HEALTH CHECK-IN: AFTER A CERTAIN AGE IT'S JUST PATCH,PATCH,PATCH

Among the challenges of relocating are having to learn the location of the traffic circles so as to avoid them, resigning yourself to hours of staring at the packing boxes marked unessential as you contemplate what to do with the set of Christmas plates from your mother, the beer steins from your uncle and the diplomas, pictures, correspondence, yearbooks and other family memorabilia that date back over a century. And, if that weren’t enough, there are the new docs. I don’t mean documents, although there are plenty of those, too. I’m talking about doctors. And, in your golden years, that means, lots and lots of folks. We spent the first months getting spouse set up, traipsing back and forth to downtown Cleveland multiple times, sometimes in the dark, sometimes in the snow, one time we had to trial-and-error our way home without Google Maps as I had spent a three-hour appointment playing Solitaire on my phone. But in January, we began to concentrate on the rest of the family. A couple of get-to-know-you appointments for me resulted in a series of exciting discoveries such as I needed a new crown for one of my back teeth, a bone density scan, a mammogram, a colonoscopy (always my favorite) a flu shot, a pneumonia shot, a shingles shot, blood tests, urine tests, hearing aids and a (suggested) weight-loss program. My new doc is young, delightful and blunt. When I showed her the nails on my hammertoes she said, “that one in the middle has a fungus. These others might be Melanoma. That’s not a diagnosis. I’m just saying. Melanoma can be fatal. You’d better see a dermatologist.” Dermatologists are scarce on the ground here in Northeastern Ohio so I am still waiting on that. Meanwhile, because I am not a fan of dieting or exercise, I made an executive decision not to worry about the weight issue until or unless I get cleared on all the fatal possibilities. I mean, there’s no point in joining weight watchers if the prognosis is negative. As one rebel wrote in her novel (and I am paraphrasing here): “I decided to forget about losing weight. Shucks. When I die they can just dig a wider hole.” Then, last week, we finally got around to meeting our new veterinarian. The biggest issue for Toby? You guessed it. He is out of shape. “You’re supposed to be able to feel his ribs,” the vet said, plunging his fingers into my dog’s sides. “All I feel is fat.” “What should I do,” I asked. (Like I don’t know.) “Well, you have to change the dynamic so that he is using more calories than he is taking in. You can either do that by feeding him less, walking him more, or” he gazed at me over the tops of his glasses, “best case scenario, both.” And that’s why, in between my hearing aid appointments and follow-ups Pete’s cataract surgeries and follow-ups, and all the other medical stuff, I will spend Valentine’s month dragging Toby up and down the streets of Chagrin Falls. Believe me, I wouldn’t do it for anyone else.

