Jennie!

"Don't blame me, Daddy. I’m just the kid!”

With those words, Jennie at age three revealed herself as the clear thinker and straight talker whom we have known and loved for 37 fantastic years.

And she was right, by the way. Her father - undoubtedly distracted - left the crib side down so that baby Sarah fell out. Sarah was fine, and Jennie had found her voice.

Jennie is almost always right. No, really. She is. Her areas of mastery are breath-taking: child rearing, cooking, computers, poetry, thank you notes, blogging. . . The list goes on and on. She also has the distinction of having the world’s thickest and prettiest naturally wavy black hair!

Jennifer burst into our lives, just as the strawberries were coming ripe in late April. She was a week early. I’ve always thought she just wanted to get going on life. We took her home to an old ranch house across from Point Lobos. I loved going into her little lean-to nursery, to find her all pink-cheeked and dreamy after her nap. She took in everything with her big hazel eyes and delighted us in every way. She was the perfect first baby – flexible and forgiving of all our new-parent foibles.

And oh those smiles! Not just for us, but for all passers-by when we moved to Pacific Grove. Jennie made everyone feel special. “Hi-ya!” she would say and little old ladies in Holman’s would swoon.

Jennie has always known her own mind. She learned to read quickly and devoured books whole. She switched from violin to viola, because the latter didn’t have “those screechy high notes.” She chose interesting friends who were willing to be different and set her sights on the University of Oregon, sure that was the place for her. It was.

She spent her junior year in Aberdeen, Scotland and graduated with majors in both music and English. She taught in three places in four years without faltering, married a man whose interests and talents are as extensive as hers, and is a formidable mother to three. She insists on please and thank you and doesn’t back down. She’s also the only woman I know who can load her three small children in the car and drive straight through from Eugene to the Monterey Peninsula, alone.

After a recent visit, her aunt declared Jennie “laid back,” and it is a mystery to me how she can accomplish so much with such equanimity. Most recently, she put aside her fear of skiing (ACL surgery will do that) and threw herself into a week-long ski clinic in Colorado. On Facebook she wrote, “I might finally be getting the hang of this skiing thing. A little bit.” And later, “Worst ski-related injury this week: a pinched finger sustained while carrying them. I'll take it.” None of us was surprised. Jennie does whatever she puts her mind to.

No one ever told me what a delight grown children are. And they are a great resource, too. When I was trying to ride the bike, she stood back and observed. “Push off with your left foot,” she said, and it worked. “Jennie, how do you make bacon wrapped croutons?” I call to ask. Of course, she knows.

Jennie, you are an amazing woman – competent, loyal, determined, talented, and wise. How did I get so lucky to have you as my daughter?

Down the Rabbit Hole!

I am feeling a little like Alice when she fell through the rabbit hole into a land where nothing seemed quite familiar. That’s not necessarily bad – just strange.

The neuro-surgeon does not agree with the neurologist that either of two small growths in my head is causing the vibrating throughout my lower body. So, it looks like no brain surgery for me in the near future, and probably never. Hurrah!

So, pending some tests for less dire things, we remain in mystery. The doctor did say that sometimes a person experiences a kind of mysterious neurological episode that eventually “self-resolves.” I myself will quibble with that terminology and add God in there as the major force for healing, along with many fervent, and steadfast prayers.

All this leaves us in Wonderland, and I have never been great with ambiguity. However, I like ambiguity better than brain surgery, so I feel we have gotten very good news. My plan now is to have the tests and then take my vibrating self to Oregon with Kevin and Walt to be with Sarah, Jennie, and their families for Christmas.

What the new year will bring, we will see! By the way, Sarah says I can keep the hats!

We shall find peace. We shall hear the angels. We shall see the sky sparkling with diamonds. Chekov.

Wearing My Diadem

To someone facing surgery in her head, today’s Old Testament lesson is a true blessing: “Take off the garment of your sorrow and affliction, O Jerusalem, and put on forever the beauty of the glory from God . . . put on your head the diadem of the glory of the Everlasting, for God will show your splendor everywhere under heaven.”

Kevin, Walt, and I discussed the word diadem walking home from St. Mary’s this morning. We decided it had to do with jewels, and indeed, a diadem is a crown. Baruch (a companion of Jeremiah the Prophet) who wrote these words in exile, has no doubt about our status as God’s beloved, each worthy of a diadem.

I, who have never aspired to a diadem, now claim that as my inheritance, too. A diadem, which is worn on the head, seems like just the thing. And I just happen to have two (see photo), sent to me by my Sarah in a care package that also included music, candy, and an angel.

