Carole's Words

Glum Today

Today, I am feeling glum, and along with it, guilty, because I don’t want to feel glum, plus I don’t think I should be feeling glum. I want to be cheerful or at least have some motivation for something good. I understand why I’m feeling this way. I’m only going to be driving for another few days, then giving up driving forever. It’s my choice and it’s clear to me that it’s the right decision. Nevertheless, it’s sad to be at this point in my life when I’m doing some things for the very last time.

We celebrate a baby’s first steps, the first day of school, the new driver’s license, and more. What about the last of any actions? Mostly, we’re not really aware of it. I could be thinking of this as good fortune, that I recognize this in terms of being the last time I’ll take this action. I actually have so much to be excited about, especially that the person buying my car is someone I love dearly, another Quaker with whom i share mutual admiration.

I’ve also had the pleasure of learning and beginning use of ride-share apps, including Lyft and Uber, plus Salem Skipper and CATA for local rides. I feel excitement about these new ‘utilities’ in my life and am aware of the privilege of my accessibility to them. No, it’s not the same as hopping into my own car whenever I want, with minimal planning. It’s ironic that, as I feel the beginning diminishment of my mental capacity to take in multiple threads of information, then braid them together quickly, that I must add this new challenge of planning my transportation in advance, allowing extra time for pick-up, plus identifying exact locations for both pick-up and drop-off.

It’s not quite the same excitement as planning an overseas trip to Egypt or Bali, though it has a few similar features, in the details.

This is, indeed, the last car that I will ever own and sell. I thought that my previous car might be my last. It was also a Mini Cooper. Then, when my friend, Denny, alerted me that Mini was offering an electric version, I immediately ordered one! It was exciting to experience the learning curve of driving electric, though sometimes not a happy experience for Paul, who really disliked stopping to recharge on lengthy trips. It usually seemed like an adventure to me.

I’m remembering once, in the Brattleboro, Vermont area, when we found a charging station downtown, that we put to good use while we meandered through the quaint area and stopped for lunch. It was a delight!

So, now I’m not feeling so sorry for myself. It’s funny how remembering past delights, even while being conscious that they will never happen in my life again, can be uplifting. This time of recognizing a ‘last time,’ can also be a time of honoring.

What am I honoring? I’m honoring the many times I’ve gotten into my car, picked up another, driven to a friend’s house, to the beach, out for a bagel or lunch, a grocery store or a protest, gone to a conference, a retreat, or someplace for vacation, even if only for a few days, met my son for lunch, or gone for a foliage trip through New Hampshire. Every one of those times was a gift, maybe not wrapped, but fully enjoyed and appreciated. I honor every one of those excursions and I honor myself for recognizing that that was then and this is now.

So, the river of time is moving me with it, onwards. I will be ready for whatever is ahead and, for now, I am no longer glum.

Old Lady on an Electric Bicycle

First, about the ‘old lady.’ I AM an old lady, 77 years old, if observed through anyone else’s eyes, other than my own. For myself, I don’t usually feel like an old lady, but to the younger person alive inside of me, I am now an old lady. Sometimes, I feel every year of me. During the past two weeks, these conflicting images within me have collided repeatedly, as I wonder what’s still in me.

Trigger warning: my first experiences with my electric bike may make a reader re-live a scary experience or cause someone to never attempt to ride.

Two weeks ago, I bought an electric bicycle, in anticipation of my end of driving. (See my recent blog article for a description of that.) I used to love riding my bike as a youngster, a teenager, and even as an adult. In fact, the start of this blog was remembering an unusual bicycle ride in Vancouver in 2007, when an eagle flew beside me. That was probably the last time I rode a bicycle. It is often said that you never forget, but, in my experience, riding an electric bike requires more than a re-learning; it actually requires a new learning.

Before I bought the Trek Verve 2, I rode it on the rail trail, next door to the bike shop. It felt a little shaky, not the bike, but me on it. But, I had faith that I would master it, so plunked down my money, well, my credit card, and carted it home on my husband’s truck. With it, I also bought an excellent helmet, a locking strap, and fabulous-looking baskets for the back bumper.

