I’ve noticed, as I have aged, that the thirty (30) somethings, the Gen Y or millennials (I goggled the terminology) view the celebration of the holidays differently than my generation (baby boomers). My granddaughter and her sister (blended families) celebrate Christmas with a family gathering to watch the movie “P2”.  This was my second year being a part of this particular get-together. In prior years I lived a 45-minute night drive away.  Another aging thing- night driving has become a no-no. It seems my perception of familiar environmental markers are lost at might, making driving very difficult. However, for the past two years because of challenging circumstances in my life (I’ll write more about them later), I live a short distance from the youngest of my two senior citizen sons.

My first year of partaking in watching this horror movie (lots of blood and gore), I didn’t understand why these two intelligent young ladies would choose this particular activity/movie as reason to celebrate the season by sending out internet RSVP invitations, making spaghetti and serving popcorn. P2, directed by Franck Khalfoun, and starring Rachel Nichols and Wes Bently is the story of a woman being stalked by a crazy eyed killer, mostly in a parking garage, therefore P2 the level where her car is parked.

The theme of the movie and the goriness caused me to ponder – why would my sweet, intelligent, kind, granddaughter and her just as intelligent, kind, sweet, sister be so infatuated with a movie that they would plan a yearly family night during the Christmas season. Mind you, the action takes place at Christmas. In fact, the movie begins with the incomparable Eartha Kitt singing “Santa Baby” in the background.

I love both young women, and value their ideas and concerns. However, P2 puzzled me. There was actual overtone of excitement in other family members- was it about the movie or about getting together as a family?

I pondered the psychology behind young women thinkers as these two are, regarding the time and effort they spent planning and working to make the night a special one at Christmas when thoughts are usually about the birth of a baby Savior, who we all in our family worship with differing levels of devotion and religiosity. I considered the movie and its message, and it finally dawned on me, it’s the ending. The boobs, the blood, the gore, the violence all leads to an ending that speaks to female empowerment.

I believe, this is an important part of aging. Realizing that what used to be, may not be anymore. Go with the flow, Gwendolyn There is change in the air. Mangers and Santa are not celebrated the way I grew up celebrating Christmas. Macys Union Square will not have Santa leading its Christmas parade. My grandchildren have not raised their children believing in Santa Claus. I remember when I was a ten-year-old in the 4^th grade and Odis Thomas told me there was no Santa Claus and I tearfully reported him to my teacher.  Mr. Maves quietly advised me to talk with my parents about this matter. At home my mother tenderly told me to keep the secret about Santa from my three (3) younger brothers who, of course, knew the reality and had let me believe, while laughing at my naivete behind my back. Christmas just ain’t what it used to be.

It seems I’ve been negligent in posting my thoughts and views regarding this crazy aging process I am experiencing.  I became 85 years this December. What it is, is I’m busy trying to survive (including rest time), that I forget to pass on to you, my precious readers, some of the good things I have discovered as I age. One discovery is I LOVE frozen grapes. When I am feeling up or down in the dumps, I find I can crunch on a few frozen grapes, and it seems to satisfy a number of senses. I’ve found over the years that I prefer foods that crunch. It’s totally satisfying that pop when eating a layer that leads to that mini explosion in my mouth. That’s a food experience that I enjoy in thin crackers, cookies and of course potato chips. Well, frozen grapes fit that category in spades and are a better food selection or me. Here’s how I prepare them:

• Purchase a few pounds of fresh tightly clustered, firm red, green or black grapes from the fresh produce
• Place grapes in a sieve-like bowl and wash grapes while on vine.
• Remove grapes from vine into sieve bowl
• Wash separated grapes again under cool running water.
• Place washed grapes in gallon freezer bag
• Lay grape filled bags as flat as possible in freezer.
• After freezing grape filled bag can be placed in freezer door or anywhere in freezer that is easily accessible.

I eat the grapes as a snack, as a dessert when craving something sweet and any time when craving something to make me feel better.

Try them. I think you may love them.

I’m sitting on the toilet with my drawers (panties) and summer shorts around my ankles when a fat mouse runs past me and turns right at the bathroom door toward the large closet stuffed with both needed and unneeded items that I remain reluctant to part with. I have never felt so vulnerable, and again, so helpless. I could not move fast. I’m half naked, so to speak. My brain went into over-drive. I couldn’t decide whether to scream or cry. I’ve got mice in my apartment. It was fat! Was it an escaped pet? Later, my friend Muriel offered, perhaps it was pregnant, (oh, no!) I had gone for a quick pit-stop, and the safety and healthiness of my apartment is in question. I’m almost 85 years and I’ve never had mice before (that I know of). I’ve had to deal with roaches (those horrible night crawlers that come out in darkness and scatter so quickly when light is turned on). Those critters forced me to move because the landlord was too slow in taking care of the problem.