DEATH AND CLEANING AND ME

Our first Christmas in Ohio was filled with laughter and tears, the sharing of jokes and some all-too-serious discussions about the future. When it was over and the out-of-town families had returned to their homes, a small, anonymous package appeared on my doorstep, delivered by my current best friend, the Amazon delivery person. Ruth. Intrigued, I opened it to find a cunning little book titled, “The Art of Swedish Death Cleaning.” My first thought was that I already owned it. My second, and lingering thought was that my children were trying to convey a message: Get rid of your stuff. It seemed an unfair nudge considering that I have downsized two households (mine of 36 years in Virginia, my mom’s of 60 years in Michigan) during the past year and I’ve gotten rid of A LOT. My 1,300 square foot bungalow is not overcrowded (note I did not claim that it was clean). Then I took the stair chair down to the basement and surveyed the acres of boxes containing model trains, doll furniture, books, cookbooks, family photographs, trophies, sheets and towels used during vacations to the Shore, books, more books and even a few pieces of furniture that I knew, even before the move, would never fit into our new home. “Maybe they have a point,” I said to Pete, who had no idea what I was talking about. “What?” “Cleaning. Downsizing. The kids.” His gaze shifted to the colorful daycare-type cubbies in our living room that contain magnetic paper dolls, crayons, stuffed llamas, a dress-up box of princess items and the solidly built dollhouse my grandfather made for me in 1959. “I thought we already downsized the kids,” he said, referring to the trio of small granddaughters that brighten our days. (He didn’t actually say that. But I’m sure he was thinking it.) “I guess I really should do more sorting and cleaning,” I said, hoping, in vain that he would argue with me. However, I am nothing if not gifted at avoiding any sort of cleaning so I moved on to another topic that had come up during the holidays. “What happens to us after we die?” After a brief pause he replied, “burial?” As if not certain of the answer. “Well, right. But where? I mean we’ve just moved to Buckeye land where we literally know fewer people than there are fingers on my right hand. We’re strangers in a strange place.” “You’re afraid no one will visit?” “It’s not that.” (I am not a fan of visiting gravesites or hanging onto the ashes of dearly departed dogs.) “I just don’t want to be lonely, you know? I mean, you spend your whole life building a community of family and friends because being with people takes away the shadows and makes you happy. You know, it takes a village. Why wouldn’t the same principle apply in death?” “You couldn’t talk to them,” he pointed out, correctly identifying my main concern. “I know. But it would be nice to be surrounded by, you-know, loved ones. Where are your parents are buried?” “Pennsylvania,” he said. “Or, Delaware. There was a tree.” “Yeah. I don’t remember, either.” “Ann Arbor,” he said, referring to my beloved hometown. Of course I knew what he meant. “That’s complicated.” It occurred to me that we must have discussed this sometime during our forty-two-year-marriage but it seemed like a new topic, for some reason. “Many moons ago my paternal grandparents bought four plots at a local cemetery intending to accommodate themselves, and my dad and mom. But then, when one of my brothers died at age thirty-four, they reversed course and decided to go with cremation so there would be room in the remaining plots for my folks and both of the twins.” As I told the story, the old resentment sprang up. Naturally, neither the original plans nor the revised version had included me. It took me back to the days of family vacations and the motel rooms with two double beds and a cot. Guess who always got the cot. Pete had nothing to say to my grievance so I called my brother. “Have you thought about where you’re going to be buried,” I asked him. “Sure,” he said. “We found a cute little cemetery near us. There’s a tree on a hill and the place is lousy with gravestones marked “Emmons.” “What about the Ann Arbor cemetery,” I asked. “Well, I really can’t see the point of having my body – or my ashes- or whatever shipped out to Michigan. Too expensive.” “Maybe you should just stay in Ohio,” The choice of least resistance. He had a point. “Or, maybe, dad’s prophesy will come true. Remember he used to say he thought he would be the first exception to the rule. Maybe I just won’t die at all.” “Forget it,” said my brother, who has seen my basement. “There’s no way around it. You have to get rid of more stuff. That’s why I sent you the book.”

