Dear Best Friends,
You know how I revere your works. And I know I am far from alone in my admiration, for you are the idols of us bookworms, but for once I am writing to you, instead of because of you.
Attempting to choose one of you as the one to whom I am most connected brings pangs of guilt for those not named. No matter who I might choose, I know the rest of you will speak up to question my reasoning.
“As if there is another whose words you quote; whose words banished adolescent thoughts of suicide,” comes Mrs. Parker’s reproach. Of course, Dorothy, I owe you much and someday I may still write your poem on my bedroom ceiling.
On my bookshelf, out of reach of careless hands, is the all to well worn first book I ever read. Though I could not have told you her name without looking it up, Allison Uttley’s images of little Fuzzypeg and his holey blue smock are a fresh in my mind as they were in 1957
Honore, do you think Mrs. Uttley’s tale of Fuzzypeg’s being led astray from school would have held attention on the Decameron? The shift in tone would almost reflect the shift I made from child to adult – abrupt - but the theme and personalities remain the same.
Monsieur De Maupassant, knowing the mere mention of dear Balzac piques your interest, would you favor us with a treatment of the story, changing the characters to people of La Belle Epoque? Or do you think one of your short stories already tells this tale?
Then, while your stories merge in my memories, another voice, more current , grows louder.
“The spirit of my words inspire your daily discourse with my countrymen and our symbols look down over you each morning and night from your caligraphy. Would you place poems and little stories you rarely, if ever, read twice before the inspiration my disclosures have given since the first paragraph of mine you read?”
I know you will forgive my dwelling in a bit of revelry, Jung Chang. As you say, I cannot turn my back on the quest for truth that you and Irwin Tang have set me on, nor still my voice that you so often bring to life. Thank you for giving expression and facts to what I somehow already understood, and for leading me to so many others whose words need to be known.
16 Jun 2010
9 Jun 2010
Getting Old?
Just like everything having a downside to it, everything has an upside to it. Do we call them “up” and “down” sides by accident or is it because it’s so easy to fall “down” and harder to climb “up”? Think about it. At least for a lot of us it’s much easier to realize the downside of a good situation, sometime presaged by the “waiting for the other shoe to drop” feeling, than to surface from the quicksand of a bad one to find the upside.
Growing old – good or bad?
Yep, there’s a laundry list for you. If you are over 40, I bet you were already naming the problems in your head before you read this sentence. Come on, if you are reading this after a long day (week?) at work, or while killing time waiting somewhere (doctor’s office?); you know your head filled with a seemingly endless stream of “issues”. Top of my list? (Or is it the bottom, if it’s the worst of the worst?) It’s a tossup between realizing I cannot physically do some of things I did 20 years ago, and dealing with people who think I can’t, or won’t, do those that are still possible for me. No, I don’t power lift stage equipment anymore. Nor do I really want to. Yes, I can dance till dawn ….. Are you a good enough partner to keep up? But why waste energy dwelling on this side of the ledger? There are plenty of people to do that for all of us.
The first good things about getting older that come to my mind are perhaps a bit vindictive. I get to deny my younger friends the excuse of “I’m getting too old…” when they don’t want to do something. It’s definitely one of my favorite moments, when I can turn “that look” on them with a resounding “You’re what?” And having justification for a bit of spite is another one of those benefits that comes with time, too.
Being on the lower end of the slope to 60, I have recently discovered that if I don’t want to dress up, put on make-up, and fix my hair to go to the local Wal-Mart, its ok. There is not a high probability that I am going to miss catching Mr. Right’s attention even if I looked my best, because he’s probably looking for a less worldly 20-something. It’s kinda freeing to take a quick shower, throw on jeans, a blouse and a hat, and hop in the car – no muss, no fuss. Which brings me to one of my not so infrequent delights of age.
Sporting seriously silvery white roots, except for one contrary dark forelock, and driving a typical unassuming, common, dull, adult sort of sedan, I find myself chuckling when the kid in the next car is looking around mystified as to where the J-Rock is blasting from. It just couldn’t be that “old lady”. The same goes for the young stud who floors it to pass me if I am only doing the speed limit because I saw the cop ahead that he didn’t. I got my share of speeding tickets years ago, before my Daddy stopped paying my insurance.
