Wag on the dam a few months ago. Photo by Doc Ellen, DVM
The Late Years Fifty-Three October 27, 2019
I have these aging symptoms: nosebleeds,
afib, falling. My doctor doesn’t want any falls.
They’re no fun–like falling half-way out
the chicken coop door or into the flower
garden, and once into the Christmas tree.
I rarely even get bruises. I go months
without a fall, and I’m very careful.
Nosebleeds are a nuisance, but I know what
to do. I hate afib, but I endure it–drink
my lemon balm tea, and it goes away.
No harm done. I had seven falls in the last
year, so I’m to try physical therapy. Of
course, my sleep patterns are irregular.
I’m more of a night owl than I like.
My body is whimsical, and I have
strange dreams. Last night I was getting
to learn something new, and I was
happy about it. I had to have my dog
with me. But what was it? Not, I think,
physical therapy. Writing more, not
less, I think. I was in a big room with
other people. We were all doing it,
and we all had a dog. My Wag is old,
older than I am, has trouble with her
back legs. On solid ground she walks
fine, but on linoleum, she slips and
slides. I walk okay, and I don’t fall
most of the time. I’m very careful now.
I wanted to live to be a hundred, but
I didn't expect these annoying symptoms.
Still, I’m telling the story, and my heart
is good. I do sleep. Even if my body is
whimsical, it does still heal. I get more
chances. I don’t like these problems,
but I know how to change my life.
Eight years ago I sold my big crop of figs at our local co-op, Chatham Marketplace. But hard freezes have worked havoc on the figs in recent years.
***
The Late Years Fifty-Two October 20, 2019
Mostly, I don’t think about dying.
My days are full of things to do
though I’ve learned to be satisfied
with less, to rest more, and take naps
on purpose instead of by accident.
I also do my cooking by stages, take
breaks to read my novel or answer
email. I still walk up at the dam,
unless it’s too wet or blustery. I
let my son close up the hens at night.
And in rain, I take the dog out early,
even if we both get wet. I’m often so
tired, I wonder if that’s how I’ll die–
too tired to move any more--but I
sleep and my energy returns. What’s
a little rain after all? And sleep still
revives me even if I do wake up
so slowly. I often wish I could do
more. I haven’t been in the orchard
for months. I missed the figs, if they
were there, and the grapes. I stayed
out of the garden when the rooster
claimed it for his hens and chased
me off. My heart still beats steadily.
I remmber most things or they come
back to mind if I’m patient. I keep
learning to accept my limitations.
A good life lesson after all.
***
The actual figs.
Photo of blue-winged teals migrating by Doc Ellen Tinsley, DVM.
***
The Late Years Fifty-One October 13, 2019
Aging. The term never meant much.
Now it does. I move so slowly. Every
morning my body has to start all over
again. First, sit up; then move to the
end of the couch so I can hold onto
it and two chairs to stand. Then a step
at a time, arms out for balance, into
the bathroom. Back to get dressed,
brush my hair, put on my glasses.
Every waking is like this–always gradual.
I don’t dash anywhere anymore. I still
walk without a cane–very carefully.
I fell twice, once going up onto my
front step, and once going down, so
I’m extra careful now. I get tired
more easily, stop and rest often. More
naps in the early afternoon, and then
I have to wake up slowly again. I
write, type, read, think–a blessing.
I’m careful not to get too hungry
or too tired. When I sleep, I go deep.
It takes time to wake up. When I die,
it will be like that–a deep sleep and
no need to wake up.
No coal ash sign designed by Keely Wood and erected in April 2015 on Buckhorn Rd., Moncure, NC
The Late Years Fifty October 7, 2019
For Dean Tipton
Last week we lost Johnsie. The last time
I saw her, she was happy, laughing. Two
months ago. We were celebrating Dean’s
birthday. Keely had brought a cake. She said
her doctors had told her that there was no
more they could do, after a year–or more–
of chemotherapy. Dean and Johnsie live by
the train track bringing coal ash to dump in
Moncure. They came to hearings four years
ago and said they lived at ground zero.
Johnsie told her co-workers at The Pilot that
the trains running through the center of
Southern Pines were death trains, but no one
listened. Maybe they’ll listen now. She turned
up at our meetings whenever the chemo hadn’t
laid her flat. She was always cheerful and
thankful for all the coal ash fighters. We
tried, but we didn’t stop the coal ash trains.
So we lost Johnsie. She used to say, “Jesus,
take the wheel.” Maybe He did.
The Late Years Forty-Nine Oct. 6, 2019
Another reading–three books again
to read from, attract buyers, and
entertain in the short run. Last year
in July, when I went there to read,
no one came to listen. This year one
woman, who even took notes and
afterwards asked questions easy to
answer.
This time I didn’t lose any
words. I forgot a few names, but
that’s normal these days. My son
went with me and listened, too.
He fetched my truck and drove us
home. Our dogs were frantically
happy to see us and bounced around
to hasten treat time. I made supper of
baked potatoes and a three-egg omelet.
