Aging Gracefully – The Monica Chronicles

May 27, 2022

A Memorial Day At the Beach

Last week Dave and I took at three hour drive which took us about 185 miles in distance and 40 years into our past.

Virginia Beach was our home for a combined total of 24 years. NAS Oceana was Dave’s first permanent Naval duty station and he retired from active duty while we lived there. Both of our children were born there, started school and graduated from high school there. As for me, I was what we called the CINC-HOME – Commander in Chief of the Home. In many ways, Virginia Beach is our “hometown.”

The purpose of our trip was to use up time-share points that were due to expire at the end of the month and visit as many friends as possible. Since the time-share resorts are down at the oceanfront, that’s where we were headed.

It might be hard to believe is but in all the years we lived in Virginia Beach, we almost never ventured down to the commercial oceanfront. There are beaches for military families on a few of the bases, so that is where we spent our beach time. So, spending several nights within walking distance of the beach was new to us.

Not long after we checked in to our room and unpacked, we decided to take a walk to the boardwalk and find someplace to eat. It had been a long, late afternoon drive through early rush hour traffic and the tunnel had been back up for a few miles so we both needed to stretch our legs and decompress. The season hadn’t started yet so there weren’t that many people out and about, the beach was pretty much empty. As we walked up the boardwalk, multi storied hotels were to our left and the ocean to our right. My first impression was of how foreign it all seemed. For a moment I wondered if we’d made a mistake by choosing to stay down there instead of with friends. I was tired, hungry and a tad cranky.

Then, I saw something that made me feel very much at home – the Naval Aviation Monument which sits at intersection of 25th Street and Atlantic Avenue, by the Norwegian Lady. The six bronze monuments tell the story of Naval Aviation history, beginning with Eugene Ely’s first flight from the deck of the USS Birmingham to present day Naval Aviation.

Dave in front of the monument to the A-6 Intruder

Along with the statues honoring the men and women who have served as Naval aviators as well as memorials to two of the now retired Navy jets and the squadrons who flew them; the A-6 and the F-4. When we arrived at the beach in 1981, Dave was newly assigned to VA 75, “The Sunday Punchers”, an A-6 squadron. Seeing the names of so many of his squadron mates and friends etched along its base brought back memories of our life when, in our twenties, we were just starting out on our journey.

In those early days, our life revolved around the Navy; we lived in quarters, shopped in the Commissary and Exchange, and even pumped our gas at the station on base. As a young mother with a husband who was frequently deployed for extended periods of time, I depended on the other, more seasoned wives in our community for guidance through the many idiosyncrasies of Naval life as well as emotional support. We were a sisterhood of women, mostly in our twenties and thirties who kept the information flowing and morale up in a time before cell phones and emails, when we would get the longest cords possible for our phones so we could keep an eye on the kids and maybe do a little housework during marathon phone calls. It’s amazing what I could accomplish with a phone receiver tucked under my chin!

Throughout Dave’s career, wives were always given a special status because of the tremendous responsibilities most of us shouldered while our guys were “out”. I still have a very faded apron with the logo “Navy Wife – the Toughest Job in the Navy.” As I look back, I don’t remember it as being any tougher than other parts of my life because of the tremendous camaraderie. The separations were long but the reunions were so sweet.

A memorial to all families who held the home-front together during long deployments.

It’s good to go back to our roots, to be reminded of where we come from, the friends we haven’t thought of in a while and see the places we frequented. For people like us, that can be many different places because we have been rooted, uprooted and transplanted many times. Going back to Virginia Beach last week reminded me of a time when I was very young and my whole life spread before me. It warmed my heart and lightened my soul. You may not be able to go home again, but you can certainly have a nice visit.

As we celebrate Memorial Day weekend, I’d like to send a special shout out to all of the military men and women who serve our nation and especially to their spouses and families who support them keeping the home fires burning, the kids fed and bills paid. Even with improved communications, the separations are still hard to endure and the nights are long. God willing, you too will someday have the opportunity to return to the place of your youth and remember. God bless you all.

