Monday, April 30, 2012
Arbor Day
The only affordable way to landscape our two-year-old house, which was built on our old hay field, was to take part in the annual bare-root tree distribution at the county fairgrounds, sponsored by the soil and water conservation district. I ordered maples, Black Hills spruce, chokecherry and plums.
I can't remember the exact date of Arbor Day, but it's in late April. I picked up the plants Friday (April 27,) planted half of them that same day. It rained on Saturday, but I was able to plant the other half yesterday evening (the 29th). By hand, with a garden fork and round-nosed spade, wheelbarrow, garden hose and bucket. Whew.
The human body is an amazing thing. Imagine driving a car or riding a bicycle that is nearly 65 years old. Not possible without replacing a lot of parts. Yet beyond a few tune-ups, I haven't had to replace much of anything yet.
The part of the body most amazing to me is the foot. So frail in appearance compared to the the rest, it is perfectly engineered to faithfully support the rest of the body, in ever-increasing girth, with relatively few complaints. And some people don't believe in a creative Higher Power.
Bob is not as blessed as I. Last summer his back was rebuilt during a nine-hour surgery: titanium rods, pins, fusing and bone implants. He's also had a shoulder rebuilt and a gall bladder removed. Besides the removal of my appendix and the addition of two cardiac stents, my body is still ticking with its original parts. Because Bob is still recovering from his "rebuild" job, the task of landscaping this new house fell to me.
Three weeks ago, my girlfriend Judy (also in her sixties) came out and we dug in landscape timbers (AKA discarded & recycled railroad ties) on the north side of the house, where soil was washing out along the exposed wall of our walkout basement. We also transplanted 22 hosta plants in the new terraces created by the timbers. It took the two of us three hours.
My "Arbor Day" feat took 2 1/2 hours of solo work on both days. Half-way through each day's project, I found myself seeking methods that would save steps so I could spread out my energy. After two or three hours, I literally could do no more; was limping, moaning and not able to think straight. The body was sore. But it was nothing a couple of aspirin and a couple of beers couldn't fix. By the next morning, I was fine--albeit a little stiff. Made me grateful that I've been faithfully visiting a health club three days a week for the past six or seven years.
This morning I rose at first light and watered the newly-planted trees, fixed oatmeal with walnuts and strawberries, and brought them, along with coffee and tea, into the bedroom on a tray, where Bob was just beginning to wake up (yes, I know I spoil him, but he's older than me and worth it.) I'm hoping that tomorrow's predicted rain arrives, in generous amounts, because dragging that hose and bucket around the yard is making me think about other labor-saving ideas--like borrowing a water tank on a trailer.
The body is the temple of the Holy Spirit. We need to take care of it.
Saturday, April 28, 2012
Will you still need me, will you still feed me?
As part of the largest generation in U.S. history, I came of age with the Beach Boys, the Beatles, the Rolling Stones. During the "Summer of Love" (1967), I was living on the West Bank of the University of Minnesota, in an old house on 17th Avenue South, with my roommate Annie and a bunch of other people, one of whom would become my husband mid-way through that same summer. I was attending summer school at the University of Minnesota and working part-time at my father's architectural office in the Wesley Temple Building downtown.
One summer afternoon, our friend Chris Hammelly came into the living room, where several of us were sitting around on a cast-off dark green sofa and armchair. A slab of wood was suspended from a ceiling light fixture by four ropes, serving as a swinging coffee table. On the table were the typical college student's centerpiece of a Chianti bottle with a candle stuck in its neck, and a scattering of miscellaneous clutter. My guitar case and Bob's washtub bass were somewhere in the room. Chris had a copy of the Beatles newest album, Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band.
The album cover, with the Fab Four in neon-colored marching band uniforms, backdropped by an eclectic array of political and cultural celebrities, living and dead, impressed us. But to say that the music blew us away is an understatement. From the first chords, it was more than a pop culture hit; it was a fantasy world that surrounded us, included us, became us--but, more importantly WAS us. This group of British musicians had created something that resonated with our generation, with who we were, what we believed. The only other musician who had hit the same emotional identification with me had been my fellow native Minnesotan, Bob Dylan. He was a poet set to music.The Beatles were, in this Sgt. Pepper incarnation, an Experience.