He went off to watch the news. I
picked up my diary. My one reader
said she’d talk to the library about
my books. They should have them.
They’re about our county. A good
reminder. Readers are found one at
a time, and sometimes won.
Sunrise at Jordan Lake January 1, 2019 by Doc Ellen.
***
The Late Years Forty-Eight September 29, 2019
After re-reading Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own
Virginia Woolf writes about the androgynous
mind, both male and female, and at ease with
itself, incandescent, even. All the grudges and
spites fired out of it. And my mind? I do see the
multiplicity of injustices in this new twenty-first
century. Plenty to protest, to fight about, but
even at this age, or maybe because of my age,
I’m writing what I see, and my vision is clear.
I can see through the tricks we play on each
other when we’re afraid to be open and brave,
but in the long view they’re foolish and no
point hammering about it. Let them simmer and
take in the truth of their own behavior. Virginia
Woolf’s books pointed me this way years ago,
toward her mirage of Shakespeare’s sister. For
me it became a goal. I could see nearly forty
years ago how I had created a world around me,
not unlike his Globe Theater. I can look back on
how I courted experience: sex before marriage,
living alone in New York City, making friends with
two little Puerto Rican girls watching me walk by
from their third floor window. Now I stop to talk
to my friend Tawny, who walks her infant daughter
in a baby carriage, with lively Ginger on a leash, and
better behaved than when Tawny was pregnant. We both
wait for baby’s smile. A room of my own? A priority
since I was thirteen. Slam the door and write poems.
I’ve lived with and without other people, at home
and abroad. Some dearest friends in Finland,
Russia, the West Coast. Laughter, confidences, tears
together; songs, paintings, poems. All done by
women, whose minds are open, free, affectionate.
So many imbalances, suffering, poverty of spirit,
but I feel in me a tide of Life and Wholeheartedness,
the power to transform, if not to cure, anger, hatred,
ignorance, and the need to dominate. The earth
is warming, shifting, toward Eros, away from so
much control, hostility, competition. If floods come,
what will they wash away? If we lose face, what
do we gain? Maybe we learn to think more
clearly, see farther, love better? Isn’t that worth it?
Guest Blog from Mary Susan Heath for September 22, 2019
The Late Years Forty-Seven September 22, 2019
Mary Susan Heath, English Ivey climbing brick wall
A Different Reminder: another part of Judy is not fragile.
The Ivey planted in the old black wash pot was transplanted from a Christmas arrangement. The wash pot belonged to my mother’s mother, who used it every Saturday on the farm at Powhatan to boil water for the family laundry. It has been re-purposed now to hold the fertile soil that grounds the Ivey under my Mother’s carport—Still useful.
Vines. A morning glory vine. English ivey, which is a kind of vine. It climbs and can also act as ground cover, spreading horizontally and reaching 8 inches in height.
Judy’s roots run deep. She has lived and worked to create community among writers. There was the poetry journal Hyperion (1970-1981) and the founding of Carolina Wren Press in 1976. She was one of the founders of the NC Writers’ Network (1984) and served as the first President. Lots of shoots that are still growing.
Those who speak for the protection of the environment are also part of her entwining circle. Fracking in 2013 and most recently the issue of coal ash shipping by Duke Energy.
We’re all in there. Judy gathers us close, covers us with encouragement, and pushes us to climb—even if the wall is brick. Ivey is resilient to cold and drought. At 82, Judy keeps climbing and is, I think, at her best as a writer. Three new books out in 2019 —Baba Summer, Bakehouse Doom, and Fatality at Angelika’s Eatery. Still offering her excellent editing, teaching, and writing expertise. It is my pleasure to count myself among her tendrils. I’m in very good company.
Mary Susan Heath
Author, Creative Nonfiction
https://marysusanheath.wixsite.com/memoriesinmotion
***
The Late Years Forty-Seven by Judy Hogan Sept. 22, 2019
There are flowers you have to kill
when they sow themselves among
the vegetables: violets, honeysuckle,
morning glories. I never want to.
They look fragile, but they’re tough
as nails. At the dam they were poisoned
out of existence, gone all summer,
but in the waning of hot days, they
began all over again. The orange
ones run like flame; the blue are coming
in fast, too, and the white ones hold
their own. I’m told my brain bleeds
every so often. I can tell when suddenly
I can’t remember my zipcode. Who
forgets a zipcode after twenty years?
I do, apparently. Then I’m okay again.
Mostly I am okay. I prepare for
classes on creative intuition, a major
lifelong gift if you have it, and on
books that delve into human feelings.
The whole secret of living is to be
yourself. Who else could you be?
Why do we even try? Our fate was
established years ago, and people
help us. Only a few bother to be our
enemies. Mostly we’re ignored. Those
with hearts whole figure it out, take
that leap into speech and joy, know
the zest of living well, laughing and
yielding to whatever comes.
