Grown-up Topics, Uncategorized

Searching for Love Poems – Full story

W.C. Kasten

            Another Sunday dinner is over – just the two of us. My 90-year old father shuffles down my hallway, then struggles with his jacket and zipper. He picks up the sack I have stuffed with leftovers for his Monday meal, dons his frayed Dutch cap, reaches for his cane, and gingerly totters to his car, every movement in slow motion. With Mom now in a nursing home, this is the best I can do, trying to make his life more normal.

            Each morning he gets up at his independent-living apartment, and makes his way to the social café for the breakfast buffet. Every morning, he has his oatmeal, orange juice and coffee. Then he gets into his car in the underground parking garage, just to drive the thirty yards across the parking lot to the nursing home. Then he finds her, his wife, my mother, somewhere in the hallways. Her soft skin jiggles a little as she smiles at the sight of him. My mother’s crisp white hair bounces as she tries to remember how to back up and sit down in a chair. Then they sit together in one of the lounges, doing nothing in particular. He sits with her until they call her to lunch.

            Two people come to help her get up. She leans into the walker, takes baby steps, and creeps to the dining room, her oversized pants pulled a bit too high, belying the plastic padding beneath.  She says almost nothing, and nothing she says makes any sense.  “That is…” and the rest of the phrase is stuck somewhere inside the crumbling mind. “I’m worried…” and she cannot find the other words.  “Sometimes you just…” and the remainder is never uttered.  Sometimes I try to help her. “You just what, Mom?” “What is it you are worried about?” But no amount of effort can lasso the elusive, the lost.

            Dad rises and escorts her to the dining room, and then leaves to go find some lunch for himself. Mostly, he ends up at the Senior Citizen Center where lunch is only a dollar. Dad has always loved a bargain. But the center is not open on weekends. He hates eating alone and so sometimes he just doesn’t bother. Afterwards, he might stop at Walgreens for one of their many prescriptions, or a stop at Urgent Care to have his Coumadin levels checked. Then, Dad returns to the nursing home.

 Once again, he finds my mother, sitting or wandering, or sometimes napping in someone else’s bed.  Again, he sits with her, or walks with her up and down the hallway. These rituals last until dinnertime, when the staff again call Mom to eat, and Dad goes back to his apartment to fend for himself and read the newspaper.

  Tomorrow will be a carbon copy of this.

            Another Valentine’s Day has arrived. This February 14th, Mom is in a hospital bed, coughing for her life with double pneumonia. I’d brought her some chocolate, which normally she loves. But in this condition, she’s hasn’t eaten anything much for days. Dad and I are standing at her bed, and she’s so deeply asleep, we decide not to disturb her. 

            I know for each of the last 64 years, Dad has written Mom a love poem for Valentine’s Day and also their wedding anniversary in June.  I don’t ask what he’s written about, or where this year’s poem is.  But suddenly it dawns on me that there are at least 130 poems. Love poems to my mother.

            “Dad, where are all the poems you wrote for Mom?” He shrugs his shoulders looking quizzical.

            “I gave them to her,” he says with resignation.  The thought of more than a hundred love poems either hidden or lost troubles me. We discuss cleaning out her things still at the apartment and trying to find them.

            On a subsequent evening, I go to Dad’s apartment to start cleaning. Dad has never lived alone, and his housekeeping is dreadful. So, fist I stop in the little apartment kitchen where I collect used yellowed paper napkins, polystyrene cups, and plates that are encrusted with old food, I deposit them in the trash, amidst his admonitions of “Hey, those could be used again.” Or, “That’s still good, I can eat it tomorrow.” I fear he will accidentally kill himself eating spoiled food on unclean styrofoam. Dad’s entire generation never recovered from the great depression.  Wasting anything is a sin.  I ignore his rants and I make my way to Mom’s drawers.

            First, the four drawers of Mom’s jewelry chest. I pull out the top one, set it on my lap as I sit on the edge of their bed with a large trash can poised nearby. What I find instead of jewelry are lots and lots of rusting hairpins staining the velveteen lining; an assortment of toothpicks; an occasional button or penny; old clothing tags with the price still almost visible; name tags from the “Sun and Fun” RV Resort Park in Sarasota, Florida; used up pencils and a crochet hook. The one gem I find is Dad’s U.S. Navy dog tags from the War. He smiles at the sight of them, as he hasn’t seen them for years.

I do this for each of the four drawers, and I find an occasional single earring back, a broken gaudy pendant, a plastic turquoise necklace. But somewhere stashed in one corner of one of the bottom drawer I find four of the love poems, brittle, torn, and mended with yellowing tape.  I stop and read them.  One of them is titled “May it Never End.”

I’ve said it very many times,

In many ways throughout the years,

Whether straight or set in rhymes,

Whether in laughter or through tears.

It’s been at night and during days,

So it may not sound very new,

Still I do not know other ways,

To once again say “I love you.”

            A couple of hours of this type of searching yields a few more poems, some glued to the inside of an old greeting cards.  Some are on a scrap of notebook paper, or an index card.  Some are typed on an old Underwood typewriter.

I searched for her throughout the world wide,

Crossing each continent from side to side.

Hoping that somewhere and someday I’d find,

The special girl who’d be loving and kind.

Failing I gave up nevermore to roam

To find my Valentine waiting at home.

A corner of the paper is ripped off on this one, so I don’t know the date, but I am guessing it was soon after the War.  We are still only up to twenty poems. Over a hundred more to find.

Scouring her dresser drawers yields a few more poems. These, hidden in an old purse, among a dozen pair of pantyhose all with runs, and among the now sticky decomposing nylon prosthesis Mom was supposed to wear where her left breast used to be.  Even back then, she said it was too hot and too uncomfortable. “I’m over 70,” she’d said more than a few times after the cancer surgery. “What do I need two breasts for?” When she wanted a left breast on occasions, she’d stuffed her empty bra cup with tissues, fabric, or a sock.