LEAVING THE NEST WITH GRACE or The way I did it, kicking and screaming at Kohl's

Thanksgiving 2019 should have been a lovely, fitting farewell to six decades of family life in a 1957 tri-level tract house on Buckingham Road. In some ways, it was lovely. The turkey dinner thoughtfully provided by Whole Foods was excellent and my mom, at age 99, was both appreciative and cooperative about downsizing decisions needed to allow her to fit into a one-bedroom apartment in a brand-new assisted living facility. There were just enough irritating issues - clogged toilet – leaf build up that prevented opening backdoor requiring Toby to become a mountain goat to get to the grass – insane thermostat that turned the downstairs into a sauna during the nightly marathon watching of Perry Mason re-runs – that should have made me eager to finish sorting, pack up and leave. But that’s not what happened. Instead, I spent most of each night lying in the bed I’d once occupied at my grandmother’s house, staring at the herald trumpet saved from a Junior Theater play some fifty years earlier and remembering. We left our cozy bungalow on Yost Boulevard (I know, an amazing coincidence) and moved into the construction in Ann Arbor Woods in 1959. I left all my friends and classmates in my fifth grade class to switch to Pattengill Elementary in the spring which meant that the first order of business was to find new friends. Accordingly, I hopped on my bike at every opportunity and cruised the neighborhood. I was lucky enough to find what I was looking for: Libby Tupper on Medford Court, Nancy Piepenbrink on Manchester. Kathy and Kay Bradley, on Nottingham, Susan Woods and Charlotte Maxwell directly across the street from each other on Essex. A couple of years later, my best friend from the first grade, Sally Strack, moved into a house on Essex and my joy was complete. My other early memories involve building forts. I created a crater in the top of a mound of construction dirt across the street that was like an eagle’s nest. My friends and I would meet there. My sanctum sanctorum at home was not my large, light-filled bedroom but the attic hideaway (plywood planks on the garage rafters accessible by two-by-four steps. I’d take a flashlight, molasses cookies and a Nancy Drew book up there to read. I loved watching my dad from my bedroom window shoveling snow under the street light on our corner. I loved the scent of grass when he cut the lawn in the summer. I loved watching him “spank” the tomato plants out of their containers to put them in the ground under my window. I loved the tetherball court he set up for me and my friend Anne Johnson. I loved the scent of my mom’s elegant perfume in my parents’s bedroom. And I loved the nearsighted family members had of removing our glasses and gazing at the glowing colors on the Christmas tree. When all the houses were built and filled with families, my folks and the others initiated picnics, softball games in the court, spoon-and-egg races, fireworks watching on the fourth of July and all sorts of get-togethers. It was a wonderful neighborhood to grow up in and, though I can no longer name all (or any) of the families on the street, the memories of the Dickinsons, Olsens, Mirageas, Margesons, and Kolbs, remain. Although I did few chores around the house, I nearly always had a job. My dad was a major networker and year after year he’d find me in the lounge chair in the backyard on the first day of summer to announce that he’d gotten me a job as a babysitter, a camp (Michigania) counselor, a salesgirl (John Leidy’s), a printer’s apprentice (Miracol), or a librarian at the Ypsilanti Press. In retrospect, I am grateful. I left the house for the last time last Saturday, going through the side door to the car parked in the driveway where, for years, I bounced a tennis ball against the garage door (breaking more windows that I can count.) I noted my mom’s ancient tobaggon still in the rafters and, for the last time, I touched the signature left on the wall by the brother who died in 1986: David E. For some reason, leaving the house I ceased to live in in 1972 was harder than the one in which Pete and I raised our children in Northern Virginia. Not that I am leaving Ann Arbor, my spiritual home. I will continue to come see my mom, but it will be different. I will be a visitor. Oh, for those of you who managed to muddle through my maudlin memories thinking they would be funny, the Kohl’s story is this: I’d ordered huge pallets of moving boxes from Amazon only to discover they weren’t needed, but to get a refund I had to haul them through Kohl’s to the Amazon return line. It was not a pretty sight and, in the midst of it, I got a call from my mother reminding me to stop at the Produce Station to pick up cole slaw (informational point – cole slaw is seasonal) and then another from my well-meaning brother to shop the Black Friday sale at Best Buy for a new TV for my mom. “And she says don’t forget the new set has to get the Perry Mason channel.” .

FEEL THE BERNIE

I’ve always liked Senator Sanders because he’s a passionate curmudgeon. But I fell in love after reading of his interview with the editors of Cosmo. My favorite exchange was this one. “Cosmo: What’s your skincare routine? Bernie: Not much. Cosmo: Do you moisturize? Bernie: I put on something. I got something, the doctor gave me something years ago, I put it on. I’m not quite sure…” That’s when I knew that Bernie and I were siblings on the skin. I can’t tell you how many home skincare parties I’ve attended (to help out friends trying to start a home business or, in some cases, under coercion.) I used to always come home with a pink bag full of boxes and wands and jars and lipsticks in appealing sounding colors like Peach Parfait (who could resist that?), and peppermint ice cream and coral glaze (doughnuts) – do you see a pattern here? Anyway, the societal push for skincare is intense. Not just moisturizer but products for cleansing, pore opening, overnight repair creams, hydrating lampoules, illuminating face oils, cleansers, face masks, eye masks, toners, active serums, eyecreams, sunscreens, collagen extract, etc. Purify, detox, balance that blasted ph. The list goes on. My favorite question at these home parties (aside from the request for you to schedule the same sort of event in your own home with the same set of friends) is the same as Bernie’s: What is your skincare routine? I never answered “not much.” There was a time that I confessed the truth and replied, “uh, soap. Diale soap. In the shower.” The response I got was not as forgiving as the one Bernie received from Cosmo, but then he’s a true star. I haven’t been invited to a skincare party in years but the miracle-slash-curse of internet shopping has seduced me into buying dozens of containers and tubes of various miracle products promising to make the wrinkles disappear and bring the roses back to your cheeks. I’ve ordered them, paid for ‘em and have set them up in a tray in my bathroom. But I still don’t use them. All except Peach Parfait. Seriously. It tastes like peaches.