Baruch makes another promise on God’s behalf. “For God has ordered that every high mountain and the everlasting hills be made low and valleys filled up, to make level ground, so that Israel may walk safely in the glory of God.”

Tomorrow I meet with my neuro-surgeon for the first time. I have heard he is bright, a good surgeon, and that he has nimble fingers. I believe that he, the others who will care for me, and all your prayers, dear friends, will make my way level and safe.

And by the way, if you see me around town in the next few days, you’ll see that I am wearing my diadem.

Our Sarah

I took out my beloved Christmas snow globes last night and put one on the table during dinner. Just now, I wound it up and there was, “O, Holy Night.” The years fell away and I remembered when our Sarah was born.

She was Kevin’s and my second child, born in December, 1974. Kevin reminded me that her due date – December 7 – was Pearl Harbor Day. But she was not like her eager sister, Jennie, who came early. No, Sarah took her own sweet time and arrived a full week late.

It was hard waiting for her. Not so much still being pregnant, but I was yearning to see her, to meet her, to hold her. To pass the time one day, I went to have lunch with Kevin in Monterey while two-year-old Jennie stayed at her friend Alex’s house. Kevin and I walked to Fisherman’s Wharf, which was a bit of a walk for a woman at nine months, but we did it. Then we stopped in a music store and bought two Christmas records.

I spent part of the afternoon listening to them, lying in the recliner which was the only place I felt comfortable. I remember particularly “O, Holy Night” and the “Carol of the Bells.” I was dreamy, dreamy. It was almost Christmas, and I was filled with peace and expectation and love for this child who would soon come into our lives and our hearts.

That night, as soon as I lay down, I felt the first signs of labor. Our friend Steve came to take care of Jennie, while Nancy stayed home with their girls. Was it really peanut butter and pickles he gave her for breakfast?

Sarah was born at 8:31 in the morning – 7lbs. 2oz.. She was so pink and so pretty, and because I had practiced on her sister, Jennifer, I was so ready to fall in love with her. So I did. And we brought her home and had a wonderful Christmas, awash with baby glow and wonder at her perfection and her sister’s absolute surprise at having a little sister. Sarah was my most cuddly baby, a delight to this mother’s ardent heart.

Then the years went by, and Sarah became her own amazing self – full of energy and fun and talent and intuition and compassion. To name just of few of her attributes. Her young years were filled with dressing up and horses and violins and friends. Eventually, into her world there came Jesse, a wedding, and now a good life together in Portland. A bunny, a dog, a wonderful old house. . . Sometimes there comes disappointment, but she and Jesse know how to weather a storm with grace and optimism. Who knows what will happen next, but if Sarah is there, it will be exciting and fun!

In a few days Sarah will turn 35. She is still full of energy and fun and talent and intuition and compassion – and a lot more. Sarah, if you happen to read this – I am so happy that you were born!

16,572 Steps

It was the pedometer that started this whole thing. Jennie and I went to REI to get her a handy dandy pedometer like mine, and we left with my little pink Cruiser. Because of the Cruiser, I started this blog, Cruising at 65.

A lot has changed since then. Summer has turned to fall. Two grandchildren and a son-in-law have had birthdays. So have I, actually. The days have gotten shorter. People I love have suffered sad losses. I’ve signed up for Medicare. Pentecost has given way to Advent. RIP pink Cruiser and hello pending surgery.

There’s one thing that’s been constant, though, and that is my little pedometer friend. I carry it everywhere I go, and if I don’t have a pocket, I slip it into the right leg of my stockings. That is not a foolproof way to carry a pedometer. Not if you inadvertently flush it down the toilet at a fancy restaurant overlooking Plymouth Bay. Pedometer II works just like its late twin, so I continued tracking my steps with hardly a pause.

A pedometer is a great encourager. When you’re feeling slothful, its chirpy little voice says, “Let’s take a walk.” When you’re hanging out reading, it interrupts, “We haven’t done anything fun today.” Fun, to a pedometer, means exactly one thing: walking.

The other day it complained, “We only have 5,000 steps so far.” So off I went – to Asilomar with Walt, all along the great boardwalk into Pebble Beach. Later we walked to town. Turns out to have been my best day ever for steps – 16,572. That’s 6.1 miles on these short legs of mine. But the pedometer never rests. Just now it demanded to know, “How many steps today?” Shhhhh. Don’t tell it only 8,725 or it’ll be after me again.