I think back to the last time, in earlier stages of Alzheimers, that I dressed them up for dancing. Dad had bought tickets to a big ballroom dancing event on the campus where I taught. Dad was in the designer second-hand suit that a friend had given him. This was the nicest most dashing suit Dad ever owned.

 Mom wore the frilly pink organza dress, also second hand she’d been given by a friend in the ballroom dancing club.   My parents got dressed at my house, and I helped Mom with her pantyhose and the buckles on her silver dancing shoes.  I had insisted she wear her prosthesis for this event, and so we had spent some time in front of the bathroom mirror, trying to ensure that the fake breast was aligned with the real one, and not four inches higher.  We never got it quite perfect, but close enough.  I took a snapshot of them that night, together in front of the closed draperies of my patio slider door, like two excited teens poised for their senior prom.

#

Following Easter weekend, Mom had rebounded from pneumonia, but with a decreased quality of life. Dad and I decided to move her to a different nursing home where there might be a higher level of care. Where her face used to brighten with the sight of us, there’s was almost no reaction now.  Yet, in the midst of her decline, there were mysterious moments of lucidness. I never knew what brought them on, but we both lived for them. The day we were settling her into the new surroundings, she turned and looked at Dad as he was leaving and said, “You know, I have never stopped loving you.”

During all this searching, we’d found a wonderful old photo of Mom. The photo was damaged, but it was of a seventeen-year-old, beautiful dark-eyed woman, hair curled around her face, and printed in an oval of light like the “Breck Girl” on the back of the old McCall’s magazines. My brother Tom visited that weekend. He had taken the photo home, scanned it, doctored it, and sent it by attachment back to me. I printed it and gave it to Dad. A tear slipped out of his left eye.

 “She really was beautiful back then,” he said as if he needed to convince me.

Another evening, I stop at Dad’s and continue my search for the poems. Even though I knock before I enter, he’s stretched out on his sofa, a crumbled paper napkin from Subway in his hand. He’s been listening to audio tapes of their old dance music.  I tell him I’ve got a little time to do some more cleaning of Mom’s things. That perks him up.

I start cleaning out Mom’s nightstand drawers. This time an entire drawer is devoted to over stretched out headbands in a variety of widths and colors. I find one poem on yellowed typing paper.  It’s dated 1986.

To My Wife

Now that life is in its downward journey,

When my day of living lies in the past,

I’ll be happy living in memory,

Because you’ve given me love till the last.

I’ll remember your smile and things you said,

I never forget your traits, both bad and good,

I see you laugh with a toss of your head,

As you teasingly in the doorway stood.

Shadows will flee as I think of your smile,

My thoughts will find cheer in the years we spent,

My dreams will travel along every mile,

Lingering on where together we went.

Though material wealth was not my own,

You brought me richness with the love I’ve known.

  Pausing to take it all in, I swipe a tear on my cheek. Then I find a good sweater that shouldn’t be in the drawer. So, I go and hang it in the walk-in closet. Mom’s side of the closet is getting empty, as I have been getting rid of clothing she will never need in a nursing home.

The frilly pink organza dress hangs at the end of the row all by itself.  The last time Mom wore it, almost three years ago, was at her Grandson Peter’s wedding. This wedding was elegant, in a fine hotel.  Dad dressed in the same dashing suit, and Mom in her pink dress they’d worn to the ballroom dancing gala seven years earlier.

  While Mom had absolutely no idea who was getting married, she could tell from the setting it was a wedding, and commented how lovely it all was.

 “They tell me you are my grandson,” she’d said re-meeting her grandson Peter at the reception.

“Of course, I am, Grandma,” he’d replied in good humor, giving her a hug.

We were at one of the biggest family events in decades and no one had remembered to bring a camera So, earlier in the day I had gone shopping and bought my first digital camera. Throughout the day, I was desperately reading directions, learning how to use it. Once we got to the reception, I kept it handy at my table.

At one point, the band did a cute number and had all married couples get up to dance. As each segment of the song passed, the bandleader would announce to have all the couples married less than 2 years, 5 years, 10 years, and so on to sit down. As the crowd was mostly young, I could see where this was going.

And so it went.  Soon Mom and Dad were alone on the dance floor. All eyes were upon them, the lights were dimmed, with the glittery ball spinning above them made prisms flit around the floor.  Dad forgot his aching knees, and led Mom in a waltz. Mom could follow Dad. They smiled and swirled and dazzled the crowd. At the end, the bandleader presented Mom with a nosegay of flowers. She had no idea why someone was giving her flowers but thought they were very lovely. Dad beamed radiantly.  I took the picture.

I returned to the nightstand and cleared out the last of the garbage. A few dozen pens that didn’t write. More hairpins, rollers, dirty tissues, rusty paper clips, safety pins, an occasional name tag, receipt, and a brochure.  In this session, I only found a single poem in a faded pink satin cosmetic bag.

To Mary

My love is yours through good and bad

It’s with you when you’re glad or sad.

A truer love will never be,

As everyone can plainly see.

Our love has stood the test of time,

For I am yours and you are mine.

From Henry

When all the drawers were cleaned out, there were still a hundred poems to go. I wondered where to search next.

Meanwhile, I’ll keep feeding Dad on Sundays. I’ll keep visiting my mother, watching her walk back and forth in the hallways with no destination. Dad will keep sitting in the nursing home with her for hours at a time. Until the next crisis when the next infection appears, or until the coughing resumes and we’ll go through all of this again, not knowing each time if we should be saying our goodbyes.  Each time as I’m leaving, I kiss her cheek, and tell her to sleep well, and to remember she has a family who all love her.

#

Mom passed first in 2006 at age 89. Dad was in poor shape with a heart barely pumping. His doctors had instructed us to take away his car keys. He learned to get around his neighborhood on a scooter. But, he was in agony without her, especially when Valentine’s Day came around. I think he didn’t know how to cope with their special holiday alone. So, he wrote Mom a poem, addressed the envelope to her, but sent it to my home address.

