for fall this year?