The longest autumn

This autumn has been the best birthday present of my life. Walking home from the library in late September, I said to Jim, I think this is my favorite part of fall, the bright reds and oranges in the tree crowns above the dark green. He replied, you say that every year, as if you are just discovering it.

What I actually discovered lately, was that raspberry canes shouldn’t be cut down until early winter. Research conducted at Cornell University found that the dying canes continue to send carbohydrates to the crown and roots well into winter. I found it fascinating to learn that the canes were still nourishing the roots so late in the year. The raspberry leaves don’t lose their green color because they are still working.

My favorite part of autumn lingered for weeks this year. The ‘peak’ foliage, when most of the leaves have changed from green to red, yellow, and orange, happened near the end of October, two or three weeks later than usual.

The week before Thanksgiving there were still tenacious leaves scattered among the bare limbs: amber, wheat, butterscotch, bronze, cinnamon, and ginger. They remind me of making my famous Conference ginger snaps: ground ginger, cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves scattered on top of the flour.

Even today, the last of November, the tawny remnants of leaves are seen amidst the trees.

Marilyn Foley Jodoin

Last night Marilyn Foley Jodoin died. I was privileged to be her friend for nearly thirty years.

 

Before the local church boundaries changed a dozen years ago, Marilyn and I were in the Arlington Ward together. A few years before my mighty cross-country trip, I was the president of the children’s organization (Primary) and she was my counselor. She was always high energy and enthusiastic. She loved the children.

 

For a summertime activity, Marilyn organized a water fun afternoon for our Primary. A contractor-friend of hers lent us two (40-50 feet, maybe?) pieces of clear plastic sheeting to erect a giant slip-and-slide outside of the chapel. We laid them on a long, grassy hill and installed garden hoses at the top. Then we all lined up and slid down, over and over again. The day was warm and sunny. Of all the kids there, Marilyn enjoyed it most. She had a blast.

 

Marilyn had many hard things in her life, but she chose the joy.

 

How can I express my sorrow to her husband and her children and her grandchildren? Her daughter’s posts have been loved and commented on by hundreds. As many have said, Christmas just won’t be the same without Marilyn’s low husky voice singing, "Mary Did You Know?" while strumming her guitar. 

A year of Nerd Fitness

 This month I turned 65. It hit me like a ton of bricks, to use a cliché (which I’ve been informed GREAT writers never do.)

I’ve always laughed at birthday numbers. I’ve proudly announced my age: 40, 50, 55. But 65 has thrown me for a loop. (Oops, another cliché. Must be losing my stuff.)

Growing up in America, age 65 has been the official commencement of old age since July 30, 1965, when President Johnson signed Medicare into law. I was eight years old. A presidential signature. 65? You’re old.

I subconsciously put it off. I didn’t sign up for Medicare until 12 days before I turned 65. I had vaguely heard the advice to sign up three months in advance of my birthday, but I didn’t do it. I don’t recommend the ‘head-in-sand’ approach. (Another cliché)

It all worked out. I’m officially on Medicare and working on understanding what that means.

I’m also working on overcoming my dismay at being officially old.

Please don’t comment with ‘you’re as young as you feel,’ or any such pep talk. Let me wallow in my self-pity for a post.

A year ago, on December 1^st, I joined Nerd Fitness' one-on-one coaching. My first coach resigned (I’m not taking it personally: she bought a farm with her husband and was expecting a baby) and Coach Sarah and I have been working together since February. She’s a weightlifter in Ohio and has a pet duck.

Lately I’ve been skipping workouts, feeling old and worn out. Writing this, I’m suddenly reminded of the night before Peter was born (our second child). It had been lightly snowing and I was in very early labor all day. Since our doctor was in Indianapolis, an hour north of Columbus, Indiana, where we lived, we decided to drop Rachel (now R’el) off at our friend’s house for an overnight while we went to a Red Roof Inn in Indianapolis. Our kids can explain to you what a big deal that must have been. I won’t regale you with the whole story, but after a whole movie in a theater (Tootsie with Dustin Hoffman) sans contractions, I was awakened in the Inn at 3:30 a.m. with powerful ones. I told Jim I didn’t think I could handle this and he gave me a firm coach-to-pregnant-woman-in-labor lecture: basically, buck up. (Well, what else could he offer?) That helped, a lot. He was a fantastic childbirth coach for each of our six births. I’m grateful he was there by my side, helping me through contractions, one at a time.

Fast-forward 38 years: yet again I’ve got to buck up. I’ve now spent enough time whining about being old. I was appalled the other day when my nearly-four-year-old granddaughter said, as she took off running, I’m faster than you! It was true.

I can only go forward. Hopefully I can maintain strength, maybe improve a bit. It is a big challenge. Back to those Romanian Deadlifts.

Not much of a housekeeper

 My ambition is to publish a memoir on my experience with manic depression (a.k.a. bipolar disorder). I’ve read over a dozen mental illness memoirs. I’ve realized that each memoir is written exclusively in the first person. While that is an important part of the narrative, for me it is imperative to hear from other voices, loved ones who watched from a vantage of sanity. When I’m manic and psychotic I am convinced that I am thinking clearly, more clearly than ever in my life. More clearly than anyone in the world. Only when I recover do I realize how distorted my thinking was, to put it mildly.

So, I have hired a skilled interviewer to talk to those close to me, they who have seen me in my mood swings. I’m in the process of watching these recordings and transcribing them. I will incorporate their insights into my memoir.

One of my brothers said, “She’s not much of a housekeeper.” This took me aback (be careful what you ask for). I’ve pondered his statement many times. It stings, but he’s absolutely right.

Of course, “not much of” is a pretty loose term. I’ve been in houses with more clutter than I can imagine accumulating. But the comment is a fair assessment.

It reminds me of a slumber party my mom threw for me when I was in fifth grade. I bought fancy pajamas with a matching sleeping cap and cloth boots from the Sears catalog and invited a few girlfriends to sleep in our living room. Dark-haired Rosemary, who was very proud of her Italian heritage, complained that her mother scrubbed the kitchen floor every week on her hands and knees. I laughed and said my mom hardly ever mopped the floor and never got down on her hands and knees.

After the party I told my mom about our conversation. She was mortified that I would admit such a thing to anyone, but especially to a girl with a mother of such habits. At the time, I wondered what the fuss was about. It never occurred to me that the floor was excessively dirty. Now I sympathize with my mom.

As may be typical of manic depression, my housekeeping reflects my moods. When I’m in an elevated mood, the house nearly vibrates with clean. Jim can sense it as he enters the house. Other times it’s much too much effort to keep up. Dishes pile up; the floor doesn't get swept much less mopped or scrubbed.

I’m grateful for my brother’s honest comment. It’s so easy to maintain a fantasy self-image. It’s good to look in the mirror and really see what's there. What everybody else sees in an instant.