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Another Year Older

Evelyn Herwitz · April 21, 2015 · 2 Comments

I had a wonderful teacher in the first grade. Her name was Miss Kelly, and she had short, curly dark hair, a wide oval face and a big smile. She also seemed quite tall, although I wasn’t a reliable judge of height at that age. And she created fun class plays.

Crane Beach That year, we performed what would now be described as karaoke. Picture a group of six-year-olds singing and pantomiming on stage to musical hits, circa early Mad Men, and you get the idea. (“How come everyone is laughing?” I remember wondering during our performance.)

I haven’t thought of that first grade play in years, but for the past couple of days, one of our songs arose, unbidden, from the recesses of my gray matter and has been cycling through my head—Sixteen Tons, sung by Tennessee Ernie Ford.

You load sixteen tons, what do you get
Another day older and deeper in debt. . . .

It was my birthday on Saturday. Fortunately, the debt part isn’t what brought the song to mind. But another day older is how I felt, for better or worse.

“Are you excited for your birthday?” Mindi asked me a few days before.

“I don’t know. I guess so,” I replied. After turning 60 last year, 61 seems a bit anti-climactic. And there’s something about adding the 1 to the 60 that tipped the scales toward the “older” side of the equation.

When the day arrived, however, I was in a great mood. Something magical always happens to me on my birthday, a feeling that the day is different, special, blessed. The weather was perfect—70s, sunny, azure sky. Flowers that had been hiding for months suddenly dotted lawns up and down our street. On my walk back from Shabbat services at our synagogue, I noticed violets, always a spring favorite.

That evening, to celebrate my birthday, Al and I drove to a dinner concert in a small town in northern Worcester County, at a restaurant venue that draws class acts from around the country. The show did not disappoint: Michael Allman, son of Gregg, performed amazing R&B and Allman Brothers’ classics with Charles Neville of the Neville Brothers on tenor sax and Jeff Pitchell, an outstanding blues guitarist. I was transported back to my freshman year of college, when Sweet Melissa, Midnight Rider and Whipping Post blasted from stereos in every dorm.

Continuing my birthday weekend the next day, after brunch with friends, we drove an hour-and-a-half to the North Shore, to Crane Beach, beautifully maintained by the Trustees of Reservations, a great conservation organization here in Massachusetts. It was chilly, the water was a deep blue and the air, crisp. But I’d forgotten my hiking shoes in our haste to leave, I should have brought an even warmer coat than the one I had, and the latrines were—well, gross is an understatement.

So I was pretty cranky as we set out on our beach walk. I love the beach in any weather, but I couldn’t appreciate it, at first. After grousing to Al as we walked a ways, I plopped down on the sand while he explored closer to the water (he, of course, was quite comfortable walking barefoot while I was all bundled up and still chilly) and lay back to absorb some sunshine.

The break helped lighten my mood. Soon I was exploring patterns in the rocks and the soft shadows left by footprints in the sand. I took some pictures. Al strolled ahead to inspect what was beyond the next curve in the shoreline. We passed other spring beach-lovers, some in winter jackets and walking shoes, others in shorts and flip-flops. I drew my layers closer to ward off the stiff breeze and kept on walking.

Al noticed a path leading up the side of the dunes, with a boardwalk. At first, I was hesitant to climb, but curiosity got the better of me, so up we went.

Well worth the effort, as the path led to a grassy expanse overlooking the ocean—blue and green and tinged with beige above sandbars—and a nearby island. When we turned around, we realized that this was the view at the bottom of a sweeping lawn that extended from the hilltop Crane Estate, part of the Trustees of Reservations property.

As we hiked back down to the shore, I began to feel a bit tired. The wind was still stiff, and we had to walk into the breeze all the way back. By the time we finally reached the boardwalks leading to the parking lot, I was really dragging. We made a brief stop at an antiques store (overpriced) on our drive through a nearby town, then found a local restaurant a few blocks away for dinner.

Waiting for our meal, I was quite weary. “Are you okay?” Al asked. “I think so,” I said, though I wasn’t really sure. I was worried. Here we had just walked the beach for a few hours, and I was totally spent. We’re planning a trip to Europe this summer, with an aggressive travel itinerary, and all I could think of was—how am I going to keep up with what I want to see and do?

The meal revived me, though I could only drive half the distance home, and had to trade off with Al after we got on the Mass Pike. “I’m feeling my age,” I told him.