I went to the leasing office where they informed me that the exterminator would be making rounds a week from the following Thursday. I was given three (3) fold over sticky pads to use in the meantime. I called my youngest son (poor baby.) Both my sons are senior citizens, dealing with a mother in need as well as their own families.  I try not to call too often from a needy position, but life is what it is and during his long commute home from work, he talked with me about a fat, perhaps pregnant mouse. He came the next evening (Thursday) after work. He set four (4) snapping traps that my neighbor gave me, as well as the three sticky ones supplied by the leasing office. Well, Friday morning I found one (1) in the kitchen caught in the sticky pad. On Friday evening my wonderful son came to help me dispose of the mouse caught in the kitchen on the sticky trap.

It’s hard for me to look at dead bug, critter or human. In my community, at a funeral it is a common practice for attendees to be march past the coffin for a last look at the deceased. I take part only because of the awkwardness of not following directions of the Pastor. Many attendees pause at the front row family pew to exchange loving remarks of support. The piano or organ music commonly played during this time in funeral service, reflect a connection to the religious practices and beliefs of the deceased. Songs like “Precious Lord, Take My Hand”, “Goin Up Yonder” or “Order My Steps”. My cousin who lived boldly with a second family around the corner from his wife a kids had Sinatra’s “I did It My Way” played at his memorial service.

As I walk pass the coffin, I quickly glimpse, no matter that I did not want to. Sometimes the deceased resembles an asleep version of the person I knew. However, most times, in my opinion, the preparation misses the mark. The cold form lying in the masses of satin in bronze box looks nothing like the person I knew. I’ve decided on cremation. Those are the things that come to mind at my age when dealing with death of a rodent or the ants that invaded while dealing with mice. The marching ants remind me of how focused and purposeful life can and must be.

My son led the battle with the mice with the help of the exterminator, and we caught four (4) of the tiny creatures who actually look a lot like Mickey (I did a quick glimpse). I later found that management of my apartment complex was doing some renovations on the downstairs apartments as persons vacated. My third-floor apartment was an escape route from disturbance (I choose not to think about how and why). At a senior complex, as mine is, there are myriad reasons for vacated apartments. Steel wool stuffed around under sink pipes openings and thorough cleaning of surrounding areas where evidence of droppings was in order.

I now perform a quick survey of my small bathroom as I begin a pit stop. However, sometimes time and urgency prevent looking around and one must concentrate on preparation for the sit-down for us females. Lesson learned- the bathroom, as Janet Leigh found in “Psycho” can be the most defenseless room in the house.

Regrets? I Have Many…

I remember staring longingly at the one shoe sitting alone on the closet shelf among the mated pairs long after I had tossed its mate with the busted seam into the wastebasket. The one-time lovely pair boasted pale yellow silk-like material with delicate swirls of black, red, lime green and white had instantly entered my heart at first sight as I openly lusted for them as they exhibited themselves on the store display rack. An open toe with a 2 1/2-inch heel (just right for walking or standing) completed the shoes as I fell in love with shameless passion. When I tried them on, they slipped onto my feet as if they were designed for my feet. As I stood, then walked a few steps, the floor and my feet became as one with the universe. A glance in the low floor mirror confirmed that my feet and legs were kindly accentuated by these lovely silken shoes. They certainly weren’t super expensive, not on the Manolo Blahnik or Jimmy Choo scale, just a great pair of shoes that made a summer’s day outfit scream out “best dressed” look.  And, of course, there is no greater thrill than looking good while wearing a comfortable pair of shoes.  I try to be reasonable in my shoe purchases, keeping the cost in the $150 range.  Oh, why do we love shoes so? If Carrie from “Sex and the City” could respond, what would she say?