I conscientiously put my cell in one of the baskets, turned the key to start my new bike, then took my first ride to my brother’s house, only a half mile away. David’s reaction was unexpected, as he cautioned me about all the drivers who would create danger for me. I assured him that my plan was not for distance riding, but only local errands. Still, I heard him and his message.

My next rides were in the nearby central cemetery, with its gentle hills and roads without traffic. My challenges were these: mastering the multiple speeds (10?) with my right hand, multiple electric speed forces (5?) with my left hand, the brakes with both hands, and finally, stopping and getting off the bike. Additionally, steering at the start of the ride felt like a challenge.

By my third ride, I had decided to leave the ‘regular’ speed in third gear, to allow me to experiment with the electric forces. These aren’t numbered, but are named: Eco, Turbo, Tour, with Eco being the slightest support force. This worked well for me, allowing me to shift to stronger force when riding uphill, then lower when riding downhill. Later, I’ll figure out the regular gears and how to use them. I have been extremely conservative with my speed, finding about 8 mph to be the fastest comfortable speed. On the few occasions that I have been traveling 12 mph, I felt like I was flying and quickly slowed down.

On these first rides, I only stopped when I was back at my house again. It doesn’t seem as if it should be a big deal, but it was a bit of a challenge to stop the bike and get off smoothly. Fifteen minutes rides were tiring. I’ll continue riding in the cemetery until I feel ‘ready’ for the real roads. Then, I’ll ride to the senior center, downtown, or to the train station. Not yet, though.

One of the delights has been passing walking neighbors who shouted hellos, as I glided past. Then yesterday, my 7-year-old neighbor, Ryland, came over on his bike and asked if I wanted to ride with him. I declined, telling him that I needed to practice more before I’d be comfortable riding with someone else. Nevertheless, his invitation made my day!

Kindnesses: Small and Deep

I have been the recipient of many kindnesses this week, both small and deep. Small because, in one sense, they didn’t require much on the part of the giver, other than their own innate sense of generosity and their immediate consciousness of my need. Deep, because of the effect on me of each kindness, reaching me deeply, probably far more than any of the givers could imagine.

The cause of this need was my decision to stop driving, described recently. My husband was the first person with whom I shared this news. Because he knew immediately that it would place a burden on him, he had the biggest reason to attempt to dissuade me, but he didn’t. He simply listened without trying to change my mind, comforted me, and assured me that he’d support me by driving me whenever feasible. He also acknowledged that it would be an immense change and that there would be some things I would no longer do, especially my activism work. Similarly with my son, he assured me that he was completely willing to visit me for lunch regularly, to replace us meeting somewhere near his job.

The next people with whom I shared my news was the Death Cafe, a monthly gathering of a dozen folks who meet for an open discussion of death, dying, grieving, and related topics. We are not close friends, but the meeting topics invite an unexpectedly quick openness. It happened that among this month’s suggested conversation topics was ‘change.’ I hadn’t planned to disclose my recent decision, but I did. The immediate responses affected me deeply, including: “I admire you” and “I’m impressed.”

The next group with whom I shared my news was a writers’ group, whose reactions were similar to the death group. In addition, some of them wept as well, letting me know they shared how deeply this was affecting me. The icing on the cake was when one shared something she had recently read, that started: “In case nobody has told you — I am proud of you for leaning into the unknown . . .” Thank you, Emily!

Next, I began to visit bicycle shops, in search of an electric bike. The second one I went to, https://www.beverlybikes.com, had someone who was an incredible example of kindness — he recommended another shop that specializes in electric bikes, https://www.western-cycle.com. There, I found knowledgeable staff and a well-stocked supply, that I could test on the rail trail, right next door.

The next kindnesses were from three women with experience on electric bikes: Judith, Diane, and Andrea. They provided great information about particular brands that they or friends actually rode, giving me the confidence I needed to make this major purchase. After my new bike was home, my bike-riding neighbor, Mary, helped me with decisions about seat height and pedaling choices, all of it supportive and tremendously helpful.

Other kindnesses that I have just experienced have been offers of occasional rides from a few friends, including Sandra and Reverend Joe. From the bottom of my heart, thank you. ♥️

If I had thought about it, I might have expected sympathy as a response to my decision. To instead receive compassionate support and even admiration has touched me deeply. Thank you for all these small and deep kindnesses

After my new bike was home, my bike-riding neighbor, Mary, helped me with decisions about seat height and pedaling choices, all of it supportive and tremendously helpful.