When I took in the mail that afternoon, an envelope addressed to my mother in my father’s handwriting made little sense. I sat down and stared at it for a few moments before I could bring myself to open it. There was just this inside:

ON LEAVING

You finally left this earth missing me,

To me, you and I shall remain just we.

Dying is a part of living and life,

Through all eternity you’re still my wife.

In all and everything I do each day,

Our togetherness will forever stay.

Dad passed a few months later. I only ever found 29 poems. His final request was that their ashes be mixed together and scattered in Vermont, where their married life had started. Tom and I fulfilled their wish the following summer. My brother read the last poem at our little ceremony. A fitting end to a very long love story.

Grown-up Topics

The Intersection of Invention and Culture: Part 1 and 2 of 3

Invention and the Intersection of Culture

Part I The Question

In the early 80’s, I was a doctoral student at the University of Arizona in Tucson. As a full- time student, I was poor, and when someone offered me some extra work for pay, I jumped on it. Here was the work: Teach a 10-year-old Japanese boy to speak English.

A colleague whose spouse was a medical researcher was the source of the unusual request. A scientist from Japan was visiting UA for a year to work on some specific research. The scientist spoke reasonable English. The family took an apartment not far from where I lived, and so twice a week, I was well paid to have a 1-hour language session with a delightful young man, about 10 years old.

His mother spoke no English and had to negotiate supermarkets, packages, mail, gas bills and other stores with no English skills, so often I helped her as well.

It’s important to note there were three children in this family, my student and two younger boys. There was no talk of tutoring the younger ones. Apparently, an oldest son in birth order comes with unapologetic privileges. Oh, and did I mention I do not speak Japanese?

I did however belong to Nichiren Shoshu Buddhism, a sect based in Japan. I knew plenty of Japanese speakers. I knew some Japanese words. Moreover, as a literacy and language student, I understood the principles of language learning. The field of English and a Second Language or English as a Foreign Language was not yet a reality. So, I had to figure out how to teach my student. The opportunity to apply what I knew was delicious.

I organized our sessions around play, and words that went with each situation. I started with school supplies and routines as he was attending a local school. Some days we worked outside with a ball or other sports equipment. Toy cars and toy soldiers were helpful. Sessions went well.

The Mom was trying out things she found in grocery stores. One day, she pulled me aside with a problem. She had an empty box of Jell-O in her hand. If you travel, you have learned Jell-O is a uniquely American food. So, the Mom pointed to the picture on the box, and the bowl of runny fluid in her refrigerator, noticing the picture and reality did not match. It was clear she had been sitting with her Japanese-English Dictionary translating every word of the instructions. But she could not find the meaning of the word Refrigerate, the last instruction.

How can I explain refrigerate? I mimed opening the door, putting in the bowl, pointing to a clock on the wall, showing the passing of a few hours, then opening the fridge door. I could see in her face she understood. Whew!

So, my visits continued twice a week for one school year. In the spring, the family invited me to dinner. I was allowed to bring along a Japanese friend for dinner and translation. Dinner was lovely. The Mom gave me a parting gift – a Christmas ornament made of colorful thread wound around a ball.

But the most interesting part of the dinner was the conversation with the Dad/scientist. He had lots to say. He said he’d assumed his children would be bored in American schools. He was led to believe his children would be far more advanced in math and science than U.S. children. He was still in some disbelief that this was not the case. Clearly, he’d given the topic some thought.

“My children know lots of operations and equations and formulas,” he began. But they never learned the thinking that goes with these math concepts. Here, they learned so much.” He was effusive about all this, animated in the saying of it. He continued. “I think in Japan, our students are taught to look for answers. I think in the US, students are taught to look for questions.”

I was just taking all this in, realizing the incredible compliment to Tucson Unified Schools when he said something even more stunning and which has stayed with me to this day, and has driven much of my thinking about learning.

“Have you noticed that in my country we never invent anything? We take other people’s ideas and might make it smaller or better or cheaper. But we never have a new idea! Why IS that?”

At that time, I did not know how to respond. Even now, I cannot prove his statement that there are no inventions that have come out of Japan. But what a wonderful question!

Part II

Investigating the Question

During my 30 years in higher education, I still thought about the scientist’s question: Why does his country of Japan never have a new idea? (his assertion, not mine). A few times, I tried to engage science education faculty to investigate this with me further. They all loved the idea, but had their own lines of inquiry keeping them busy.

So, I did what professors do, I assigned a graduate assistant to work on this some. I directed him to create a figure of the major inventions of the 20th century, and to add columns for the year of the invention, the name of the inventor, the birthplace of the inventor, and the country in which the inventor was living when the invention was made.

The 20th century was a busy time. Lots of inventions. We limited inventions to “major” inventions – in other words things we have all heard of, things that changed life broadly, and internationally, not just in a particular region.

Data can be terribly exciting. I sat down with the Grad Assistant and looked at the figure. Would it surprise anyone that nearly all the major inventions come out of the United States? Many originate in the armed forced with applications for war or security (like fax machines, GPS). The famed Massachusetts Institute of Technology gets credits for several. Our own Kent State University (I was teaching there) gets credit for liquid crystals. Germany gets credit for the car (Mr. Benz was the inventor), although it became more developed and available under the ingenuity of American factories and markets; Italy gets credit for the radio, although their invention did not transmit speech (An American innovation accomplished that). Russia had some wartime thing like a periscope with a different name.

So, the big question then becomes “WHY?” Why are most inventions American? By the way, many inventors were foreign born, but did their big inventing after arriving in the U.S. So, why is that????

Kent State University had a project going via our international center (The Gerald Read Center for International and Intercultural Education located in the College of Education, Health and Human Services).  They were helping some Turks create a school in Turkey with an American take on curriculum and some other things. I was one of the faculty sent over to talk about American education and why creating such a school might be a good idea.

I used the figure of the Inventions of the 20th Century in my presentation. I left it on the screen long enough for potential parents to digest it. One of them noticed and said aloud, “There is no Muslim based country on the list.” Hmm. Hadn’t thought about that. “There are no developing countries on the list.