December 16, 2016

In the Tinkling of the Dishwasher

Last night after dinner as I went into the living room to turn the tree lights on before plopping in front of the tv for a few hours, I made a quick change of plans and decided to join Izzie for a few moments of quiet instead. She was curled in tight ball on the back of the couch; her usual evening perch. I sat down and let my head rest next to her. As I did, she stretched a bit to gain greater contact with my face and hair, and turned her head a bit to nuzzle me. Together we admired the Christmas tree while Dave finished tidying the kitchen.

This Christmas is much quieter than most we’ve shared. For the first time in over thirty years, our nest is truly empty. And it has come as a shock and surprise to me that I am feeling a such loose ends because of it. I’m just not quite sure what I’m supposed to do now.

Doing things to prepare for Christmas has been my way of celebrating the holidays for most of my adult life. I have worn the heavy self-made mantle of head elf, attempting to single-handedly create the perfect holiday for my family. Now that it’s just the two of us, I seem to be left doing the same things on an abbreviated scale and I was beginning wonder why I bother. With no one else to share all the decorations or baking with, what is the point?

Then last night, as I sat in the living room with my eyes filled with tears, blurring the lights from the tree into a white haze, the clinking of dishes being loaded into the dishwasher reminded me exactly of why I continue the baking, the shopping, the wrapping and planning. I do it because it is our tradition, Dave’s and mine. Most were started before we had children and they will continue now that our children are grown and off making traditions of their own.

Truthfully, over the years our Christmas traditions have always changed. As a military family, we made some major moves landing us in places where we always added and adapted as necessary. For example KFC became our Christmas Eve dinner to accommodate multiple Mass choir commitments, we switched between live and artificial trees, dinner menus were tweaked to include local favorites and except for a couple of years, we celebrated with our “local family,” close friends who like us, were far away from “home.”

So I guess for Dave and I, change has always been a constant for the Christmas holidays, and this year will be the same in that respect. After all, life is not a constant, nor guaranteed, but it is to be lived well and not wasted.

So whether your nest is empty or bursting at the seams, my wish for you is that you make the time to enjoy the traditions you have, treasure those you’ve lost and look forward to those just beyond your sight. As for me, I plan on spending a lot more time “being” and less time “doing.” That is my new tradition.

October 25, 2016

“Dis-Carding”

Grandma loved Hummels. I spent the better part of last Saturday cleaning up and out the upstairs guest rooms. Dave was away at a Cursillo weekend and I had the house to myself. The catalyst for this need to clean was an overnight visit from friends, although I’ve wanted to tackle the dust and clutter for a long while.

When I clean a room I start by removing anything that technically doesn’t belong there and then move on to the actual “cleaning”. Over the past several months, our guest rooms have become repositories for a variety of items that were cleared from the downstairs rooms when they were cleaned. Since there was nowhere else to move these things to, they had to be addressed individually and a decision had to be made whether or not to find a proper place to keep them, move them into the limbo areas in Dave’s and my offices; the last gasp of hope for anything to remain a part of our household or just pitch them.

One of the items up for review was a shoebox full of old greeting cards. I decided to go through them to evaluate each on its own merit, sentimentality, beauty, or humor. As I went through the pile of cards, I found a birthday card from my Grandma Gray; a Hummel print of a rosy-cheeked little boy with a fishing pole perched on a stump. I knew it was from Grandma without even opening it because of the picture.

Grandma loved Hummel’s and had a collection of the colorful figurines displayed on her bay windowsill. From an early age we learned we were only to look at them, never touch them. The card in my hand was one that accompanied a gift of one of those figurines on my fiftieth birthday – an age when I was finally old enough to touch one.

I know not many of us are lucky enough to still have their grandmothers still with them when they celebrate their fiftieth birthdays. I was blessed to have mine not only still living; but truly alive. Although her body and memory were failing, the important bits of her personality that made her the unique warm, funny and faith filled woman with a bright twinkle in her blue eyes, remained with her until the end.