Looking back, what I regret is tossing the one silken shoe that was still in good condition.  So, why did I toss it? Who keeps one shoe? Sometimes in a fit of crazy, one does things that one regrets later. I tossed that good shoe on a day when I could not think of a logical reason to keep it. It had sat on the shelf in my closet, as a shimmering example of never to be worn again, and one day I asked myself why? And, as I couldn’t give myself a reasonable answer, into the wastebasket and out to the curbside my wonderful shoe went. It was weeks later, as I began to miss its presence that I recognized the crazy fact that I longed for an absent shoe. I missed seeing it on the closet shelf.  I missed the pair; however, I realized that the one shoe served some subliminal need in my spirit. Was this absent shoe a metaphor for the things that I miss most in my life as I age?  In an illogical fit of logic, did I judge this shoe “not a complete package” and feel that I had to shed it to live an organized life?  If I had the one shoe back, would it make my life better? The answer, of course, is somewhere between probably not and I don’t know. But the further question is – what was one silken shoe doing for my spirit?

I had tried to find a repair shop for the shoe with the busted seam. Each of the three repair shop personnel had advised me that the shoe was not worth or could not be repaired.  I had stuffed my wide, size nine feet into them so often that I had worn the one shoe out.  The silk-like material was tattered and torn where is should have connected to the sole of the shoe and was, in one word, pitiful. My weight gain in menopause and the pressure on my feet as I often walked in those beautiful, delicate shoes no doubt caused the breach.

There are those who like to place beautiful things in a drawer or closet and in private, lustfully look at and touch the preciousness of beauty. Me, I use and wear what I love, receiving great pleasure from the objects. There are no good dishes, silverware, glasses, jewelry or anything else that I own that I do not use to the fullest. And I wore those shoes on every occasion I could on summer days and fall nights.  I wore one shoe into serious injury, finally tossing it, while the other sat on the closet shelf as a reminder of some kind.  Why did I not recognize the one shoe’s meaning so that I could have framed it (which would have been a great project) or preserved it in some way?  Instead, on a crazy day, I tossed it out.

Did I toss the one good shoe because it sat alone among all the pairs?  Was I making a connection with my life? Or, was it simply because one shoe is an unnecessary object to keep in an over-stuffed closet.  Then why did I keep one shoe so long? What relevance did it serve? Those are the questions I asked myself as I tossed it into the wastebasket. Now, as I miss its presence, I realize that one shoe represented more than the obvious reality of its being. That one lovely silken shoe, that I still long for, meant much more to me than an unusable object of outer wear.

I am usually a thoughtful person; therefore, I want to explore, in journal format, what one silken shoe could possibly mean to a 73-year-old female who has been living alone among the pairs over many years.  A woman who regrets tossing out the beautiful thing that I loved because I could think of no logical reason to keep it. Does life always have to make sense? How can you love something and still toss it out because of logic?  Why couldn’t I discern and accept that the beauty of one shoe remained on its own.

I believe in God therefore I believe in magic and miracles. I want to explore my longings and my regrets as related to one silken shoe. It could be that once I unlock the mystery of my regrets regarding my shoe, I may be able to unlock the miracle of my living with all my regrets and who I really am.

Where am I now at almost 85 years? Have I learned what is the mystery of my regrets, promises, loss and challenges of living in these additional twelve (12) years? Do I need to consider other experiences and remembrances? Without therapy (although I have studied and received a MA in Psychology and Addiction Counseling in 2022) can I or have I in these last year’s realized or learned who I really am? How do I feel about that one silken shoe? I feel the need to thoughtfully explore what I have learned and examine my mistakes, regrets and loss in perhaps preparing for that final transition.

Remembering Paul Mooney: Friendship, Laughter and Legacy

It’s Sunday and my friend Paul Mooney is involved in a photo mystery: In this  photo Sammy Davis, Jr., Paul Mooney, Richard Pryor, And Bill Cosby are identified (three giants in comedy and other genere, and one giant in most every genre, although Bill Cosby’s crossover into television impacted the nation as well). Who is the 5th person in the background? Some say it’s Richard Roundtree, others say it Eddie Kendrick (of Temptations fame) or perhaps Quincy Jones. Others say it’s Mooney’s cousin Rudy Ealy who managed and cared for Mooney in his last years. IMHO it is Quincy Jones (Q was 5’6″ so he could be standing on a box or something). Only Bill Cosby, the only living identifiable person in the photo could possibly identify who number five is. It has been fun to read the online speculations. 

Mooney was a loyal and generous friend. I miss his calls in the middle of the night after a performance at the Comedy Club in LA or the former B.B. King Blues Club & Grill in Times Square, NY.  I miss his advice “Darling you should never cry; you are quite ugly when you cry.” So, I try not to cry around others. 