MIXED NUTS or Random thoughts about my new life as a Buckeye

BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR Whenever we had grilled cheese and milk (when I was a child) I pretended to be Heidi, living in the Alps with her grandfather and her two goats, and staring up at the stars at night from a bed next to the window. I am still eating grilled cheese and drinking milk and I still think about Heidi. My bed is next to a window (it’s a pretty small room) and I live on an Alp. People say “you’re so lucky to have that great view and still be able to walk into town.” I guess they’re right. I think we’ve made the .3 mile trek twice on foot but we can see the library from our living room and almost hear the falls. BE CAREFUL OF WHAT YOU FEAR I spent thirty six years in the same house in Virginia and, outside of my family, my dearest wish was to keep my friends and neighbors close. I died a thousand deaths every time someone important to me announced she was going to move. I mean, really. I just closed up and lurched into denial. Last week I met one of my new neighbors, a lovely woman named Colleen. She welcomed me, offered any help needed and added with a smile, “you know, Pam, who lived in your house? She was my best friend.” The next time I met her, Colleen invited me to come drink wine on her front porch. OUTLAWS CAN BE THE BEST Our move took us to within a few miles of the other set of grandparents which made me wonder if we would wind up in cage matches to get time with the tiny granddaughters. It hasn’t happened. Apparently there are enough hours in the day (and week) for all of us. In addition, those outlaws have ushered us closely and carefully and supportively through some major events, i.e. installing a wireless carrier, installing a television and chauffeuring us to the rather intimidating Cleveland Clinic. They are also our friends. NOTABLE CONVERSATIONS My favorite conversation since we’ve arrived was with Abby. At her five-year-old check up, the new doctor told her to eat more green. She told me this with a speculative look in her eye. “Nannie, is ice cream green?” “Sometimes,” I said, cautiously, wondering where this was going. “There’s mint chocolate chip. That can be green. And lime sherbet.” “What’s lime sherbet?” I explained as best I could. “What about marshmallow cakes?” I have, for some unknown reason, started to use up the marshmallows I brought from Virginia by adding a Skittle on top and calling it a cake. Abby is very fond of the concoction. “Not green,” I said, regret in my voice. “White. Oh, but there’s another one. Pistachio. Can you say pistachio?” “Fistachio.” Pause. “What is that?” “It’s green ice cream that has nuts in it. Pistachio nuts.” “Oh.” Another pause. “Nannie? Have I ever ate-en it?” “Probably not.” “I know,” she said, jumping off the couch. “You can make me a marshmallow cake with a green Skittle!” “Sure,” I said. “That’ll make the doctor happy.” UNPACKING PROGRESS REPORT: Large basement still filled with unpacked boxes. Large garage filled with unpacked flatpacks from IKEA. Two week countdown until new baby.

TRIAL OF A NOVICE SELLER or I LOVE THAT MY TRACT HOUSE IS CONSIDERED REAL ESTATE

The last time I sold a house I told a prospective buyer she could not look in one of the bedrooms as there was a baby sleeping and thus sacrificed a chance to unload a property in the depressed market of 1983 Michigan. I wouldn’t do that again. Actually, I wouldn’t do any of this again. (Famous last words, right?) Keeping to the baby theme, it occurred to me that preparing a house (with 36 years of skin sloughings, dust, moldering books, furniture, ancient towels and thread-bare sheets) is akin to labor. It doesn’t hurt as much but it lasts longer and you have the same driving wish “I just want to get up and walk away from all this.” I’m sort of joking. The fact is, I’ve met an angel. Bill Moyers said once during an interview that he had been helped in his career by unseen hands. Well, these hands are seen and they are busy. This realtor – a gift from my daughter – is helming the whole, messy process, from getting in competent, efficient repairmen, painters, carpet-layers, etc., to buying new fixtures (updating), to gently suggesting disposal of ancient, rickety things (piano, inherited furniture, broken bookshelves) and then bringing and LOADING a pickup truck to take to GoodWill or the dump – many times, to pruning the bushes, to decorating my house with items I’d never think of in a million years – like a four-foot Buddha. Love that Buddha. I may ask to keep him. My agent (I’ll call her Franci Bissett) offers suggestions, solutions and sympathy whenever they are needed. It was not an easy decision to trade the comfort and familiarity of two generations, the concrete stylings of my children in the driveway, the memories of those family years and a hundred years of furniture passed down from New England to Ann Arbor and Virginia. It was (and is) very, very hard to leave the dearest friends in the world. But Franci and her crew have kept me on track to move forward. And life, apparently, is all about change. Just ask the Buddha.