I loved to phone her everyone once in a while, just to hear her voice and hear her call me darling in her special way that sounded like a song. I didn’t realize how much I missed her until I opened the card and saw her signature and felt my eyes fill with tears. card1

It’s times like these that I’m glad I’m not so systematic in clearing out cards at the end of a birthday or holiday. If I’d thrown this card out eleven years ago, I wouldn’t have had the opportunity to visit with my Grandma and revisit how much I loved her and she loved me.

August 5, 2016

Remains of the Day

Betty and Charlotte, just a few years ago.

This morning our Parish bid farewell to Charlotte, a long time member of our community. I didn’t know her at all other than to know who she was by sight, a very elderly woman who reminded me of the old lady on Hallmark cards.

Each Sunday her friend Betty would drop her off at the door and she would slowly shuffle to her seat with the aid of her walker. Her eyes must have been sensitive to the light, because she always wore dark sunglasses and her hearing wasn’t good because often, during the quiet times of our services, she would turn to Betty and ask, “What did he say?” in a very loud voice. But Charlotte was 99 years old so she got brownie points for her mere presence.

In the past month or so I’ve gotten to know Betty a bit, having chatted with her on the phone several times when she called to ask me to send an email out through our Parish Communication Network to keep the community informed of Charlotte’s failing health and eventual passing. Each time we spoke, I was given glimpses into the early life of this “little old lady.” She wasn’t just one of the locals. In fact, through her longtime career in the hospitality industry, she lived in many places including Cuba both before and after Castro assumed power. While in Cuba she adopted two sons and eventually was able to bring them back to the US with her.

Betty prepared a photo board montage of Charlotte’s life for the luncheon following the memorial Mass which showed her at various stages of her life, as young girl, bride, young mother and happy retiree vacationing all over the world. There was even a photo of Charlotte with Mohammad Ali!

The more I’ve learned about Charlotte, the more I wish I’d actually gotten to know her. Those who did know her said she was a pip. She was outspoken in at least two languages and had an enormous capacity for love; she was just my kind of person!

I’m sorry that I wasn’t able to know her personally but I’m glad I was able to learn what I did about her because it is a reminder to me that I have to be a bit more careful about how I label people in my head. After all, someday, God willing, I too will be a little old lady shuffling into church each Sunday with my senses failing. And I wonder, what will people think of me?

October 20, 2015

Nature Cawing

crow2 One of the first nature sounds I noticed when we moved back to the mainland from Hawai’i was the caw of crows. It was in mid-October, just as it is now and the cawing seemed sharper against the changing leaves. Until then, I’d never really noticed crows around me before, although I’m sure they were. Probably, it was the lack of the familiar sounds of the mid-atlantic section of the country that I’d experienced in my three years in the Pacific that made them sound so much more memorable than most would find them to be.

In fact, the entire fall experience was something I had missed for three years, the smells of drying and burning leaves, the feeling of crisp air on my cheeks and nose and of course the burst of colors in the trees. Each year I welcome this change as a time to slow down and prepare for quiet time.

Recently I have added a yoga class to my weekly routine. Every Tuesday morning a small group of us meet in a very old clapboard church, long abandoned by its congregation but reclaimed by our local international group, in this tiny worship space on a narrow country road to explore “the practice”.

I joined the class late in the session and have attended three times. Each time I have learned something new about myself. Today, as I was practicing deep relaxation and attempting to clear my mind, I heard crows conversing in the trees. In my pondering of why I should be so interested in crow speak, I began to feel a hunger grow inside me to slow down and be present in each and every moment instead of looking at each point in my day as a launching point for something else.

Even in my clumsy attempts at achieving perfect poses, I have begun to realize that a perfect pose for me isn’t if I can ever manage to do a shoulder stand, it is if I can maintain my composure and relaxation while trying, ever-present in the reality that in yoga as in all things in life, I am not called to be the best at doing it, just the best me at doing it.