I met Mooney when attending Contra Costa College in the early 60’s when Mooney was beginning to establish himself as a comedian. In a Natural Science class, I believe, our last names started with the same letter, so rollcall connected us. Mooney began sitting next to me in class and eventually asked to copy my homework saying he was busy in the evenings working at Bay Area comedy clubs and other venues as he experimented and tweaked his comedy act. Oh, the parties he gave or organized. He could dance his a$$ off. I was recently divorced at that time with two young children. I was unlike most others in his circle at CCC who were a little younger, single and looking toward marriage and children. Mooney already had the twins (Mooney Brothers); however, he was not married. At the time I believed the only reason I was included in the gang (the IR’s) was because I did his homework. That’s really not fair to say; because I remained his friend until he died. Oh, the parties we had. Everyone at CCC wanted to know where the party was going to be that weekend. Mooney admonished us all to be secretive and keep the location a secret. The location was decided by Mooney. He even talked me into having a party at my small one bedroom. I reluctantly agreed. That was the day the inspectors decided to drop in on me in deciding whether to approve my application to move into low- cost housing. Of course, when the two gentlemen and one lady approached, the loud sounds of Gary US Bonds singing “I danced till a quarter to three last night, my baby and me” and at least fifteen to twenty people of all races singing, screaming and laughing at 4 o’clock in the afternoon, I knew my chances were over for getting into that low-cost housing unit. Mooney told me not to cry. 

During the last few years of his life, he asked me to accompany him on a comedy tour back east, I think Atlanta, GA. He was touring with the great comedian and social commentator, Dick Gregory at that time. I sat with him in first class on the flight back to the Bay. The adventure of being picked up and dropped off from and to my home was amazing. His cousin Carolyn and I worked the souvenir purchase table before and after the performances. What fun! 

His charm, grace and biting observations of life will remain with me forever. I miss you Mooney.

That’s me on the far left with Mooney and his two lovely cousins Alice and Carolyn as we celebrated his 75^th birthday in August 2014

I believe Bette Davis said the immortal words: “growing old ain’t for sissies.” Let me tell you as one who has grown old, whomever said it, they ain’t never lied! I’ll reach the never thought of in my youth age of 85 in a couple of months. When I started this Blog many years ago, I thought I would document my thoughts and events regarding the promises and regrets of aging. As I look back at my progress, I would grade myself an “F” for not posting my thoughts, realized and unrealized promises, and of course, my regrets. Since my post in 2020 life has been challenging to say the least. In September of 2020, I shared my thoughts as I sat looking out the window of that small room after being forced to move out of my lovely home into my eldest son’s and his family. The small room was my choice. I could have moved into one of the larger bedroom upstairs where the two couples slept; however, I chose the smaller room downstairs with a full bathroom next door. Upstairs, I would share the bathroom with my granddaughter and her husband. I thought I was being wise. I rationalized my intrusion into the night time of the two couples upstairs, the wiser choice was me remaining downstairs. Losing one’s home of over 30 years at the age of 77 was a devastating event. I did not know just how devastating it would become.

As I reflect of the years since the economic downturn of 2008, I made all the wrong decisions. With the unprovoked assistance of several entities of economic structure, I lost everything material: houses, possessions, a car, but most important, you lose your standing in the community at large as well as your family. And I believe, more important, you loose your status as the matriarch of your family. You now become the one who needs care and concern not the person that family members look up to. I had and still have difficulty in knowing that behind the eyes of my children and grandchildren, I am the one who has become a burden. When the bank, refuses to listen to your pleas for assistance, no matter your excellent record of on time payments or your high FICO score, they can choose your destiny. WTF chose mine. The shoulda/coulda thoughts still keep me awake some nights. I’m still carrying around the boxes of papers attesting to my attempts to remain the owner of my home. The slow loss of me as I was and the reshaping of me as I am now has been an amazing and sometimes humiliating transformation.