Some people walk their dog. I just walk my pedometer!

For English, Press 1

Lately I have spent an inordinate amount of time in hell – of the automated phone system variety. It started several weeks ago when my Comcast internet service “went down,” as they say, causing me to make repeated calls to an 800 number, all of which resulted in a recorded message stating that Comcast was experiencing “issues” (I kid you not) and suggesting that I would get quicker results by using my internet!

I will skip over the fact that we then had to wait an entire week for a technician to come out, and move on to the other opportunities I had to experience the full array and variety of automated phone systems. Among those I sampled were:

Medicare – trying to sign up for Part B.
Church Pension Fund – trying to get Medicare Supplemental Insurance.
V.A. – to say that $7,711 was probably not the correct amount for Kevin’s May visit.
McClatchy Company – to ask why they notified me that a bank we don’t use will no longer accept direct deposit of a payment we don’t get.

Other technological challenges came when the necessary forms from Church Pension Fund failed to arrive via either FAX or the internet (when it was fixed) and not being able to open the attachments from the Herald for Kevin’s health insurance.

I am not alone in these challenges, I know. Every one faces them. What I am thinking about is my own response to them.

My first reaction is, of course, annoyance. That something isn’t working right and that I have to deal with it.

My second is frustration. That the system doesn’t make much sense to me and that I can’t just get a person to talk to.

My third is the one that I wonder about. Someplace there is a little voice that says (not literally), “You’ll never be able to fix this.” I’m embarrassed to admit it, but it’s true.

I think that is the voice of a very little child, who really can’t take care of very much, not my grown-up 65 year-old voice. But why do I hear it, and what can I do differently? Well, experience tells me I can handle things – many things, complicated and difficult things. Maybe I can piggyback on that, and make a plan for the next time.

I’ll say to myself:
1. I really hate dealing with this kind of detail and I resent that I have to do it.
2. But these kinds of things occur in everybody’s life and need to be dealt with.
3. I have done this successfully in the past, and I will now calmly do what needs to be done.

As I re-read the above, the rebellious part of me objects, but the mature part says, “Yes, that’s what grown-ups do.” I guess anyone who wants to be Cruisin’ at 65 ought to just cruise on through and be grown up.

Getting Ready

My approach to this pending surgery on my head is to trust that the operation will be straightforward and totally successful, and also to leave a few things noted and organized.

For example:

• The flowers in pots around the yard need deep watering at least once a week.
• So does the indoor hibiscus.
• The wax for the kitchen butcher block counter is mostly mineral oil, with a little paraffin melted in.
• The reason I have so many unopened pairs of stockings is that I foolishly signed on with one of those companies that automatically sends you several pairs every few months
• There are some delicious chocolates (thanks, Sarah!) that I’ve hoarded away. Hint: some people think behind the plates is a fine hiding place.

Oh, and incidentally - because I am the one who keeps track of these things:

• My Really Important Papers are in the top drawer, front, of my little file cabinet.
• The cost basis of a house in California is recalculated when one spouse dies, in a way that is of significant tax advantage to the survivor when s/he sells.
• My church pension pays the same amount to Kevin, if he survives me, as it pays to me now.

What else? Just to say that I love the life Kevin and I have made, and I expect to continue living it. I am deeply thankful for my life companions - my friends and siblings. I cherish my children as distinct, gifted individuals and amusing companions, as well as creative and wise resources for the challenges of life. I have the most adorable, interesting, and fun grandchildren anyone could have. And, I thank God for giving me meaningful work that I love.

Okay, I’m done. Time to go outside and enjoy the beauty of this new day! Oh, and water the pots around the yard instead of writing about them.

Sleeping With Ray

Ray spent the night with me last night. Ray Charles, that is. So did Elvis Presley, Enya, the Cowboy Junkies, Mary Chapin Carpenter, and even Lars H.U.G., all the way from Denmark. To name just a few.

With the increasing vibrating and thrumming sensations caused by the growth in my head, it’s been difficult to sleep. I turn this way and that, but still the thrumming continues. I don’t fuss really – I just lie there. It’s boring and uncomfortable after awhile, and it means I’m not at my best in the morning.

I had an inspiration yesterday – the thought that it’s hard to fully experience two kinds of sensory input simultaneously. My theory was that listening to music on my iPod might allow me to focus on the tunes and not on the vibrating. I’d like to report that I slept eight hours non-stop, but I didn’t. I did, however, sleep a lot more than in previous nights. The bonus was that when I was awake, I had the music to sooth and amuse me. I could still feel the thrumming, of course, but I was able to choose the music most of the time.