June 17, 2015

Sixteen Cheeseburgers To Go

Since Father’s Day is just around the corner, I’ve been thinking a great deal about my dad and what it was like growing up in our house. And, since I spent last weekend in New Jersey, I have been flooded by memories of our summer trips as we travelled from the Garden State and headed up to Western New York to visit our grandparents. It was an all day journey highlighted by one bright spot, our stop at McDonalds in Horseheads, NY for lunch.

Eating out was not something our family did very often. My mother was a wonderful cook and with six growing bodies to feed, home cooking was the most economical way to keep our bellies full. Life was also much slower then and our activities seemed to work around the dinner hour rather than interrupt it. Fast food seemed to us to be a treat rather than a real meal.

So it was that after six or so hours of riding in a cramped station wagon with two adults, six children a cat and dog, we would see those marvelous Golden Arches and our mouths would water for those delicious burgers and fries!

It didn’t really matter what selection the menu in the shop provided because in our family, you had two choices; hamburger or cheeseburger. It was understood that each of us would receive two sandwiches, a small fry and small drink.

One of us was chosen to be Dad’s helper, while the rest of us filed off to the restrooms. Then we piled back into the car to eat our lunches.

It seemed like every time we stopped, Dad would chuckle as he handed out the burgers, remarking about the reaction of the cashier when he ordered his sixteen burgers, eight small fries and eight small drinks to go. Somehow, we didn’t feel freaky because our family was larger than most, we felt special.

Now that many decades have passed since I took those car trips with my childhood family, I am in awe of both of my parents and the graceful patience they modeled (for the most part) on those long car trips. Granted, there were hot stressful moments along the road and the usual amounts of threats to pull the car over. But mostly I marvel at these two young people, not much older than my own children are now, driving 500 miles with six kids, a dog and a cat in a station wagon with no air conditioning in the heat of summer and the fun we had eating our cheeseburgers!

Love you Dad and Mom!

May 21, 2015

Learning New Tricks

These last few weeks in May public attention is focused upon graduations. Every weekend newscast, newspaper front pages and a good percentage of Facebook posts feature happy people of all ages dressed in caps and gowns. It’s impossible to see these images and not think back on my own personal milestones; my high school and college graduation ceremonies. Truthfully, I don’t remember much about either one of them, I remember sitting on risers for high school and in the hot sun on the lawn when I graduated from Rutgers.

Instead, I tend to remember the details of the after parties more. On the drive home from my high school party I drowsily called my date by the wrong first name (oops!). En route to our college graduation party, the driver of the car I was riding in momentarily lost control and we went into a spin. I remember how the huge aluminum panels of the semi truck we managed to miss flashed by my window. It felt like a brush with death. Anyway, all this graduation reminiscing has made me again begin to ponder the rightness of my current course in life.

Yesterday I attended a workshop on Social Media presented by the Virginia Small Business Development Center and hosted by our local Chamber of Commerce. The workshop was held at a satellite campus of the community college so in a way, I was back on campus again. During my registration, I spoke to a middle-aged woman who had a mylar balloon floating above her desk. I asked if it was her birthday. She said no, she had just graduated with the Associate’s Degree the previous weekend. I congratulated her and went on to get some coffee.

As I walked away, I considered the tremendous effort and sacrifice this woman had made to achieve this goal. Even though she worked on campus, certainly the time necessary to attend classes and study weighed heavily on her already full schedule of work and family life. More importantly, I wondered what would prompt me to make the same choice.

Part of me has always felt like a bit of a slacker because I’ve never pursued an advanced degree. Even with my Bachelor’s degree, I am now the most under educated person in my little family; Dave has two Masters, Maggie and an advanced certificate and Andy has his PhD. It’s not that I’m opposed to learning, I just never felt the fire to go back to school.

Then yesterday’s workshop happened. I attended on a whim. In my position at Habitat for Humanity here in Greene County, I attend the Chamber meetings. When the offer of this workshop in Social Media came up as a part of a Small Business Development Day, I thought, what the heck, why not? So I went.