Self-Centered

It’s been about three years since I started this blog, which has been entirely self-centered. Centered on me, my feelings, my actions, my delights, and my adventures. So be it.

Today’s entry is emphatically that, self-centered. My focus is entirely on me today, especially on one particular circumstance. In five weeks, I will no longer drive. I’m not going to give up my license, in case I need to drive my husband in an emergency situation, but, I’m going to sell my car and no longer drive myself to the myriad of events I currently attend. Why? During the past year, I have had two small automobile accidents, fender crunches. I’ve just learned from my insurance company that to continue my insurance will cost about $7000 per year. I am able to pay that premium, though not fond of the idea; however, I take this as an indicator that it’s time for me to stop driving.

I have been aware of a change in my attention while driving. And also, because of a recent and excellent AARP-sponsored driving class for seniors, I am aware of the sharp increase in fatalities as drivers age from their seventies to eighties. I am 77 years old. I don’t like it, but I think it’s my turn to stop driving.

I am not taking this change lightly, but knowingly, recognizing the dramatic change it will make in my life. How can I plan for it? Here are my thoughts on the subject right now, subject to change as the reality sets in. First, I will avail myself of the ‘other driver’ options available to me, such as Uber, Lyft, Beverly’s Council on Aging, and the Salem Skipper, now available in Beverly. The commuter rail will work for some occasions, as it does now. Fortunately, my husband is supportive, as usual, and can be counted on as a chauffeur, not for all of my desires, but certainly for my needs.

I may begin to have my medications delivered, rather than pick them up, as I do now. As I’m a heavy user of the Beverly Public Library, I’m likely to get to know the Bookmobile, remembering how much my mother appreciated it in her later years. My son has offered to visit regularly and take me to lunch, replacing our meeting in various places. And, some friends have already offered to pick me up occasionally. (Thank you, Sandra, Jenn, and Sasha!)

I will sell my pampered car, an electric 2021 Mini Cooper, British racing green with 40,000 miles and a range of 100-120 miles at the end of August. In its place, I am in the market for an electric bicycle. If you have any recommendations, based on your personal experience, please let me know. (Thank you, Diane!)

What am I giving up? On one level, it’s about my personal freedom, my ability to run out to the grocery store or for a bagel, just because I feel like it, or a manicure, or respond to a call from a friend. On another level, it’s the ease of attending many community service meetings: these include the Human Rights Committee, city council meetings, book discussion groups, the local and New England Quaker gatherings that I cherish, and, of course, the climate and social justice protests. As I write it down, it all feels so logical and not-a-big-deal, but it feels as if I’m about to give up a leg or an arm, some essential part of myself.

In my heart, I know it’s about increased awareness of my personal diminishment, my movement to my end, an entirely natural path. I’m not the first. It’s not entirely a surprise, yet, still, it feels like a shock.

Summer: Always the Same, Always Changing

I love summer, for so many reasons. Getting dressed in the summer means shorts, a tee shirt, and sandals – so quick, so simple. I love the Farmers’ Markets, with the fresh fruit and vegetables, especially the corn, plus the freshly baked biscuits and scones. Having grown up by the beach, every sunny day was spent at the beach, often with snack breaks of ice cream or fried clams, two of the most perfect foods.

When I moved to central Pennsylvania in my mid-twenties, I was surprised when there were no beaches nearby, surprised to learn that some people went to a river to swim or boat. That never seemed right to me. Maybe that’s part of the reason that I moved back to this coast.

A month ago, when beach season began here, my husband and I put the beach chairs in the back of his truck and headed to the beach with my beach bag, loaded with my towel, a beach hat, sun screen, a change purse, and my water bottle. Not a single use, bought water bottle, but my glass, reusable one. As a climate activist, I can’t look at a single use plastic bottle without imagining it as trash in the middle of the ocean, where, in fact, it’s likely to end up, despite our best intentions.