Again -the big question….WHY NOT?

Oh, I don’t know how to post the figure here, but I will try in the 3rd part of this post, “Thinking about the question.”

Grown-up Topics

Ode to an Ipad

Much is made lately about how much time we spend on devices. It’s not the time which is the issue, but what we are doing with the time. Here’s what I used my ipad for yesterday.

  • I took a French lesson. The new word I learned was “Jour de ferie” or “holiday” in English. (there should be accents on those E’s). I use Duolingo. It’s the best free app I have found for implementing good practices concerning language learning.
  • I spoke with my French friend, Marga, in the French territory of Guadeloupe in the Caribbean. In addition to sharing about our day, we reviewed some words in French and English for us both to learn. We find the video connection is of a better quality on facebook than on skype.
  • I listened to the Dutch National Anthem. I had never heard it before. I wanted to know more about it, as the novel I am writing is set in Amsterdam during World War II.
  • I did not fully understand the meaning of the stately anthem and so I looked up its origin and learned how it commemorates Dutch independence in the 1500’s from Spain.
  • I watched a TV show on Amazon Prime, and listened to music on itunes while I exercised.
  • I used an APP called “Whistle” to track where my dog was multiple times all day, and ensure she was in a safe place, not too far from home. and on the move unharmed.
  • I sent a Happy Birthday message to my husband at work. I checked to ensure the restaurant I was taking him to for his birthday was open, as it was Tuesday.
  • I transferred funds in bank accounts to make my estimated quarterly tax payments.
  • I paid a credit card bill. The day before I paid three bills using APPS.
  • I checked my calendar multiple times.
  • I played my favorite word game twice.
  • I took a scanned picture of a document and sent it to someone.
  • I checked an APP to see if a recent robocall was a scam or fraud.
  • I read a news item of interest on the CBC.
  • I read and responded to email several times.
  • I sent a photo to someone.
  • I texted my husband to see how his day was going and sent him a kiss.
  • I set an alarm to remind me of something.
  • Yes, I played a silly game I like called Sims Free Play 4 – it’s a virtual reality game, so I have a village and people and they have jobs and houses and children and hobbies. This may not be the best use of my time, I admit.
  • I fell asleep listening to ocean sounds on “Relax Melodies.:

So, all in all, I use my ipad to be productive. I still talked to three people live on a phone the old fashioned way.

I love my ipad.

p.s. You can do most of these things on a smart phone as well, but the ipad is easier to see and maneuver with more space.

Grown-up Topics, Uncategorized

The Chinese Library

Around 2006, I was invited to lead a delegation of Literacy Educators to a conference via People to People (the organization started by President Eisenhower). About 20 teachers signed up for the excursion.

As is often the case, the conference of international speakers (mostly Chinese, speaking Chinese with occasional translation) of talking heads was dull. But other activities were planned for the week, such as a visit to the Great Wall, a silk factory, shopping, and of course school visits. We were all most looking forward to the two school visits.

In the way of context, Chinese children in Beijing are grouped into schools by abilities based on their score on a single uniform test across the city (as it was explained to us by our guide). Therefore, we would be shown only the top schools with only the top scoring students.

The first visit was a high school which began with a welcome orientation by a school administrator in a sort of conference room.  He was warm and welcoming. One of my teachers asked how they deal with struggling readers.

“We don’t have any,” was his terse reply.

The rest of our visit was orchestrated and escorted with no interaction with either teachers or students. We got back on the bus, and began talking.

“I didn’t see a library,” one teacher brought up. Hmm, we all thought. Indeed we did not. American schools always show off their library to guests. We had asked our guide earlier if the schools have libraries.

“Yes,” he’d said immediately, and he recited the ratio of books to students in each school.

So, we resolved on the second visit, a school with younger children, to ask see the library. We arrived at the second school.

“We’d like to see the library,” I asked respectfully via a translator. There were heads nodding and we were escorted to….a lunchroom. At one end were a few magazine racks with age-appropriate magazines. We looked at each other. Hmmm.

By this time, my international travel had been extensive. So I was thinking there had been a translation error. Translation is a tough thing, especially between languages that are so very different.

So, as delegation leader, I asked again, trying in earnest to be more clear. “We would love to see your library – the room where all the books are, where students might find a book to read, or to check out for a report or project.”

There was quiet talking and mumbling and of course, we had no idea what they were saying, but clearly there were conferring about our request. We were then directed to the two elevators, and in each case, a Chinese person selected the basement button.

From the elevators were were led down a long hallway. The ceilings were lower than in the rest of the building. In the hallways were also planters taken in for winter, and broken chairs and desks,  being stored there. Lighting was dim, and winter chills seeped from somewhere.

A Chinese man stopped us in front of a metal door with a padlock on it, We stood there for a good 10-15 minutes. Clearly this man did not have the keys. Finally another man arrived with a ring of keys, and opened the door. We filed in quietly.

There were books all right. Rows and rows of metal stacks. We went up and down the rows looking at what was there. BUT, nearly all the books were still in shrink wrap. No book showed any signs of use. Everything was too clean and untouched. There was no card catalog, no windows, no place to sit and read, no desk for checkout. Many titles were Chinese translations of British literature – classics. We saw no picture books. No evidence of cataloguing.

We stayed quiet, not wanting to be disrespectful. This time we were given a tour which was more personal. We were brought to a large room where children were seated with their teachers, and they demonstrated for us a Chinese art of paper cutting. It was interesting and enjoyable. We were invited to answer questions of the students. Some raised their hands. Translators helped. One asked what we thought about the “One child” rule, and didn’t we agree it is a good thing?  We decided to steer away from that one. I said something about how we really don’t know much about the rule, so we cannot comment.

Afterwards we were paraded into a lovely art room. The thing was, however, there was no evidence that art room was used. Nothing smelled like art supplies. There was nothing drying, or in progress, or hanging, or displayed.

We were brought into a science lab. It was a large and well equipped lab with bunsen burners, beakers, flasks, and lots of sinks and benches. But, there was a fine veil of dust on all the glassware. There was no evidence that this room had ever been used.