I have also found that if I voice my disagreement with clerks, salesmen, and various other people “serving” the public, they are either so stunned that I didn’t just go along with them, or scared of looking like they are mistreating an older person, that they tend to listen better than they did when I was younger. I don't usually have to point out to them that I earned this gray hair and it is not blonde. Of course, depending on the cultural environment you are in, it could conceivably be out of respect for their elders, but not where I come from.
Then there are the more comforting and amenable perks of age, especially when you keep friends half your age. Young men, who often forget their manners, except on formal occasions, actually pull out my chair when we are being seated, see that my order is taken and my drink kept filled, and treat me with deference to other younger women in conversation. Along with this preferential treatment there is rarely the implied demand for reciprocal favors that were always part of the exchange years ago. Though that is a two sided coin, because sometimes I feel more appreciation than a smile or hug conveys. (sigh) Sometimes I miss the days when there were more eligible bachelors for me, but then I crawl into my nice big bed where no one snores or hogs the sheets and drift off to sleep smiling. And no guy can tell me he actually enjoys sharing a bed on a regular basis where he can’t sprawl as he wants without being kicked.
Growing old – good or bad?
Yep, there’s a laundry list for you. If you are over 40, I bet you were already naming the problems in your head before you read this sentence. Come on, if you are reading this after a long day (week?) at work, or while killing time waiting somewhere (doctor’s office?); you know your head filled with a seemingly endless stream of “issues”. Top of my list? (Or is it the bottom, if it’s the worst of the worst?) It’s a tossup between realizing I cannot physically do some of things I did 20 years ago, and dealing with people who think I can’t, or won’t, do those that are still possible for me. No, I don’t power lift stage equipment anymore. Nor do I really want to. Yes, I can dance till dawn ….. Are you a good enough partner to keep up? But why waste energy dwelling on this side of the ledger? There are plenty of people to do that for all of us.
The first good things about getting older that come to my mind are perhaps a bit vindictive. I get to deny my younger friends the excuse of “I’m getting too old…” when they don’t want to do something. It’s definitely one of my favorite moments, when I can turn “that look” on them with a resounding “You’re what?” And having justification for a bit of spite is another one of those benefits that comes with time, too.
Being on the lower end of the slope to 60, I have recently discovered that if I don’t want to dress up, put on make-up, and fix my hair to go to the local Wal-Mart, its ok. There is not a high probability that I am going to miss catching Mr. Right’s attention even if I looked my best, because he’s probably looking for a less worldly 20-something. It’s kinda freeing to take a quick shower, throw on jeans, a blouse and a hat, and hop in the car – no muss, no fuss. Which brings me to one of my not so infrequent delights of age.
Sporting seriously silvery white roots, except for one contrary dark forelock, and driving a typical unassuming, common, dull, adult sort of sedan, I find myself chuckling when the kid in the next car is looking around mystified as to where the J-Rock is blasting from. It just couldn’t be that “old lady”. The same goes for the young stud who floors it to pass me if I am only doing the speed limit because I saw the cop ahead that he didn’t. I got my share of speeding tickets years ago, before my Daddy stopped paying my insurance.
I have also found that if I voice my disagreement with clerks, salesmen, and various other people “serving” the public, they are either so stunned that I didn’t just go along with them, or scared of looking like they are mistreating an older person, that they tend to listen better than they did when I was younger. I don't usually have to point out to them that I earned this gray hair and it is not blonde. Of course, depending on the cultural environment you are in, it could conceivably be out of respect for their elders, but not where I come from.
Then there are the more comforting and amenable perks of age, especially when you keep friends half your age. Young men, who often forget their manners, except on formal occasions, actually pull out my chair when we are being seated, see that my order is taken and my drink kept filled, and treat me with deference to other younger women in conversation. Along with this preferential treatment there is rarely the implied demand for reciprocal favors that were always part of the exchange years ago. Though that is a two sided coin, because sometimes I feel more appreciation than a smile or hug conveys. (sigh) Sometimes I miss the days when there were more eligible bachelors for me, but then I crawl into my nice big bed where no one snores or hogs the sheets and drift off to sleep smiling. And no guy can tell me he actually enjoys sharing a bed on a regular basis where he can’t sprawl as he wants without being kicked.
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