It wasn’t until later that night, after I had showered and gotten ready for bed, that a light bulb went off in my head: It’s hard to walk in sand. It takes a lot of extra energy, especially when you’re wearing the wrong shoes. And it was cold out, and it’s even more tiring for me to walk into a chilly headwind. Yes. Indeed.

So I stopped catastrophizing about our trip, at least for now. I do have to pace myself when I’m physically active. That’s the bottom line. But I can do it. I have to believe that.

In our first grade class play, the one other song I remember singing was I Whistle a Happy Tune from The King and I. We each had a partner, and we took turns singing and trying to whistle along to the music. I’m sure we looked adorably hilarious for all the parents in the audience, but I took it all quite seriously, as only a six-year-old can:

Make believe you’re brave
And the trick will take you far
You may be as brave
As you make believe you are . . .

Yes. Indeed.

Evelyn Herwitz blogs weekly about living fully with chronic disease, the inside of baseballs, turtles and frogs, J.S. Bach, the meaning of life and whatever else she happens to be thinking about at livingwithscleroderma.com.

Spring Tide

Evelyn Herwitz · April 14, 2015 · 2 Comments

Passover is over and the endless winter has actually ended, with only a few stubborn patches of snow remaining. On Sunday, with temperatures hovering in the ’60s, Al suggested we go to the beach. “Great idea!” I said.

So we packed a lunch for the drive and set out for the South Shore, to a coastline we had never explored along Buzzard’s Bay. It was nippy by the water, and I needed all the layers I brought in the car, but so wonderful to see the ocean again. There’s nothing like sea air to clear the senses. Summer can’t be too far away.

Please join me on our hike at Nasketucket Bay State Reservation. . . .

Snow Denying

Evelyn Herwitz · February 10, 2015 · 2 Comments

On behalf of all of us up here in Massachusetts, where the snow never ceases, I have decided that it’s spring. After yet another foot-plus of snow here over an extended weekend storm and predictions of even more snow heading our way on Thursday, plus Arctic temperatures, plus maybe one more storm over the weekend, I think we’re entitled to some delusional thinking.

And so, here are pictures from a couple of weekends ago at the Worcester Art Museum‘s annual Flora in Winter display. Wherever you live, whatever outrageous, frustrating, totally-out-of-your-control circumstances are dogging you, I hope these bring a little warm sunshine to you day. Enjoy!

January Blues

Evelyn Herwitz · January 13, 2015 · Leave a Comment

Are we there, yet? I mean, springtime. Not even halfway through January, and I’ve had enough, already. I know, I know. Central Massachusetts is not North Dakota or the Yukon or Siberia. My heartfelt sympathies if you live anywhere nearby. But I really, really hate this.

Last week, the Arctic Vortex, or whatever you want to label evil cold weather patterns, sucked all the warmth out of the air. True, we’d been spoiled by unseasonably balmy weather prior to that. But days in the teens and nights in the single digits are not my idea of a good time.

On Thursday, the worst day of all, I decided to brave the cold, regardless, and spend it as planned in Cambridge. This required some strategizing.

I was taking the train to Boston. But Wednesday evening, I realized that neither I nor Al had cash for my ticket, which I had to buy on the train since there is no active ticket counter at our station. I did not want to have to go to the bank on the way, because it was going to be minus-20F windchill and I was not going to try to manipulate the outdoor ATM from my car or leave my car any more than necessary to enter a building. What to do?

Then I remembered my “T” app on my iPhone. Easy-peasy. All I had to do was purchase the MBTA commuter rail ticket and activate it when I got on the train. Just in case we lost Internet service in the morning due to the extreme cold (like I said, I was in high strategy mode), I made my purchase that night. The app came in handy the next morning, too, when I made sure the train was running on time.

My next challenge came Thursday morning. As I confessed last week, I had damaged both Al’s and my car with a back-up mishap that required a new bumper for my Prius and a repaired door on his Civic. My work was completed Wednesday evening. When I went into our garage, I immediately realized:

a) my car reeked of paint fumes; and
b) I had left my car key in the house because Al had driven it back from the body shop.

This required a scramble with the house key, which I managed to drop on the garage floor and struggled to pick up because, well, I can’t easily pick up flat metal objects. So I had to take off my gloves to pry it from the floor. Which made my fingers numb. I said a few choice words.

Once I finally started the car, I knew I was going to have to drive with the window cracked or risk feeling nauseated by the time I got to the train station. On the coldest day of the year. So I cranked up the heat, opened the back passenger window an inch and set forth.