When we arrived at the beach, to ‘our’ usual spot, we joined the half dozen others who we hadn’t seen since the end of last summer. All equally happy to be resuming our seasonal ritual, we exchanged greetings as we settled into our chairs, asking about the past winter and who had already gone into the water. Because in May, the ocean temperature was only in the 60’s, most of our group had only dipped their feet. Paul was the only one who had been swimming almost daily, short swims, but satisfying to him. I’d been to the beach with him often, to walk along the shore, waiting while he took a quick dip before resuming our walk.

Being barefoot in the sand, walking while avoiding the seashells — that’s my favorite way to walk. Although I grew up on the coast more than seventy years ago, it’s only been the last couple of years that the seashells I see have changed. That’s in response to the warming ocean temperature, an explicit reminder of the reality of climate change. I am reminded of human beings’ having a temperature. Even a sustained two-degree increase in our body’s temperature is an indication of illness and a serious warning. Our ocean’s increase is a similar warning. Some of its creatures cannot endure the warming temperatures.

In May, the beach snack shop was not yet open. This week, to my delight, the shop is open and I order one of my favorites, watermelon slush. There is nothing better than slurping watermelon slush on a hot day at the beach, after a walk, barefoot in the sand, with an occasional ocean splash.

I recognize the privilege of having this beach – and others – available to me on a hot day, with the option of sitting in the shade of the beach house. It was also a privilege when I was working, hoping for a sunny weekend. Now, retired, I can pick ANY sunny day for this treat, not just a Saturday or a Sunday. That is truly an additional privilege.

This first week of summer, when most of it stretches ahead of me, is the best! Life feels full and truly a blessing, feeling unending. Of course, it will end, both this summer and my life, at some point, but today, I will simply enjoy and appreciate.

A Picture from the Past

The assignment is based on using a picture from the past and telling its story. Implied was the idea that it was perhaps a picture with someone no longer with us. I began by thinking about my grandmother, who I adored, how my appreciation for her increased after her death. Then, I remembered this picture, taken about thirty years ago, of Paul and me, still sitting in my living room.

It’s special to me, in part because Paul (still) doesn’t like to dance, but he danced with me that evening. When I look at this picture, I can feel the love between us. The circumstances were special, too. I had been recently promoted to manager at Price Waterhouse and this was the first partner-manager dinner-dance meeting in which I was included, at the elegant Four Seasons hotel. I had reached a new echelon, which I had never anticipated. After all, I came from a family without college degrees, I had not started college until I was thirty, and I was in a “man’s” field, technology.

So, for this evening, I had chosen my clothing very carefully. That special velvet jacket was expensive and still hangs in my closet, long out-dated, but I haven’t been able to part with it. Paul was handsomely dressed, with more hair on his head than now, feeling proud of me.

During the dinner part of the festivities, some of the partners, highly skilled at oral communications, worked at conversation with Paul. They, used to talking with business owners and entrepreneurs, were at a loss for words after learning that Paul’s work was as a carpenter and builder. I liked these partners and it was apparent to me, too, that they had little prior experience conversing with a carpenter. It was not a comfortable situation for Paul, despite his high intelligence and extensive reading background.

Recently, at an Irish celebration that included dance, with a little coaxing, Paul danced with me again. Someone snapped this picture, so much like the first, yet so different.

Our clothing is certainly more casual. If I had known that there were any chance of pictures, I would have dressed quite differently. Even so, it would not have been like that first picture. I was not trying to impress anyone, not trying to live up to or surpass others’ expectations. Despite the overly casual clothing, the love between us is the same, maybe even deeper. After all, Paul doesn’t like to dance, even this waltz, but he did anyway, because of his love for me. And, we continue to look deeply at each other.

Local Travel — To a Grocery Store

With the right attitude and timing, even a trip to the grocery store can feel like an adventure. The essential ingredients for that adventure came together for me on Monday. The key ingredients were these three: the expectation of a winter storm, which would confine me to home for a couple of days; time enough to leisurely peruse the market; and the ‘feeling’ that there was nothing to eat in the house. Now, as it turned out, the storm did not materialize where I live and, of course, there was plenty of food in my house. Those ‘facts’ did not prevent me from having an adventure.