As we passed classrooms, we smiled at the children who were stuffed wall to wall into rows. A teacher upfront would not be able to walk anywhere but down and row and back as desks went all the way to the back wall – I counted 36-40 students. Children had all identical haircuts, wore uniforms, and the rooms were quiet.

“May we go in?” I asked the escort. He seemed unsure what to say, but opened the door. We trailed in, said hello to the teacher and greeted the students. We encouraged the teacher to keep teaching, but that wasn’t going to happen. Children broke their stoic stance and popped up like jumping beans, wanting to shake our hands all at once. We felt like rock stars amid momentary chaos. We said our goodbyes and then left.

I don’t think that part of the visit was in the Chinese plan.

We were taken to visit the “counselor” who was called the “Teacher for Morality.” She was talking with a few students in an attractive and comfortable setting with chairs and a table. Of course, we do not know what they were talking about.

Our guide had been the assistant principal. We learned the principal was not an educator. He was a member of the Communist Party there for enforcement of whatever they needed to enforce. The assistant principal, a woman, was the real educator.

Subject area textbooks were Party approved, and uniform. We saw no child interacting with books other than the approved texts. We saw no books anywhere, other than those magazines in the lunchroom.

We had lots to talk about back at our hotel. I still think about this visit. Still unpacking what it means to have a locked library that no one uses.  Still thinking about a country where children have no access to books – by design, not because of poverty.

I find myself so very thankful for American libraries, and the fact that they are so incredibly important, and that we sometimes have to defend them, and I for one, will always support libraries. A world without libraries is a very different sort of place. Not one I wish to live in.

red metal padlock
Photo by Flickr on Pexels.com

Grown-up Topics

Pet Peeve #2 – Shampoo: An open letter to the hair products industry

Shopping for shampoo is so frustrating. I go down the 15 foot long aisle, read labels on four tiers of the shelving. I see shampoo for dry hair, oily hair, frizzy hair, thin hair, color treated hair, nappy hair, and gray hair. I can find shampoo if I want more body, more shine, more moisture, less moisture, less frizz, fewer tangles, and even one to restore curls. Lots of these have matching conditioners for all the same reasons.

The problem is – I have normal hair. Yes, perfectly normal hair. It’s brown, uncolored, not too dry, not too oily, sufficiently thick, naturally healthy and shiny, with a few streaks of silver (NOT gray, silver) only needs washing every few days, well coiffed, easy to take care of, and no curl or frizz.

Where is the shampoo for me? Yes, where IS the shampoo for me? Normal, wholesome, ordinary shampoo. This is my first pet peeve.

My second pet peeve is packaging. Shampoo people, do you survey customers about packaging before you design these extremely tall skinny containers that are too tall for anyone’s bathroom cupboard and which fall over easily in the shower? Should we be having new shelves built just for these big tall plastic bottles? Do you consider average medicine closets, and over-the-toilet cabinets, and typical bathroom storage when you get together and decide on dimensions? Do you?

I have another pet peeve concerning packaging. The shampoo and conditioner are generally in matching bottles. The writing on them is tiny, or white letters on light green backing, something like a 9 point font, if lucky. This is even worse if you are in a hotel using those lovely little containers provided, with which you are not previously familiar.

So, here is a news flash: People do not wear their eyeglasses in the shower. I’ve tried it, it just doesn’t go well. Who can see through waterly drop stained glasses? They are in the way when you wash your hair. It’s just not a good idea to try and wear glasses in the shower.

So, you get in the shower with the two containers, and you cannot see the print. You don’t know which one is the shampoo and which one is the conditioner. If you use the wrong one for the job, yeah, you’ll figure it out when the conditioner doesn’t make suds and the shampoo does not condition anything. But why does it have to be so difficult? But after all that, your shower just took a whole lot longer than you planned, and it’s possible you don’t have lots of extra time for all this.

Honestly, can you all work on this? Larger print please. Even if it’s just the first letter. Or maybe some picture clue. Whatever.  Thanks for listening!

Grown-up Topics

Online Dating for Mature Beginners (age 50+)

I met my husband from an online dating site. I was 61 and he was 60. Our first date was actually at a dog park. We both had dogs, and this way we could see if the dogs got along. I paid special attention to how he treated his mixed breed rescue.

Our lives together have been full of love, friendship, and growing closer together. BUT, before I met my husband, I had tried about 15 dating sites (I lost count, really), had about 50 first dates (conservative underestimate). Along the way, I made some terrific male friends who I never “dated.” Even found a fabulous accountant. And some of those friendships persist today. So, you can find different things along the way before you find that special someone. Here are things I learned which I would encourage anyone to heed.