Let me explain what has happened to me, an almost 85 years old single female who regrets so many things. I’m sure my blackness may be associated with the issues I have faced, however; that is a small but not unimportant part of my challenges. I believe the major issue was my age and being single when faced with decisions that are life changing. Why didn’t I file for bankruptcy? Our current president filed five times I’m told. From childhood, I have been drilled (in my mind) of the importance of paying your bills and on time. Why didn’t I sell my home, before the foreclosure? I didn’t know that was an option. Besides I thought it could never happen to me. I was in the process of keeping my home through the Keep Your Home California program that California offered. I was approved for one, maybe two loans in that program. I was sure that I would win. When Wells Fargo refused to accept the Keep Your Home funds and transferred my loan to another lender, the dye was cast. In 2017 my home that I had bought in the 1960’s and had worked on: remodeling the Jack and Jill bathroom upstairs into two separate bathrooms, updated the kitchen, a new roof and fencing as well as new carpets, flooring and added the walk in closet in my bedroom and adding air conditioning and wall insulation to name a few projects over the years. My home was sold, against my will, to someone else. Oh, I hired a “lawyer” to help me file a suit for “Wrongful Foreclosure”, another wrong choice decision. After a year of monthly payments to him, who suckered me in with his “I left Haiti recently after trying to help the poor Haitian people, to help with people here in the states being hurt wrongfully by such banks as WTF…I hate WTF, they are a horrible entity, who cheat their borrowers”. I was hooked until that last video meeting. I sat in his firm’s office with his assistant while we communicated with him by video as he drank from a cup and arrogantly told me “banks can do whatever they want”. His assistant cried as I sat stunned.

It has become too painful to go on with this post. I’ll continue with part 2 soon. I’m in my apartment in a city near my youngest son. I’m adjusting to a new life at almost 85. I’m healthy and I still like to dance. I’m also looking into posting videos of me discussing my thoughts, for those interested. I’m old, but still kicking, remembering and dancing!

I can’t believe it’s been almost five (5) years since I last posted “The Window” in September 2020. We were at the beginning of the pandemic. I was studying for my masters degree in Psychology and Addiction Counseling. I was living with my son and his family. There were four generations living in the house. There have been many changes in my life as well as changes in the way I communicate with you. I am in awe of what AI will mean in how we live our lives. There are unimaginable things to come, I know that.

I’m older, I move slower. Since I last posted I’ve moved three times and was homeless for the month of August 2024. I was so seriously concerned that I carried a shopping bag (one of the large ones from a Home Goods/Ross/TJ Max types of lovely monogramed bags) with a couple of rolls of toilet paper ‘just in case’, a roll of paper towels, a bar of soap, a wash cloth and a large towel. Two (2) pieces of luggage were in the trunk of my 1999 Lexus with some everyday clothing. The back seat held two blankets and other essentials such as a bag with wiring connectors and extensions. I was preparing for sleeping in my car. Life can be a B***h.

The acrid air stings as I breathe in through the double layered stylish face mask. My breathing becomes forced and my glasses steam as I fumble to pull the mask away from my nose for a quick breath of not so fresh air.  I franticly check the store’s signaling cement floors for signs and arrows directing me as to the direction to shop the aisles as well as where I must stand behind the silent masked body in front of me as we wait for the plexiglass enclosed masked, gloved cashier at check-out. There are fires here in California forcing another cautionary health concern added to the ever-present Corona virus, COVID-19.  My granddaughter calls it The Rona.  Our lives are now occupied with statistical numbers related to sickness, death, unemployment, social distancing, handwashing, and masks. And for me, perhaps worse of all, being denied the smiles offered as secret kisses thrown through space, absorbed by waiting eyes, gently engaging the reactionary impulse of a smile in return. And oh, the hugs; that sharing of touch that is evidence of aliveness indicating the benevolence of humanity.  These shared precious gifts are now hidden beneath cloths of different colors and social distancing. And when the elusive smile is not hidden or a stranger invades the closely guarded personal space, the seen lips and the mortal body in its revelation and closeness now compromises spatial privilege causing a creeping anxiety into the psyche of the cloth wearers and distance keepers sometimes leading to physical altercations. 

My eighteen-month-old great granddaughter only enjoyed her Baby-Gym visits until her first birthday in January.  Her party at the gym was the last past-normal social gathering we experienced as a family. How will future-normal society create itself? Who knows the power of The Rona and its creepy insinuation into our bodies and our lives? As I contemplate the future, if this is the new reality and not a sci-fi dream, and I am blessed with living another healthy twenty years, I will tell her bedtime stories of the hugs and smiles offered from strangers that once was an everyday experience in life here on earth. 

 The Rona affects every instance of our living. In the months since its naming, there have been deaths unrelated to C-19 with no proper funeral or memorial service. The sicknesses related and unrelated to the virus causing senior care facility visits to be cancelled leaving our elders dependent on the kindness of strangers as family as well as frantic concern regarding hospital visits for those of any age regarding underlying health conditions. A restaurant outing is like visiting another planet with persons greeting you in masks, rubber gloves, eye protected helmets and the ever-present bottle of disinfectant spray.  Am I dreaming a sci-fi nightmare or is 2020 the real unlucky number out pacing 13 and 666?