After my water aerobics class at the Y, instead of returning home, I headed for Wegman’s grocery store in Burlington. Although it’s about twenty miles away, they have free electric vehicle chargers, so I welcome the opportunity to shop there. The store was packed, as was the parking lot, with the EV charger spaces in use, so I parked in a regular spot.

I grabbed a couple of reusable bags from my trunk and entered Wegman’s. My first stop was at the self-service coffee stand, where I made my own cappuccino, flavored with hazelnut, then sat in the cafe-style area to enjoy it. A young woman entered with her two or three-year-old son, who asked her for the rooster. A nearby staff person jumped up and tapped the overhanging balcony, which was evidently the on-button and, lo and behold, the Wegman’s rooster crowed! I had heard this occasionally before when shopping. Now, how much can it matter that a store has an authentic-sounding rooster? To that little boy, it mattered a lot! And, to each of us in that corner, his delight was contagious. And, I hadn’t ever begun to shop!

After enjoying my cappuccino, my shopping began. Next stop, the bakery area, where I chose multiple goodies for our household, including dark chocolate-dipped macaroons and a no-sugar-added blueberry pie, my husband’s favorite. In the flower isle, I picked a small orchid plant for my friend-since-seventh-grade, Karen.

Karen and me at fifteen, with her grandfather

Then, perhaps my favorite part of the store, cheeses and extras, such as the chocolate-dusted almonds and the marcona almonds, that I love for snacking. Soon I was in that part of the store where a model train runs above, chugging along with the whistle blowing. Is this a necessity for a grocery store? No, but the sight and sound of it always make me smile.

As I neared completion of my shopping, I realized that I needed crackers to go with the havarti cheese I had chosen. The store is enormous and I don’t go down every isle, so I asked someone stocking shelves where to find the crackers. She looked up for a minute, mentally scanning the isles, then responded with “isle 12b,” as she pointed me to the right direction. I am always astounded that evidently every person working there has somehow learned where everything is. Some time, I want to ask them what trick they use to remember all of that. Also, that I really appreciate their use of this skill.

The checkout lines were all long, but I chose one of them. After standing there a minute, a staff person approached me and invited me to move to a newly opened line, where I would be next! I thanked him and began to move my items to the moving counter. When I displayed my empty coffee cup, I mentioned that I needed to pay for two, because the last time I had been there, I had forgotten to mention it. The staff person thanked my for my honesty and continued to check me out.

On my way home, I stopped by Karen’s to deliver her orchid. This weekday excursion had felt as delightful as a morning in Paris! Well, maybe that’s a bit of exaggeration, but not much. What makes any trip an adventure? It’s our openness to the details of what and who is around us. Not everything was perfect — the free EV charger had not been available, my cupboard at home was not bare, and the promised storm did not happen. Nevertheless, my trip had been delightful and I’d felt like I had an adventure.

The Other Side

I have been so immersed in the dark side of life, the wars, the killing, the climate, that it feel necessary to attend to the other side. As I write that, I suspect that more of my writing has been positive than what I have actually felt and expressed verbally to friends. So, this may not seem so different than what I often write, but it’s what my soul needs right now.

My attention goes either to the world, with war and climate disasters, or to the personal. It feels impossible to capture these extremes in the same thought or paragraph or idea. So, for now, here is the personal, some personal joys or glimmers, as I have described before.

What if, right now, you could create the life you want, no restrictions? What would it look like? I’m thinking of Prince William with his cancer-stricken dad, wondering what it’s like for him, perhaps anticipating being king, with the power that implies. Of course, I’m using a childhood image, where being king or queen or prince or princess seemed magical, all good. It certainly no longer appears that way to me.

The magic is in moments, not in a position of power. For example, this morning, sitting in my favorite warm nightgown on my most comfortable chair, doing New York Times puzzles, Paul asked if I would like a cappuccino. I know, I’ve told this before, but the pleasure of it does not diminish for me. Is the pleasure greater that he offers or that he actually delivers? Each is exquisite.

Then, while I am sipping it, my mind returns to yesterday, when I met a friend, Sarah, for high tea at Jolie’s. We only live four miles apart, yet see each other seldom, about once every two months, the following meeting planned each time we meet. The pleasure of being with her is high for several reasons, as happens with dear friends. Simply experiencing high tea is such a delight, on its own, whoever I might be with. But being with Sarah, a friend with whom I share values and some history, the pleasure happens in my heart. As we exchange our recent lives’ challenges and mutual guidance, we are each enriched, not in the way white bread is enriched, artificially, but fully and spiritually.