  1. Know what you are looking for. Do you seek friends? A life partner? A marriage? One phrase you come across in the online dating world is “open to possibilities.” I like the flexibility of that idea, as long as you are sincere.
  2. Be clear about what you don’t want. If your partner must be a non-smoker, of a certain age range, must love pets, etc., say that up front in your profile. Constructing your profile is important. For example, one mature friend decided she would no longer date anyone still raising children. After all, she’d done that already and was in a different phase of her life. Here are some things I listed: Must love pets; must be mentally and emotionally healthy; non-smoker, at least a Master’s degree in educational level; over 5’10’ (men generally exaggerate their height); have a valid passport. (my reason for the latter is, if anyone gets to be 60 and never had a passport, then they probably don’t have much sense of adventure, trying new things, etc.)
  3. Explore a variety of sites. Google dating sites. You will get plenty of hits. Some cost money, so decide if that’s okay with you. There are good ones that do not cost anything. I met my husband on “okcupid.com.” It’s free. It asks lots and lots of questions of each person joining. Therefore, you can get to know lots about someone before deciding they are a potential partner for you. I also appreciated plentyoffish.com, also free, as they hold local real events and you can go to a dance where you know everyone there is single. There are sites specific to the younger, to the older, to the very religious, to people of particular interests, etc. Nearly all sites I explored account for same sex dating as well as heterosexual dating. Some sites allow salacious and nude photos. Decide if that’s for you, or not (caution – in these sites, men often send pictures of their equipment and not their face).
  4. Some sites have different “communities” within the site depending on what you are looking for, such as “dating only,” “relationships only,” or “seeking sex partners only.” CAUTION: DON’T SIGN ON TO A SITE WITH AUTOMATIC BILLING UNLESS YOU KNOW HOW YOU CAN QUIT. WHEN YOU WANT TO QUIT, PRINT AND SAVE THE EMAIL WHERE YOU STATED YOU WERE QUITTING. BE VIGILANT CHECKING THE CREDIT CARD YOU USED. YOU MAY NEED IT LATER TO DISPUTE CHARGES ON YOUR CREDIT CARD. ONE SITE A FRIEND USED REQUIRED ONE TO QUIT ONLY VIA A CERTIFIED SNAIL MAIL LETTER SENT TO A FOREIGN ADDRESS!
  5. Construct a good profile. Use your best writing skills. Say who you are, and what matters to you. Often you can read profiles before you join and get ideas. A profile should state things about you, and things you want and do not want. BEWARE of the profile that is all about what someone is looking for, and nothing about who THEY are.  Here is an example of a good profile: SUCCESSFUL PROFESSIONAL SEEKS A PARTNER POSSIBLY FOR A LONG TERM RELATIONSHIP. I AM A (BLANK-YEAR OLD) FEMALE LOOKING FOR A MALE OF SIMILAR AGE. I AM WELL-EDUCATED, PHYSICALLY FIT, WITH A LOVE OF NATURE, GARDENING, SPORTS AND TRAVEL. I OWN MY OWN HOME, HAVE ONE DOG AND ONE CAT, AND TAKE CARE OF AN AGING PARENT IN MY TOWN. I AM LOOKING FOR SOMEONE WHO IS ADVENTUROUS, FUN-LOVING, MENTALLY HEALTHY, AND WITH A GOOD SENSE OF HUMOR. MY POTENTIAL PARTNER MUST LOVE CHILDREN AND PETS, BE ONLY A MODERATE DRINKER, NON-SMOKER, BE OVER 5’9″ TALL, HAVE A KIND HEART AND A GOOD JOB. In short, consider what you value, what you love, what you can’t live without, cannot live with, etc.  Also, be careful about asking the impossible. A female colleague wrote her profile and her list of requirements in a partner and her list had about 25 things on it, AND the match could not live more than 25 miles away. The site actually asked her, politely, to remove her profile as they would be unlikely to help her.  One more thing about profiles -lots of guys say “I know how to really please a woman.” If you come across that one, just remember it’s likely the most common thing men say. Besides, what pleases me, like a clean house, breakfast cooked on weekends by someone else – I am guessing that is not what the guys mean,
  6. Spend time searching profiles. Many sites do some matching and send you people they think you might want to consider. Others, you do the leg work yourself (so to speak).  In some sites, you can let someone know you have been reading their profile without contacting them directly to see if interest is returned before proceeding. That might be a good way to get started with fewer risks. In those cases, you would also be notified of people searching you.
  7. Meeting up. Here are some MUSTS in my opinion prior to deciding to meet up.
    1. Ask the potential partner for a real name and real address. Google the person. While it’s possible they do not have an online presence for legitimate reasons, more often they do, even if it’s only through work. Use Google Earth to find out if the address exists. Check the website of the county in which the potential match resides. Search for the “clerk of court” and search pending cases and convictions for persons of their name. This is all public information. A girlfriend was considering meeting a guy and put his address into Google Earth. The entire road in the address was an industrial park.
    2. Notice any odd errors in English. While its possible someone is just a lousy speller, it is more likely someone in Nigeria or Jamaica is running a scam thinking their English is fine and you won’t notice.
    3. Exchange pictures if they were not already included in the online profile. Sometimes people request a full picture rather than just a headshot. Decide if that matters to you or not.  It’s a good idea if the picture is fairly current. I saw lots of pictures with a guy in a tux, probably at a daughter’s wedding, and cut funny, using a scissors to remove others from a group shot. It’s so easy these days to snap a decent photo with your smart phone!
    4. Telephone call . I believe it is essential to have a real telephone call or two or three before you decide to meet (not a chat online, not a text message exchange, a real phone call). First of all, scammers are less likely to agree to a call. If you do not enjoy talking on the phone, what is the likelihood you would enjoy a conversation in person? You can further consider skyping or such before deciding to meet. BEWARE OF SOMEONE WHO WILL ONLY CALL YOU FROM WORK. THERE COULD BE A SPOUSE AT HOME THEY DON’T WANT YOU TO KNOW ABOUT. USE A CELLPHONE, BECAUSE YOU CAN BLOCK THE NUMBER IN THE FUTURE IF YOU NEED TO. DO NOT GIVE YOUR ACTUAL ADDRESS. I was talking with one guy, an attorney, who only wanted to get together on a weekday, When I suggested a weekend meet-up, he was too busy. I finally asked him if he was married. He got quiet and said yes. “How did you know?” DUH! “Because you only want to get together on weekdays!” Guys do that! “Oh, he said. “I thought I was the first one to think of that.” One of those times I was rolling on the floor laughing for an hour.
    5. The Coffee Date. Tell someone you trust where you are going and when and ask them to call you DURING THE DATE.  Have a code word you say if you want out of the situation, and your caller feigns an emergency or a need for you to leave. ALWAYS arrive in your own car, pay for your own snack or drink. You don’t want, at this point, to owe anyone anything. DINNER? Dinner can be excruciatingly long if the person turns out to be boring or offensive. Once I arrived for a coffee type date at an ice cream parlor. Apparently the photo I had been provided was 20 years and 50 pounds out of date. I saw him standing around in the parlor with that “I am looking for someone” stance. His shirt had slobber down the front and he smelled bad. So I just got an ice cream and left. I made no eye contact, just got my chocolate cone and left.
    6. Beware of the dates who spend the entire time talking about themselves and not getting to know you.  If they are sincere about a meaningful relationship, they would want to get to know you.
    7. What Next? Wait until you get home to decide if you want to see the person again. Make no promises during the coffee date. If they ask if you want to go on a date, say, politely, “I think that is a conversation left until after we have both had time to consider if we are good match.” I have found that if you had a genuinely nice time, that good feeling stays with you later that day or evening. If the other person feels the same way, plan a second simple, non-committal get together. ALWAYS in a public place. My second date with one guy was, at my suggestion, in a bookstore which included a cafe. You can tell much about a person by what books they look at, which ones generate conversation about books, writers, interests, etc. Apparently this guy’s only interest was in getting behind a stack of books where he could put his hands on me instead of the books. Gee whiz, how adolescent is that?? That’s when you say you need to go and pay for a new book and get home to let the dog out.