I learned so much about ways I can improve Habitat’s visibility in the community. When I got home, I ran up to my office and with my newly attained knowledge, revamped our webpage a bit, made it mobile enabled and even created a QR code for our flyers and mailers! What a rush, as we used to say in college!

So, in the end I guess I unlocked the motivation to go back to school, not only to gain the knowledge, but to take it on and use it and share it. And for me, I guess I don’t need the extra certificates and paper with my name on it. Little hits of information work just as well.

January 2, 2015

What’s Another Year or Ten Anyway?

A couple of days ago my husband Dave passed a major age milestone as he turned sixty. Although he’s in good health and isn’t showing anymore signs of losing his mental capacity than he ever did, there is no point in denying that at sixty, there will be fewer birthdays ahead of us than we can look back upon. And, even though his birthday is several months ahead of mine, I think of us as the same age, so when he changes his age, I mentally change mine as well.

We are blessed with what our friends claim is a youthful appearance. We often hear, “you don’t look that old!” but I’m never quite sure whether those who are offering the complements are truly good judges of what a sixty-year-old person should look like or if they are in denial of how old they are and they want us to look young.

Dave and I as we look like in our mind's eye. — Dave and I as we look like in our mind’s eye.

I’m not so sure I know what sixty-year-old people are supposed to look either. I don’t know why, but I look back to my childhood to look for references of old people. For instance, Mrs. Wilson, the kindly older woman who lived next door to Dennis the Menace; was she sixty? She had all the outward appearances of an older woman, grey hair, glasses, and slightly thicker figure. Is that how I look? Except for visibly grey hair, I am Mrs. Wilson. The difference between us is that she seemed to act old and I am convinced that I do not.

Thankfully, looks aren’t everything and except for the occasional stiff muscle and body ache after I’ve been on my feet too long (like spending hours baking Christmas cookies), I don’t feel old. Inside I am the same kid I always was, inquisitive, teasing, silly and loving. The years haven’t changed that, but they have worn my sharp edges making me more peaceful, confident and relaxed.

There may not be as many birthdays ahead as there are behind, but if the past is any indication of the future, the years ahead will be full of life and as Martha Stewart would say, “it’s a good thing”!

August 13, 2014

Boys 2 Men

Sometimes I miss the pitter-patter of little feet around the house and the warmth of little bodies climbing into my lap. Then I remember that babies as well as puppies, eventually grow into teens and dogs and I know that I’ve grown very accustomed to having my time and space to myself and I’m not so anxious to have either for a while.

Earlier this month my son Andy (aka Andrew) spent a couple of weeks with us as he transitioned on to his new job and home in New Orleans. At thirty-one he is a full-grown man, fully self-sufficient and a joy to be with. We have a good time together and he’s always ready to jump in the car and keep me company even when I run the most mundane of errands. Together we went grocery shopping, to tent sales, to the county inspectors office to apply for a building permit and even to Ikea.

One of our last errands was to drive to Richmond to collect my grandson, Seth, for a week’s visit. Originally Andy had planned on leaving earlier, but decided to extend his time with us so he could spend time with his nephew. In the hour and a half on our way to Richmond, our conversation was adult and somewhat serious as we pondered our futures. After picking up Seth, our conversation was more concentrated on X Box and Wierd Al; at thirteen, Seth is entering the mysterious teen years; the early ones when we all do silly things we hope no one will remember!

Andy’s formative years were a tremendous challenge. His intelligence, quick temper and lightning mind kept me on my toes, forever working to disarm potential explosions and squash flair ups. And, because his mind worked faster than mine, it was mentally exhausting. It was a shared frustration; he was frustrated by the limitations of childhood and I was frustrated that he wasn’t happy to just be a child. “Because I said so.” was simply not an acceptable answer to his endless “Why?’s” This frustration many times resulted in unexplained anger which is very difficult to control. If you know what you’re mad at, you have a place to direct it; if not, it gets directed at those closest to you. Somehow, with love, faith and a strict course of traditional karate as well as the passage of time and maturity on both of our parts, we survived his early teen years and can now truly enjoy and appreciate the times we can share as a family.