From Lovely Rita to She's Leaving Home, to Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds, to A Day in the Life, the album was a declaration of British youth that resonated to us across the Atlantic. But the most surprising tune, set in the midst of fantasy and special effects, was a peppy, cheesy tune about the mundane, older years of a typical staid, British married couple, "Will you still need me, Will you still feed me, When I'm 64?"
Bob and I had known each other for a few short months and were about to say our vows at a Presbyterian chapel downtown. This song, like no other on the album, spoke to us, somewhat prophetically, of our future.
Forty-five years later, we are still together, both of us, like that fictional British couple, in our mid-60s. Life hasn't been easy, but it's been good. On our respective 64th birthdays, now past, I sang that song to Bob.
Perhaps in Great Britian, age 64 is a milestone, but in the U.S.A., the year of official transition to elderhood is usually 65, when we qualify for Medicare. It's the age when the powers that be have decided that all citizens, regardless of merit or pre-existing condition, are now entitled to guaranteed, subsidized medical care. In March, like most of my high school graduating class is doing during the year 2012, I made my last premium payment on medical insurance and signed up for Medicare. In my case, it's a Medicare Advantage Plan.
To mark this year of transition to Elderhood, I have decided to start a blog. In it I plan to journal to the next phase of my life. So far, it's been a rather active "retirement. " Time will tell what God has in store for me.
One summer afternoon, our friend Chris Hammelly came into the living room, where several of us were sitting around on a cast-off dark green sofa and armchair. A slab of wood was suspended from a ceiling light fixture by four ropes, serving as a swinging coffee table. On the table were the typical college student's centerpiece of a Chianti bottle with a candle stuck in its neck, and a scattering of miscellaneous clutter. My guitar case and Bob's washtub bass were somewhere in the room. Chris had a copy of the Beatles newest album, Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band.
The album cover, with the Fab Four in neon-colored marching band uniforms, backdropped by an eclectic array of political and cultural celebrities, living and dead, impressed us. But to say that the music blew us away is an understatement. From the first chords, it was more than a pop culture hit; it was a fantasy world that surrounded us, included us, became us--but, more importantly WAS us. This group of British musicians had created something that resonated with our generation, with who we were, what we believed. The only other musician who had hit the same emotional identification with me had been my fellow native Minnesotan, Bob Dylan. He was a poet set to music.The Beatles were, in this Sgt. Pepper incarnation, an Experience.
From Lovely Rita to She's Leaving Home, to Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds, to A Day in the Life, the album was a declaration of British youth that resonated to us across the Atlantic. But the most surprising tune, set in the midst of fantasy and special effects, was a peppy, cheesy tune about the mundane, older years of a typical staid, British married couple, "Will you still need me, Will you still feed me, When I'm 64?"
Bob and I had known each other for a few short months and were about to say our vows at a Presbyterian chapel downtown. This song, like no other on the album, spoke to us, somewhat prophetically, of our future.
Forty-five years later, we are still together, both of us, like that fictional British couple, in our mid-60s. Life hasn't been easy, but it's been good. On our respective 64th birthdays, now past, I sang that song to Bob.
Perhaps in Great Britian, age 64 is a milestone, but in the U.S.A., the year of official transition to elderhood is usually 65, when we qualify for Medicare. It's the age when the powers that be have decided that all citizens, regardless of merit or pre-existing condition, are now entitled to guaranteed, subsidized medical care. In March, like most of my high school graduating class is doing during the year 2012, I made my last premium payment on medical insurance and signed up for Medicare. In my case, it's a Medicare Advantage Plan.
To mark this year of transition to Elderhood, I have decided to start a blog. In it I plan to journal to the next phase of my life. So far, it's been a rather active "retirement. " Time will tell what God has in store for me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)