Thanks Ray and fellow crooners! Tonight once again I will have Georgia on My Mind, and all sorts of other pleasant thoughts.

Easier Said Than Done

I love what I call the Preaching Life. Monday mornings I hurry to my lectionary book, eager to see what the Bible lessons are for the next Sunday. Maybe the seed of an idea sprouts right away, but always, I carry the words around in my head and heart all week, waiting to see what will turn up that fits. Of course, I also pay attention to the historical and theological contexts. But my real question is “How do these lessons relate to the lives of the people who will hear my sermon, and where is God in it all?”

The funny thing is, even though the words I preach are mine, in the middle of saying them, I often realize that I need to pay attention, too. That the things I’m laying out as possibilities for others are possibilities for me, too.

I preached and celebrated Communion at the local Episcopal Senior Community today – Thanksgiving Day. The deacon read these words from the Gospel of Matthew:
Jesus said, "I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing? Look at the birds of the air; they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they? And can any of you by worrying add a single hour to your span of life?

And I said to the people, “Easier said than done, isn’t it?” They laughed. I did, too. Because it’s true. It’s hard not to worry when you are in pain or having trouble breathing. It’s hard not to worry when your beloved has died or is in early stages of Alzheimer’s. When you have something that’s keeping you awake at night, it’s even hard to pray – no matter how good your intentions or how sturdy your faith.

But I also said this morning:

• We can try to set trust in God alongside fear of the unknown.
• We can remind ourselves, as Matthew says, “. . .indeed your heavenly Father knows that you need all these things.”
• We can breathe in God, breathe out doubt.
• We can cling to God’s promises, such as, “Do not fear, for I have redeemed you. I have called you by name; you are mine.”

And, on this Thanksgiving Day, we can thank God for all the sweet blessings of our lives.

Squeaky Wheel

I have always tried to do what I’ve said I’ll do, and I assume other people will, too. But sometimes that doesn’t happen, and then you have to figure out whether to be a squeaky wheel. Maybe that comes easily to some people, but not to me. I guess I feel that it makes me look whiny and demanding. On the other hand, sometimes the thing you want to squeak about is really important, and that’s the spot I’m in now!

Besides telling the people I love that I have a benign tumor (emphasis on benign) that will have to be removed surgically, I have been trying to get the referral I need to actually meet with the brain surgeon. It should be easy, but it has gone this way:

Me: (on Friday to the neurologist’s secretary) “Hi, I met with Dr. X yesterday and he told me you would send on a referral to Dr. Y.”

Secretary: “I think I can do that by Monday.”

Me: I don’t say, “Not til Monday! For pity sake, this is my brain we’re talking about!” I do say, “Thank you. That would be great.”

Secretary: I’ll try.

Me: (on Monday) “Hi, I was wondering if you’ve had a chance to send that referral over to Dr.Y?”

Secretary: “No, I’m looking for your file now.”

Me: I don’t say, “I am going crazy with this tingling and vibrating in my body. What do you mean you’re looking for my file?” I do say, “This is making me very anxious. I know you have other anxious people, but will you please do it today.”

Secretary: “It’s just that I have a big pile, and we are short one person. But I’ll try.”

Me: “Thank you.”

After much agonizing the next morning (six days after I have been told I have to have surgery on my head) I decide that yes, I’ll be a squeaky wheel. I call the secretary again.

Secretary: (proudly) “We faxed that over yesterday.”

Me: (calling Dr. Y’s office now) “Hi, I understand Dr. X’s office has faxed a referral for me to meet with Dr. Y.”

Secretary: “No, we don’t have that yet.”

And so it went. Me offering to hand deliver the file from Dr. X to Dr. Y. Me trying not to come out of my skin, so that they could say, “That crazy woman. You can tell she has a brain tumor!”

I am happy to report that the file finally arrived after three faxings, and I now have an appointment for December 7.

Moral of the story: Sometimes it is really important to squeak!

It's All in My Head

As I've been discovering in the past week, there’s no easy way to say this. The tingling/ vibrating in my legs and lower body, which I had thought came from riding my bike, are actually all in my head. Literally, I’m afraid. There is a growth under my scalp, which the neurologist says is, “On your brain, not in it.”

It’s not what I expected to hear. I’m not the type to have a brain tumor. In-grown toenails, maybe. Varicose veins. But a growth in my head – it’s way too dramatic. It’s also scary and a pretty rough thing to tell your husband, children, and friends.