A different, though similar experience occurred recently when a new group of eight, gathered by an acquaintance, not yet a dear friend, met for unplanned communication. The only commitment we had made was to meet biweekly, as we were able, and to share the airspace. This was, for me, an occasion for multiple “joylets,” tiny joys. As each person spoke, describing something current in their life, I experienced a joylet in response, as something about them resonated in me. Different for each person, but for me, a clear message about the many joys that envelope me, for so little effort on my part.

One more example is my Wednesday evening zoom, an online bible study with half a dozen people who I know primarily through this zoom call. How is it that these folks have become so dear to me during these two years that we have met? We are different from each other, not sharing the same faith, yet holding a similar caring for the world and its people. Our gathering is serious in nature, yet we laugh a lot. We discuss the sacred and honor the sacred in each other.

Climate Protesting Friends, Remembering Joy

Maybe I began with the pleasure of cappuccino, but what keeps repeating is the joy of being with other human beings, of the people who share this world with me. Do I think that I have the most special people as my friends? Yes and no. Yes, I think these friends are special. However, I think I recognize this only because I’ve invested some time and energy into each one. I believe we are surrounded by people with a divine spark within them — there is no other kind.

Response to Callard

Agnes Collard’s June 24, 2023 article in the New Yorker, The Case Against Travel, ignited a desire for an immediate response from me, even before I read it. Then, after reading it, my passion was tempered. In fact, I believe that Agnes and I are essentially in full agreement. Allow me to elaborate.

Her title could be more accurately titled, The Case Against xxx Travel, where ‘xxx’ is a specific adjective, possibly voyeuristic. My book-in-process proposes that travel (including the decision to travel) is a potential change agent and one worth pursuing. Agnes considers change and who or what is changed by travel. Unfortunately, too often, Agnes and I agree that the destination is changed, far more often than the traveler. Agnes, in fact, refers to “inflicting change on others.”

When considering the thrust of my book-in-process, I have consciously avoided criticism of what I will now label common travel, which Agnes describes and denigrates. She is clear about excluding from her target travel for the purpose of learning or benevolence. I am not so brave. She has beautifully and very clearly described her scorn for travel done merely for the purpose of seeing some place different or for collection of souvenirs. I am reminded of a message seen in national parks, essentially, “Leave this place exactly as you found it.” In other words, don’t leave your trash or your excrement or graffiti or anything else. I am reminded of my 2006 trip to a Kenyan orphanage, when we were urged to deliver with us useful supplies, such as pencils and books, excluding things like magic markers, so often used here in the U.S. The reason? Perhaps fun and attractive to use, they have a relatively short useful life, and then, would remain in a pile of plastic discards forever. This is because, in Kenya, there is not the illusion of recycling. More can be said about this, but not from me, not now.

Back to Agnes’ excellent article. She has bravely described common travel as leaving the traveler unchanged, when purported to be done with the intention of change. Her description of tourists seeking an authentic experience and being repeatedly disappointed when not finding experiences that match their expected images or, conversely, when being delighted when they find a close match, comes close to my perspective. Agnes does not touch on the single area that I believe makes a difference in the travel experience, that makes it transformative. The closest I can come to it is ‘spiritual attitude.’ That requires another article to describe. Briefly, it is an openness, a personal risking, that can be a part of travel, but is not a requirement. Its absence may be the difference between what gets changed by travel: the traveler or place visited.

A Change

I’ve just made a change to this three-year-old blog. It’s now on Jetpack, immigrated from WordPress, though I don’t think you need to do anything different to continue receiving my posts. A significant change is that now, you can search for some keywords when you’re in the site. For example, you can look for ‘travel” or ‘protest,’ in order to see only those posts related to that activity.

I’m astounded that I’ve been writing these essays for three years now! And, I’ll admit, proud of myself, too. So, if you’re considering to begin something that feels like a stretch, go for it!

With love to you, to each of my readers, who, by your kind words and encouragement, has made this possible.