Now my “little” Sethie has become one of “them”. Physically he is taller than me and the bones in his arms and legs seem to be growing faster than his muscles and fat are able to keep pace with. His face is lengthening as well and his voice is beginning to change. Much like an infant, all he really wants to do is eat and sleep and spend the in-between hours watching a Japanese animated series called “Bleach” that to the untrained eye (like mine) seems to be a complicated yet monotonous series of gory martial arts battles and whimpering young women. (Chacun a son gout.)

My family and I at Lebonon State Park in NJ just as I entered the awkward teen years. I am third from the left (arms crossed, surly attidude.)

Don’t get me wrong, we had a good time, in the time I had his attention and I feel blessed to have had shared a bit of thirteen with him. We shared moments of great fun as we listened to my Weird Al station on Pandora, driving back and forth to his woodworking class each day and he politely watched “Young Frankenstein” (despite the fact it was in black and white) and two episodes of “Get Smart” with me. To reward him for his patience while I dragged him around trying to complete Habitat stuff, we stopped by the Dairy Queen for frozen treats and later worked on a jigsaw puzzle together.

During our week together I learned as much about Seth as I did about myself. Remembering how awkward I felt at his age, I could empathize with his stage of “in-betweenness”; not really a child, but definitely not an adult. At the same time I just couldn’t escape the “been there, done that” feeling of a woman who’s already raised her son through the tough years.

In the end, I guess there is just no way to discard all the experiences I’ve had in the past to start fresh in any relationship and just maybe, I’m being a bit harder on myself than I should be. To put it in perspective, I suppose we’re all in an in-between age; rooted in our past, living in our present and hoping for the future. I’m so lucky to have both of these incredible young men in my life and wait in joyful anticipation to see where their lives next take us together.

July 17, 2014

Out of Focus

Upper right corner: lavender blooms amid the bright fuscia ones. — Upper right corner: lavender blooms amid the bright pink ones. This photo has nothing to do with my topic, but is curious none the less.

I’ve been very busy lately; busier than I was last year this time when I was up to my knees in wedding plans.

Six months ago, when the director of our local Habitat for Humanity chapter resigned unexpectedly, it was left to a couple of us board members to gather up the pieces and move forward. With little experience and limited resources, we made an appeal to our community and were overwhelmed by the out-pouring of support we received. People from all areas of the community came forward to help us keep our efforts going.

Like George Washington, I have turned down the crown, declining to become the director. Administration is really my thing; that and recruiting every friend and acquaintance I meet to join us. We have assembled an Advisory Board of individuals so full of enthusiasm and dedication, that it is a pleasure to support them in any way I can.

The time commitment for this undertaking has been enormous. I find myself spending entire days at my beautiful maple desk, entering data, handling correspondence, paying bills and making phone calls. My filing system ranges from strategic piles of related items scattered within easy reach of my desk chair to a tidy file box which I make every attempt to fill at the end of the day, or week as it may be.

My housework has fallen to the wayside and although we are certainly not living in squalor, my home is not the photo from Southern Living that I once hoped it would be. Grocery shopping has been reduced to a “grab-it-as-I-need-it” style from the weekly leisurely stroll up and down the aisles at Kroger. Heck, Kroger is ten miles away, I don’t want to take the time to drive there when I can grab the few things I can remember I need at the corner Foodlion.

It’s not that I’m totally at a loss for time, I am mostly at a loss for planning time, for thinking time. That’s why my blogs have been so sporadic lately. I need to find my groove because I really miss the writing and sorting of thoughts. It’s therapy for me.

In the past I was always very good at multi-tasking, but juggling the plates on sticks has become more of a challenge lately. More often than not, a plate will drop and break. I hate breaking plates so I have begun to juggle fewer at a time. Maybe it’s just a part of “the change”, as my estrogen levels drop, so do my abilities to keep them all spinning. And if that’s the case, since men of our certain age seem to be suffering from “low T” according to TV commercials, does that mean that as we age we morph into some kind of general androgyny? EEEEWWWEE!