“Remember the word ‘benign,’” I say bravely, before I say the actual words “growth in my head.” I have to say it over and over, as I have family here, but also in Oregon, Maryland, Massachusetts, Pennsylvania, and even Denmark. Some become very quiet. Some may be crying. Some of them remain hopeful. “There are ways besides going into your skull, aren’t there?” No, I say calmly. I hope I say it calmly.

Some people rush quickly to how lucky I am. I am lucky, since the tumor is 99% likely to be non-cancerous and is not in the deep dark recesses of the organ that allows me to think and move and talk. On the other hand, I don’t feel totally lucky. In fact, I feel a little unlucky.

Life is rarely what you think. I thought I’d be wobbling along the bike path on my pink Cruiser by now, but instead I’m facing another kind of challenge. What I want now is to cruise through even this, acknowledging that it’s hard but not overwhelming. I want to do this with grace and tenderness and love.

Doing Things Properly

My dearest friend’s son is getting married, and the invitation has arrived. I sit staring at the beautiful little reply card, with its fancy M_________________. What am I supposed to write? And how can I can I express my excitement and affection on this tidy little card?

My first awareness of the mysterious world of Doing Things Properly came at the hand of my grandmother when I was seven. I excitedly showed her the neighbor girl’s birthday party invitation, decorated with balloons. She sat me down with a blank sheet of paper. “Write this,” she instructed. “Miss Wendy Louise Salisbury accepts with pleasure your kind invitation. . .” I was mortified, knowing even at seven that my friend’s mother would probably laugh.

My own mother, although she rejected most things her mother had done, was just as strict about Doing Things Properly. She ordered wedding invitations, informals, and birth announcements – properly engraved, mind you! – from Garfinkle’s in Washington, D.C. Even today, non compos mentis as she is, the fog will clear and she will say to me, “You didn’t get proper birth announcements for Sarah!” In the past I tried to say (for all the good it did) that Miss Manners declared what I sent – hand written announcements – are perfectly proper. Now I just take it. I only seethe a little bit.

After my terrible lapse, Mother began to give engraved wedding invitations and birth announcements as her gift to all her grandchildren as they married and procreated. It was the only way she could insure things were done according to her standards. Her granddaughters accepted the baby announcements good-naturedly, although I know of at least two who sent the proper ones to family members and cute ones to their friends.

Wedding invitations posed a problem, however, as Mother declared, “Those dreadful little reply cards are not proper,” and so the brides could not use them. (Need I point out that my mother ruled with an iron hand?)

Sometimes, however, unexpected things happen, and no reply cards meant my daughters received the most amusing and charming collection of RSVPs. By far the sweetest was a note to Jennie from an old family friend of her husband’s, who described in loving detail the happiness she had felt caring for John as a new-born baby 30 years before. My personal favorite was the tiny sticky note that Sarah had to search the envelope to find, adhered to the inside.

So I ask – if a reply card is not really proper, must one still use it properly? Also, is it not possible to be proper and personal simultaneously? May I not find a way to express affection along with my tally of who will attend?

Here is what I will write:
“Mr. and Mrs. Kevin Howe accept with pleasure and love!”

Three Gifts

Friends have a way of making everything right. In the two days ATB (After the Bike), three gifts appeared.

The first was from my pedometer friend, Steve. I had told his wife Nancy about the bike, and that evening they arrived with a an aqua-colored exercise ball, maybe 5' in diameter. "Cathe 3LB" it says on it. It's firm and squishy at the same time - tactilely satisfying. Steve knocked himself out showing me all the fun things you can do with it. I didn't say "But it's not a bike." I said, "How sweet! Thank you for thinking of me!" Then I amused them and myself by balancing it on my head.

The second was a gift of words from Wilda. She listened to my sad story, let me feel my feelings, and fed me chocolate at the end of a delicious birthday lunch. As she dropped me off she said, "I'm glad you don't have the bike anymore. Now you won't get hurt!" Leaving me to ponder if there isn't some place within myself that can hear the wisdom of her words.

The last was from Diana, an old seminary friend who lives in Spokane. The package held two good books, several clippings, and a card. When I called to thank her, she said, "I'm sorry it was late."

"No it wasn't, Diana," I said. "It was right on time." I told her the story of the bike and reminded her of the song lyrics she has ended the card with:

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
It's where the light gets in.

So here I am, standing in the light. Seeing the goodness all around. Remembering that the word possibility is the best one of all. I wonder what's next.