    8. Bring home the person? It has been my experience that people usually start initiating intimacy on the third date. So consider carefully if that’s where you want to go. Otherwise, keep the dates in public places. Beware of a guy who never lets you see where he lives. Could be lots of reasons for that, and none of them are good.
    9. Cautionary Tales. I have lots of these.
      1. The partner who starts talking LOVE before it seems logical to do so.
      2. The partner who only is available on weekdays, never weekends. They are hiding something. Like a wife.
      3. The partner who talks to you lots, but always has excuses not to meet. He’s hiding something.
      4. The partner who asks for money!!!!!! This is not a developing relationship, it’s a SCAM. Got that? A SCAM. NO EXCEPTIONS. No “Yes, but he says he loves me….” That’s CRAP. It’s called catfishing. It is common.  Don’t fall for it. Not even for a New York minute. You ALMOST got sucked in. Whew, dodged a bullet there. Get over it, move on. Someone tried that with me. We talked several times on the phone, even skyped. He said he was too busy to meet, maybe next month. Then he claimed to have run out of money and needed $1200. right way. I replied, “That’s what credit cards are for.” “Oh,” he said, ” my credit card is maxed out, I cannot use it.” I brought up that there is travelers aid in most places in the world, or there are close friends or family, not NOT someone you just met. More excuses started. I signed off, deleted all messages.
      5. A partner you catch in a lie. Lies are like cockroaches and rats. Where there is one, there are many you cannot yet see. Stop all communication. I was having some nice conversations with a guy named Chaz. In fact, lots of them. I suggested we meet up during the weekend. He said he could not drive, he’d hurt his ankle. I accepted that. He called Monday. I asked “How was your weekend?” He said it was nice, he had visited his mother. “How did you get there?” I asked. “I drove of course.” he replied. Here is a guy who does not even keep track of his own lies!
      6. Someone looking to be taken care of. This happens to both men and women in online dating. The person who cannot tell you exactly what there job is, or claims to have family money, but their lifestyle doesn’t add up. There are women who mooch off men, and men who mooch off women. Is that what you want? A good friend’s ex-husband is on his third or fourth family, each time finding a woman with a good job to support him, having a baby together,and when she starts asking for things, like a contribution to the mortgage, he moves on.  He supports none of these children from former relationships, and keeps off the radar from Child Support Enforcement by not working and finding another woman to care for him.
      7. Anything that does not add up. I dated a nice guy who other than paying for dinner now and then, never had any money to do anything. He had a good job. He had no house with a mortgage, no kids to support, and I knew for a fact he made more money than I did. He lived in an apartment and leased a car. He had no money saved. He owned nothing. I could only conclude either he was hiding something, or he’s a dismal money manager. In either case, not a partner for me.
      8. Don’t act needy. Don’t talk about all your lost loves. If you are divorced or widowed, mention it, don’t get into it. Don’t dwell on any past relationship.
      9. Look for patterns. When you are getting to know someone, notice patterns. How did earlier marriages or relationships end? Did more than one end the same way? Patterns by middle age are—sort of set in stone. You are seeing what you are likely to continue to see. Very few exceptions.
      10. Long Distance Relationships?  Dating someone far away can be an adventure and a learning experience. I dated two very nice men in two different countries far away. But of course, it is fraught with challenges. You cannot see each other very often. Dates can costs lots of money. Cultural differences can get in the way. So, I would say know what you are getting into, whether or not you are willing to mount some challenges, and are you and the partner willing to consider that a relationship might mean relocating? Of course, what people define as long distance varies greatly. After I decided against pursuing a possible relationship with a wonderful man in Ireland, I was chatting with someone local. In this case “local” was 30 miles away. “I am not interested in a long distance relationship” the match wrote back. I was on the floor laughing about that one, that 30 miles was considered long distance when my last date had been 4000 miles away. 
      11. EXPECTATIONS. Rome wasn’t built in a day. Finding a “match” takes time. Don’t assume after a few disappointments that there is no one out there for you. Remember most worthwhile things in life take time. The word “MATCH” is important (other than the fact it is used in names of dating sites). Someone can be great, but not be a MATCH for you. If you are saying no to an offer of a next date, you can say, “You are nice, but we are not a match for each other.” That’s kind, honest, and effective. If you are reading this, then probably this is not your first rodeo. Mature people, for the most part, are what they are. They are a package deal in a way. You need to decide if the way they are is acceptable. When we were all younger, probably we thought we could change our special person into who we wanted that person to be. And we found out that changing someone does not work. True, people often change. But not in ways we may dictate. A male colleague in the midst of a divorce shared that his soon-to-be ex-wife lamented bitterly that after 8 years of marriage, she was still unable to get him to change. He was astonished. He was unaware that his changing was her goal and personal project. And of course, he wondered why she could not like him the way he was.
      12. WANT TO MARRY A MILLIONAIRE? This is one of those things that sounds better on paper than in real life. If you choose a partner where the economic differences are great (they have way more money than you), then you are also giving up economic control. Does the other person always get the say in how money is spent? Is money used for control? How did they get their money? Are they from a rich and spoiled family? Were they ruthless to workers in the business they built? Did they do something illegal? Unethical? There are certain personality types among self-made men and women. Let’s just say they are not Mr. Rogers. If you choose to date someone with lots of money, proceed really really carefully. If things go wrong, remember they can afford a better lawyer.
        1. Avoid like the plague anyone who yells at you, who is physically rough, or gives hints of domestic abuse. Time to implement that exit strategy. “Excuse me, I have to check on the babysitter, (let the dog out to pee, whatever).” I was on date with a guy who said he had slapped his wife a few times, but she deserved it!
        2. Men and women date differently. It’s my theory that women date like they shop for a dress. Browse the racks, the sales, favorite colors and styles and brands. Then you decide what to take to the dressing room. And you try somethings on. Some are an  immediate NO. It makes you look fat, it’s tight, it’s cut funny, etc. Some are maybes – you walk outside to the bigger mirror, ask someone else what they think, they point out the pros and cons of the item. You make your purchase, and even then, you get it home and maybe you decide to return it. You get the picture! MEN date more like they are buying a car. They have decided in advance on a make and model, whether they need four wheel drive, heated seats, a roof rack, a racing stripe, leather seats – you get the picture. When they get to the lot, they tell the salesperson their requirements, they are shown the relevant inventory, take a short test drive, and done! They got what they wanted.  I am not saying this is good or bad. I think it’s just the way it is. Be aware.

