Nostalgia Isn't What it Used To Be

Chickens - We eat them before they are born and after they’re dead.

Son of a Depression era Baby: I’ve reached that point in life when I’ve become a person “of a certain age.” I grew up in an ethnic home in which English was the primary but not the only language spoken. Three of my grandparents spoke little or no English and only one taught herself to speak “broken English.” My parents constantly reminded us that they were Depression Babies and therefore could make a week’s worth of meals from a single chicken.

Jokes were clean but the air was dirty: Growing up in Pittsburgh during the 1950s we did not realize how polluted the air was. When a new house was build or an older one re-roofed, the color of the shingles only lasted for a few months. After that all shingles were black. If we drove past the steel mills at a time when a particular process was underway, residue called “quencher” filled the air so thickly that headlights were turned on and windshield wipers were necessary to see. The accompanying acrid odor burned our lungs so we tried to hold our breath as long as possible.

Immigrants were considered less than the rest: Perhaps issues of immigration were not as pronounced as today because there was no email to send hate (only snail mail and the occasional chain letter), no cable news to fill the airways, (“Goodnight David, Goodnight Chet”), and most of the immigrants had come through Ellis Island and were therefore documented. But still discrimination existed. Banks would not loan to immigrants so groups of ethnics frequently got together, pooled their money, and loaned within the community.

No OSHA, FDA or other warnings: By today’s standards we lived unhealthy and risky lives. Nearly half the population smoked and all the chemicals in the air could not have been healthy. We had no warning labels per se, only our mother’s warning that “If you don’t stop that you’ll break your neck.” Nobody seemed to break their neck, although during the spring of my senior year in high school Mickey Hrvacic went swimming in the river and drowned.

So how did they live so long? My father died a couple of years ago at age 87. My mother, who could still bend at the waist and touch her toes well into her eighties passed away in her 91st year. My parents’ doctor, who was about 5 years their senior, continued his practice even after my mother died. A neighbor, Delphina, finally moved out of her home and into a limited care facility at age 98. Our next door neighbor, Mamie, is fit and spry and pushing 90. So go figure. Without the government looking out for our best interests, and by all of today’s standards, that generation, who almost never took pills, lived long, active, and healthy lives.

A little blogging music Maestro… How about the Jewish folk song, “La Chiam; To Life!”

BTW: We will be away from the computer this week. Please stop by and read some of the old blogs. Leave comments of what you’d like to read more of or see eliminated. See you around the corner.

Dr. Forgot

Age is a State of... I Forget

It Ain’t the Age… It’s the Mileage

Today we will deviate a bit and share a bit of wisdom on age that came to me anonymously via email.

--Old Age, I decided, is gift.

I am now, probably for the first time in my life, the person I have always wanted to be. Oh, not my body! I sometime despair over my body, the wrinkles, the baggy eyes, and the sagging butt. And often I am taken aback by that old person that lives in my mirror (who looks like my mother!), but I don't agonize over those things for long.

I would never trade my amazing friends, my wonderful life, my loving family for less gray hair or a flatter belly. As I've aged, I've become more kind to myself, and less critical of myself. I've become my own friend.

I don't chide myself for eating that extra cookie, or for not making my bed, or for buying that silly cement gecko that I didn't need, but looks so avante garde on my patio. I am entitled to a treat, to be messy, to be extravagant.

I have seen too many dear friends leave this world too soon; before they understood the great freedom that comes with aging.

Whose business is it if I choose to read or play on the computer until 4 AM and sleep until noon? I will dance with myself to those wonderful tunes of the 60&70's, and if I, at the same time, wish to weep over a lost love ... I will. I will walk the beach in a swim suit that is stretched over a bulging body, and will dive into the waves with abandon if I choose to, despite the pitying glances from the jet set.They, too, will get old.

Sure, over the years my heart has been broken. How can your heart not break when you lose a loved one, or when a child suffers, or even when somebody's beloved pet gets hit by a car? But broken hearts are what give us strength and understanding and compassion. A heart never broken is pristine and sterile and will never know the joy of being imperfect.

I am so blessed to have lived long enough to have my hair turning gray, and to have my youthful laughs be forever etched into deep grooves on my face. So many have never laughed, and so many have died before their hair could turn silver.

As you get older, it is easier to be positive. You care less about what other people think. I don't question myself anymore. I've even earned the right to be wrong.

So, to answer your question, I like being old. It has set me free. I like the person I have become. I am not going to live forever, but while I am still here, I will not waste time lamenting what could have been, or worrying about what will be. And I shall eat dessert every single day. (If I feel like it)

MAY YOU ALWAYS HAVE A RAINBOW OF SMILES ON YOUR FACE AND IN YOUR HEART FOREVER AND EVER!

That seems to say it all. A little blogging music Maestro… “Those Oldies But Goodies…”

Dr. Forgot