Letting Go

When things veer off course in life, most people do one of two things – they clench their fists and try harder or they open their fists and let go. I was brought up to do the former – to hang on tight and keep going - and I am in good company. Most thrivers and achievers do the same.

On the other hand, when you have given something your best shot and things haven’t worked out, it may be time to just let go with as much grace and good nature as possible.

Sometimes it actually feels good to unclench that fist. Try it right now. Clench your fist and hold it! Squeeze tighter! You can do it! Harder! Harder!

Now let it go. Breathe. Relax your shoulders. Wiggle you head from side to side. Feels good, doesn’t it?

Sometimes I preach about this. Of course, the point is that when your fists are all knotted up and your face is set in one direction, there’s no room for the Holy Spirit to enter in.

The theme fits with Nicodemus who came to see Jesus by night (and then didn’t hear a word Jesus said) and with Peter (who thought he could walk across the water without keeping his gaze on his Master) and in plenty of other stories, too.

Today it fit for me. I really have wanted to ride my lovely little pink bike, and I actually managed to do it several times, and I love the idea of it and the way it feels to move through the air. . . But my doctor has told me that the continued tingling in my feet and legs is a sign (no, he didn’t say it was a sign from God) that it is not a good idea.

He said it nicely, “I do applaud your wanting to get more exercise and try a new thing, but maybe there’s another way to do it.” He let that sink in. “I’d hate to see you do any permanent damage. . .”

Kevin went with me to REI to take my beloved bike back. The clerk and the bike man were awfully kind when I couldn’t keep those tears from welling up in my eyes. I suppose my fists were pretty tight as I walked out of the store, and they have stayed that way all afternoon.

Now I am looking out at the ocean, and after I hit the Publish Post button, I am going to walk outside and gaze at this wonderful world God has made. Then I am going to open both hands and hold up them out to see how God fills them next.

The Odometer of Life

When my odometer rolled over to 569,400 I was somewhere on the road between Massachusetts and Maryland. The "vehicle" was this 65-year-old body. The number is 65x365x24 = hours I've been alive. If one hour = one mile, I'm a sturdy, reliable old engine, and I've had very few breakdowns, if I do say so myself.

A road trip with your husband, sister, and brother-in-law is not a bad way to celebrate a birthday. The miles roll by, with pleasant conversation and pretty views - interspersed with a few traffic jams and crazy drivers. Kind of like life itself.

We spent the night in a motel with a breath-taking view of the rolling hills of Pennsylvania. Dinner was at a chain called something like the Ground Round, and when I asked if they had wine, the waiter said, "Well, we have red, but not white." Odd, we thought.

When he served my cabernet sauvignon, the amount in the glass was a little skimpy. "That's all the cab we have," he said. "When you drink that, I'll bring you something else." Odder, we thought, but the Syrah he brought was just fine. Meanwhile, the others enjoyed their various adult beverages, too.

Kevin handed me the bill to check, and it was way too low. We pointed out to the waiter that he had not charged us for drinks. "Well, we can't because we don't have a liquor license any more. So we just give it away." Oddest, we thought. But kind of a cool birthday present on the road, and the waiter got a really big tip!

* * * * *

As it turned out, my dear family in Maryland decided to make a fuss about my birthday. We gathered at my parents' farm, where everybody sang a clever song about how, "Walkers and handrails and new dental fittings" are now "a few of my favorite things. Thanks, guys! But they also presented me with a beautiful album with photos and sweet notes about who I am in their lives. There was even an hysterically funny video made in Europe by two of my ingenious nephews and one wife. And delicious food, and three kinds of cake baked by my older sister. And presents, too!

As I wrote to some of them later: "Thanks again for everything! Occasionally I open my wonderful album at random and read a little something. When I was telling Erik that it’s a little overwhelming to have so many nice things said about you all at once, he said, 'Sometimes you just have to take it.' So, I am happily ‘taking it.’ I do appreciate your finding good attributes to focus on, and I will try to live up to them. At least more often!!!"

How Way Leads on to Way

In his famous poem The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost pens the lovely and wise phrase, "Yet knowing how way leads on to way. . ."

Well, way has lead on to way for me since I bought my bike. Oh, I thought it would be simple: Buy a bike, then ride it. Turns out there's more to it than that.

As Jennie pointed out that fateful day, if you buy a bike, you need a few other things: a helmet, a safety vest, a bike rack for the car, and - just one more thing - a metal bar that fits on the bike so that the bike can fit on the rack that fits on the car. All those things take mastering! And I am not a thing kind of person.