RE-LOCATE? IT'S EASY THEY SAID

I didn’t have much to do last weekend so I bought a house. Eventually, I mentioned it to my husband. “This online shopping has gotten out of hand,” he complained. “First it was just vitamins and batteries then it mushroomed into shorts and sheets and gnomes (don’t ask) and now you’ve bought a house? Where will it end?” With the house, probably, seeing as I failed to allow for the fact that the funds for it, coming out of an IRA account, will cost us half again in taxes. And because this means that not only do I have to de-clutter/repair/clean the house we’ve lived in for thirty-six years, we now have to move. Yikes. My mandate, dictated by age, infirmity and a desire to hang out with some of my grandchildren, was to find a ranch-style house in a neighborhood near one of my adult children. The closest potential neighborhood was five-and-a-half hours by car (long-distance move, i.e. leaving behind dear friends) and the house in question turns out to have a steep staircase from the lower-level garage to the first and only floor of the house. Oh, yeah. There’s a steep stairway to the basement, too, and another to the front door. Because of it’s yellow siding and red shutters, I have named it the Overripe Banana. Banana for short. “Why did you buy a house with stairs?” The not unnatural question came from my mother, who is ninety-eight. “Because Emily liked it.” “Why did you buy that house?” This question came from son number one, Adam. “Because Emily liked it and I liked it.” “Why did you buy any house online?” This from son number two, Ben. “Because Emily liked it and I just needed to land the plane on some aspect of my chaotic life.” He seemed to understand. “You are gonna love this house,” said Emily, my daughter, who intends to purchase a house a mile away from the Banana. “I knew it the moment I walked in.” She’d called me on Facetime to show me how much I would love this house that I’ve never seen in a town where I’ve never been. “It’s got a great kitchen and a sun porch. And it’s small. You won’t have to bring the ironing board.” I admitted those were selling points. I failed to ask whether it had a bathtub. Or even bathrooms. Or (gasp) air conditioning. “And it’s got a big basement,” daughter continued. “Plenty of room for your books.” For the record, I have never lived in a house with a basement and I usually associate that part of the house with The Tell Tale Heart. I always think there will be a body in the wall. Part of the explanation is my natural competitiveness. This is a quality that has seldom served me well. Hours after I’d facetimed the Banana, someone else made an offer on it. It was a good offer, too, and if I wanted it, I had to act fast. And generously. My excellent realtor (she really is) and I decided we’d have to go well beyond the asking price to have any chance of winning. Naturally, I gave her carte blanche. I like to win. Twenty-four hours later I found I was the owner presumptive of the Banana. Would my furniture fit into the small rooms? Would my books? Would I, as an alum and third generation fan of the University of Michigan be happy in Buckeye country? Could I survive in this cute neighborhood with its ratio of 2 to 1 Republicans? What about the patched Midwest roads? What about the drinking water that comes from Lake Erie? What about my local newspaper? What about my lifelong friends??? Belatedly I asked Emily, the only blood relative who has actually seen the house, other questions. “Is there a sidewalk? You know I like a sidewalk. You know, for my bigwheel.” “No sidewalk,” she reported. “But there isn’t much traffic. You should be able to play in the street.” “What about a dog fence?” “Er, no. But you can put an invisible fence in the backyard.” I caught a quick mental image of Toby’s fat little body leaping into the air from an electrical shock each time he sauntered outside. “It’s a great school district, mom. And the library’s across the street.” I thought about the hundreds, probably thousands of dollars I’d spent buying books from Amazon during the last ten years. Maybe the house would pay for itself. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t happen before my 60-day grace period ran out and I had to pay those pesky IRA taxes. `