Good luck! I hope your journey, albeit long, may be successful, full of love and adventure. Stay safe above all (yourself and your money).   Wendy C. Kasten, all rights reserved.

Grown-up Topics

Pet Peeve # 1- Bra Shopping

This goes out to all the women who have had to suffer through bra shopping in a department store – my condolences.

Here’s the problem. People in lingerie departments arrange bras generally by style. The top tier is the tiny bras for people who may or may not even really need them. Then the second tier is the next size up, so on and so forth until you get to the bottom row, where all the larger cup sizes are obscured because they are literally brushing the floor – the dirty floor. So shoppers get to look at this sort of bra Christmas tree display. BUT,

It’s a fact that women who wear larger cup sizes are also generally of a body type which is….less flexible. So we of larger sizes have to crouch, bend, kneel, or sit on the floor to browse the one or two bras in our size, and that’s if we are lucky.

DOES THIS MAKE SENSE??? Do I really want to sit on a department store floor to do my bra shopping? Did I mention I am a senior citizen with bad knees? And no, I am not going to bring my gardening knee pads just to shop for a bra.

Is this even a reasonable expectation? And I guess a store might respond that a sales person will help you. Yeah, right. That will happen in Nordstrom’s, but not Macy’s or any other department store I have shopped in.

SOOOO, to all the department stores with lingerie departments – PLEASE consider organizing your bras by size. Let us just go to the place where most everything will fit us, and please make it more than 6 inches off the floor! We will be happier. We will come more often. We will buy your bras, instead of retreating to online sales.

Really, bra shopping should be neither an athletic challenge or an unpleasant one. Really.

Wendy C. Kasten

Grown-up Topics

The Afghan (story and podcast)

The Afghanhttps://wendyckasten.com/2019/01/19/the-afghan/

My grandmother never wasted anything.  Having lived through two World Wars, she had developed skills most of us never will. For example, when she was done using a tea bag, she’d hang it up to dry on a rack above the kitchen sink, then try to eke out another cup of tea. When the tea was done for teamaking, she opened the tea bag, dampened a wad of tea, and used if to clean our oriental carpet in the living room. She moved the tea leaves across every inch of the brown and black carpet, on her aching knees, with a scrub brush. She said it got the dust out.  She found uses for stockings with runs, leftover string and rubber bands, and bits of yarn from her many projects knitting and crocheting.

I was the recipient of many of those projects. If I wanted a new sweater, I simply asked for one. Mom and I would go and buy the yarn, and Grandma would make it.  I might have to wait until my birthday or Christmas to get the new sweater, but it always arrived.

Grandma made afghans in her spare time. It was a secret income source for her. Since my grandfather would not allow her any money of her own, she would begin two identical afghans, but always hide one, so he thought she was only making one. She would finish them at about the same time. The $40. she sold one for, my grandfather made her hand over to him. But the $40. for the second afghan he never knew about and so she kept the money for herself –  hidden, of course.  She hid her money in between her shoes and their rubbers, and in her box of stockings, in-between the layers of nylons.

On a special occasion was I was about 22 and nearing graduation, Grandma presented me with an Afghan – the one in the picture. A zigzag pattern of reds, dark greens, off-whites, yellows, blue, and a color like maize.  I hugged her and thanked her, thinking that these colors really did not go with my new apartment at all.

Once I got it home, I examined it more carefully. The yellow yarn was from the cable knit cardigan she made me in fifth grade.  The green was from the sweater she made me when I went off to Girl Scout camp after 5th grade, to match the dark green Bermuda shorts that were the standard uniform.  The red was the loose knit red sweater with the glass buttons she made for me in 7th grade, when all the girls were wearing mohair sweaters and I didn’t have one.

In high school, Mom made me a kilt, and I wanted a pullover sweater to go with it. I saw the leftover yarn from that. And finally, when I took up downhill skiing as a teen, I needed a ski sweater. So she made me an off-white Scandinavian style cable knit.  My grandmother, throughout my early years, was always keeping me warm, and those sweaters kept me warm for much of my life.

For years, I did not know what to do with all the sweaters, none of which fit anymore. They filled an entire trunk. I was sharing this with an elderly friend one day, about how I was keeping them, conflicted about what to do with them.

“That’s just stupid,” my friend pronounced, known for being candid and forthright. “They could be keeping someone warm.” She was right, of course. So I only kept one sweater, and the rest moved on to warm other young women in this very cold place we live in.

The afghan lives in my home office on my reading chair. If I am chilly, it wraps me in my grandmother’s love.  With it, I feel close to her. And in times I have felt wounded or alone, I have sought the afghan for comfort.  And, sometimes, I still do.

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