I can, however, be a determined kind of person. So I have risked broken fingernails and frustration, and not only can I adjust my helmet with that little turny knob and fasten the strap, I also figured out how to get the black bar onto the bike, and glory hallelujah! I can also actually lift the bike and fasten it to the rack. This has taken quite a bit of doing, and I have a sense of satisfaction that I (who always ask my husband to do the hard things) am taking these things on.

But way continues to lead on to way, and I have decided what my tingling feet and legs need before they pedal my adorable pink bike again is to get stronger by riding a stationary bike. So Friday, I ventured to the Monterey Sports Center and with the help of a very patient young man named Sean, I have learned how to adjust all the moving parts on the several models of stationary bikes. Since I don't have the endurance to ride any of the bikes for very long, I ventured onto the treadmill and discovered that I quite like it! Now if you had told me I would ever want to use the machines at the Sports Center, I would have said you were crazy. But I'm quite looking forward to going again tomorrow.

I don't know what will happen next, but this is one surprising and fine adventure! To paraphrase Frost, "Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubt that I shall ever turn back."

Gone, But Not Forgotten!

I was five the first time I accidentally dropped something I loved in the toilet. It was a harmonica, and it fell through the hole in an outhouse. I know - pretty gross! I remember that sinking feeling, watching it disappear. I was crushed when my father refused to retrieve it.

I felt exactly the same way last night, as I watched my beloved pedometer swirl at the bottom of the toilet bowl, and "Wait! Wait! That's my pedometer, and it's about to . . . Oh, no! It just went down the toilet."

My sister Melissa thought it was hysterically funny. We sat on a banquette in the lobby of that fancy seafood place in Plymouth, Massachusetts, and laughed until the hostess gave us the evil eyeball. Then we laughed some more.

Today, I miss my old buddy. I keep reaching in my pocket, and it's not there. How far have I walked? Walt said on Facebook that he walked 40,000 steps yesterday. I have nothing to report.

I also have some existential questions about the steps I took during the two and one-half weeks that pedometer and I were together. What becomes of the steps when the pedometer goes down the toilet? Is it as though they were never taken? Are they gone forever? Were they taken in vain? Or do my steps exist in some alternate universe and someday I will catch up with them again?

These are, unexpectedly, the questions I am pondering on the evening of my 65th birthday, sitting in a motel on the way between Massachusetts and Maryland.

Down, But Not Out!

Each day, I've been riding a little more and with more confidence. But early last week, I noticed that I had a tingling in my feet and hands that seemed to creep up into my legs and arms. No pain or numbness, just the tingling that never went away and was particularly noticeable when I was sitting still or trying to go to sleep. I had no idea what to make of it.

Since Kevin and I are going to Massachusetts and Maryland, I decided I'd better ask the doctor about it. He listened, typed many words into his computer, scratched his head, said, "Hmmmmmm. . ." Finally he looked up. "I think it must be related to riding your bike."

I laughed. I was relieved. Nothing weird or serious.

"Since you're going on a trip, and won't be riding the bike, the tingling should go away."

Trouble is, I've had three perfectly good days and no bike riding. I walk past my pink Cruiser and I pat its seat. "Sorry," I say - more to myself than the bike.

Today it actually called to me, "Wendy! Wendy! Let's go play."

"Sorry," I mumbled again. Later I went back to REI with Kevin and he bought me a Hydration Waistpack for my birthday. It has a nifty water bottle and a little pouch for my keys and stuff. I figure the doctor is right, that I've somehow overdone it and after a break and a trip to the East Coast, I'll get back to riding my bike.

Reasons to Ride the Bike

There's a wonderful bike and walking path along the Monterey Bay, running from our Pacific Grove to Marina. Maybe even farther; I don't know. Several months ago, driving past a lovely tree-shaded and mysterious part of it, I thought, "I'd like to see what it's like in there." I suppose I could have figured out a way to park and take a stroll, but the next thought came: "If I had a bike, I could ride through there." Such a little thought, such a big project.

Reasons to ride a bike:
+ see that part of the trail.
+ find out if I actually can still ride a bike.
+ try something new.

I've had my bike one whole week today. I take it up to Robert H. Down - the elementary school my children attended - and ride around the black top. After school hours, when nobody is around. I feel like such a child. I have to practice starting and stopping over and over. Wobble, wobble. Start. Stop. Try again.

Today I ventured out onto Spruce Avenue, the very street my children walked along to get to and from school. I rode a block. Two blocks. Then back to the safe school yard.