Fortunately, my Prius has a great heater.

For once, I actually got to the train station with enough time to walk to the train without rushing. Ours is a huge, turn-of-the-20th-century station from the grand era of rail travel, so there was no problem waiting indoors instead of on the platform. And, as it turned out, the train pulled in just as I left my car in the open air garage. So I walked through the garage to the station garbed in two layers of sweaters, a wool shawl, wool pants, leg warmers, my heavy down coat, shearling hat, insulated gloves, poofy hood and a warm scarf to hold it all together. I looked ridiculous, but then again, I’m so used to looking ridiculous in weather that most people don’t consider cold that it didn’t really matter. Plus everyone else was bundled head-to-toe, too.

Fortunately, the heaters on the train worked. We pulled out of the station with the car’s front doors stuck open, but a hardy passenger got up from his seat and closed them, since the conductor was nowhere to be seen. I spent the next hour-and-a-half working on a client project on my laptop, very pleased to be riding and not driving in what proved to be horrible traffic, from what I could see on the Mass Pike Extension as we neared Boston.

The worst part of my trip was the walk from the train platform into South Station, bitter cold. Once inside, it was tolerable on the way to the Red Line. My next excursion outdoors—from the Red Line exit to the inside of a Marriott where I waited for my friend to pick me up—left me a bit queasy from breathing frigid air, even through my scarf, but the feeling passed once I got in the building.

Reversing the trip later in the day, I was glad I hadn’t let the bitter weather get the better of me. I relaxed into my seat on the train, noted the horrible traffic westbound on the Pike Extension with smug satisfaction, then returned to working on my novel for the rest of the ride home. My Prius still smelled like paint fumes, even after airing out in the station garage all day, but the heater kicked in quickly enough so that I could crack the window on the short drive to our house and still stay comfortable.

Best of all? When I pulled into our driveway, it was just barely sunset at a quarter to five. The Ice Man may still cometh, but at least the days are getting longer.

Photo Credit: Sangudo via Compfight cc

Social Graces

Evelyn Herwitz · October 28, 2014 · 2 Comments

Who ever invented the practice of eating at a party while you’re standing up? I enjoy social gatherings with friends and family for special occasions, but I am a klutz when it comes to balancing hors d’oeuvres plate, napkin, utensils, plus a drink, all while milling about in a crowd and chatting.

It’s gotten to the point that I often stick to just a glass of wine or seltzer, and pass on the finger food. I can’t eat without drinking, or I risk problems swallowing. And I can’t manage the plate and the drink with my hands, and still eat, without risk of dropping everything. As for the finger food, with so many bandages, I don’t like eating with my hands, anyway, especially if the food is drippy or the least bit oily.

This is not the most serious problem in the world, certainly. But it is a challenge, and I do feel awkward unless I can find a place to sit and enjoy the nosh, or at least one of those high tables that are designed for standing and eating at a party.

Portable food courses are, I suppose, just another way our casual lifestyle finds expression. Why be constrained by formal seating arrangements when it’s fun to mingle and eat at the same time? When I was younger and my hands worked, this was fine.

But the older I get, and the less nimble my hands become, I really do prefer a sit-down meal. Even party buffets, when you take a plateful of food and find yourself a seat on the couch or a chair, create coordination challenges. Balancing a plate on my lap while trying to manipulate knife and fork, especially if they are made of plastic, is a recipe for a spill. It’s hard enough to grasp the thin plastic utensils, let alone apply enough pressure to cut food with the so-called knife, without sending the food skidding onto my good clothes or the floor.

That said, my solutions for party-eating logistics are as follows:

Don’t load up your plate. Less to cut, less to spill and, of course, less risk of overeating.
Find a quiet corner where you won’t get jostled while you eat. This also addresses a second issue having nothing to do with scleroderma and everything to do with aging—I have increasing difficulty hearing what someone is saying when there is a lot of background noise.
Even better, find a seat in a quiet corner with a table where you can rest your drink while you eat.
Best of all, invite your closest friends at the party to join you in your above-mentioned quiet little corner. That way you can enjoy your food, your drink and a good conversation. If you spill something, your friends won’t care. And they’ll help you clean it up.

Image Credit: Le Sortie de l’opéra en l’an 2000, Albert Robida, c. 1882, Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division, courtesy publicdomainreview.org.

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