On my third foray along Spruce, it dawned on me that my grandchildren, Peter and Charlotte, are starting first grade and kindergarten on Wednesday. Teachers they don't know. Kids they don't know. For some reason, I thought, "If they can do it, so can I." And I rode my week-old pink bicycle all the way to the end of Spruce Avenue. All the way to the house we lived in, when Jennie and Sarah were little and starting kindergarten and first grade and a whole new life separate from everything they had ever known.

Another reason to ride a bike: to keep solidarity with your grandkids!

Pedometers and Overachievers

I ran into an old friend who was all excited about his new pedometer.

“Try it,” he said and handed it to me. I carried it in my pocket for the rest of the day, and I was hooked. On Buying-the-Bike-Day, Jennie and I first bought pedometers. Our model measures:
Number of steps per day.
Aerobic steps per day.
Calories burned per day.
Miles walked per day.

Jennie immediately turned it into a competition. “No fair,” I whined. “I’m 27 years older than you.”

“I’ll give you a handicap,” she offered. “I have to walk 50% more.”

Done.

And then her brother, Walt (29) arrived and had to have one, too. The competition escalated. That evening we had to walk to Lover’s Point and back after Jennie’s kids were in bed. (What? Oh, okay – that was my nightgown, with a T-shirt under it, but Jennie swore it looked like a summer dress.) I think we all logged over 10,000 steps that day.

Today on Facebook, Walt wrote to Jennie: “Total for Thursday: 16,602 / 7.33 miles. Total for Wednesday: 21,487 / 9.49 miles.”

Jennie countered: 13,150 Thursday. 12,738 Wednesday.

Wonder why they didn’t ask about me. Oh, that’s right – I’m the mom. For the record: 9,424 Thursday. 11,062 Wednesday. Not bad for an old broad who’s also trying to learn to ride a bike!

"It's like riding a bicycle. . ."

I learned to ride a bicycle on a golf course in Kansas. Improbable, but true. My dad took me up a little hill and let the bike roll down with me on it.

"Hold on, Daddy! Hold on!"

"I am," he shouted from the top of the hill, as I rolled down the slope.

At the bottom, I turned around, indignant. "You let go!" I protested.

"And you rode the bike alone, " he said with a grin.

And so I rode that bike in Topeka, Arlington, and Bethesda. Then when I turned 12, I got my heart's desire - a brand new English bike. Which I rode in the countryside of Maryland (rarely) and all around Michigan State (whenever it wasn't snowing). My last bike I used to ride Jennie and Sarah around Pacific Grove all those years ago.

"It's like riding a bicycle. . ." That's what they say about a skill which, once mastered, will stay with you the rest of your life? Well, they are mistaken. My head says it's true, but my body disagrees.

I really thought I could do it - just jump on and go like I did all those years ago. But some things do change. My knees have arthritis. My head has vertigo. The heart is willing, but the body is weak.

Nevertheless, I have a plan. My bike and I are going to look for a big, empty parking lot and we are going to try again.

Cruisin' for a Brusin'

Funny how things rarely go the way you think. Especially when you go shopping with my daughter, Jennifer. She is the (most efficient) mother of three and accustomed to being in charge, so I guess it's no surprise that we went shopping for pedometers for us and came home with a bike for me.

The sequence of events:

Jennifer: Hey, Mom! Now that we're at REI we can look for a bike for you!

Me: A bike for me?

Jennifer: You said maybe you'd rent one to see if you could still ride.

Me: Yeah, but. . .

Jennifer: Look here's the perfect one. (Leads me to a pink step-through curiser.)

Me: I can't just buy a bike without knowing if I can still ride.

Jennifer: (Brightly) They'll let you take a test ride.

So, a hemlet, a day-glo orange vest, and a release form later, we are riding bikes out behind REI, in a huge, smooth surface empty parking lot. On my first attempt, guess what? I fell off. It's a funny feeling to have your head hitting the ground, only to bounce because of the helmet. It's even funnier to have your daughter say (brightly again), "You can do it Mom."

And I did. Shaky. Clumsy. Wobbly. Scared.

But oh! the feeling of freedom and joy when I was actually riding!

Am I bruised? Yes. Did I buy the bike? Yes. And a helmet. And a bike rack. And a day-glo vest.

And what made me decide to do it? Well, Jennie said, "How about calling it a birthday present to yourself?" The tears that sprang to me eyes told me that I at least wanted to try. Try riding a bike again after 35 years at the same time as I qualify for Medicare.

Here I go - cruising at 65!