The Rag Man of the 40's

I was very young, when memories are soft around the edges, and impressions and smells are intertwined with the actual experience. He was called the Rag Man. I would here the clop, clop of the horses hoofs rhythmically pounding the pavement, and then the deep baritone voice of a dark skinned man yelling Rags, Rags, Pennies for Rags. He drove down the roads where three story tenement buildings were lined chock a block along the narrow streets. In my little mind I wondered why anyone would want anyone's rags. That was a term used for throwaways or garbage. How could he like '"rags" I asked myself. I would run to the window, and watch him holding the reign while the horse trotted slowly as if keeping beat with his masters lyrics. The horses' eyes were covered with a blind fold and as a child I worried how the animal would find his way among the pot holes and ditches, bicycles,and cars .
Families were just recuperating from the hardships of war, and dreaming of ways to better their lives. Money was tight and so my family, like many others, gathered their rags into a pile and waited for the trumpet of the man who paid us for what we would have discarded. In a way it was the beginning of recycling before recycling was a buzz word. A bag would be filled with clothes that were too worn to be mended, to old to be passed on, and yet would provide an income stream, as paltry as it might be.The pennies add up, the family would day.
It was a time of a mend and fix mentality. My grandmother would snip the buttons off the clothes, save the string wrapped around the butcher paper and pastry boxes. Anything that could be reused was and the rag man was playing his part.
I sometimes wondered about that rag man when I was older and reminiscing about the wonders of childhood. Many years later I ran into someone who knew someone who knew someone who knew him. I learned that he had sent his four sons to college.  I guess those pennies did add up on both sides of the coin. He was certainly was proof of that.

Ghost Stories and a Near Death Experience It was a guaranteed audience and I was a willing performer. When mom and dad went out at night I was the designated babysitter and the only way I could keep the brood in control was with my famous, neighborhood renowned Ghost Stories. I would gather the children into the middle upstairs bedroom that overlooked our front yard. I would sit on the bottom bunk, always with a young one in my lap, and begin my tale. I didn’t just tell the story, I acted it. I changed my voice for each character, varied my intonations, spoke loudly, spoke softly, and had the attention of all before me. I took a perverse delight in the freight in their eyes, but if they were too wide eyed, like Mary Ellen and Geoff would get, I would tone it down a bit. My stories were made up on the spot, and the words would tumble from head to my lips and it was my first taste of power over others with the weapon of words. One day, when I was in the middle of a riveting scene, without any reason, no noise, no smell, just instinct, I handed the baby to Ronnie and said “I’ll be right back.” I closed the bedroom door and headed toward mom and dad’s room. When I opened the door I was stunned to see the wall behind their bed on fire. It was surreal and the few seconds it took for it to sink in, really felt an eternity. I closed the door and went back to the children. “We have been invited to the neighbors for ice cream. Their innocent minds did not question why a neighbor would invite us at night, past their bedtime. As the scrambled for their shoes, I said “No, this is a midnight adventure and we have to go as we are and quickly or the ice cream will melt.” They giggled as I herded them out of the house. After the fire truck has come and gone I heard the grown ups talking. Our neighbor whispered to his wife, “The fire deputy said another five minutes and the fire would have caught the draft in the wall and the whole side of the house would have been up in flames.” I pondered that. Sometimes life can be more dramatic than made up stories, but alas, not always.

Ghost Stories and a Near Death Experience

It was a guaranteed audience and I was a willing performer. When mom and dad went out at night I was the designated babysitter and the only way I could keep the brood in control was with my famous, neighborhood renowned Ghost Stories.  I would gather the children into the middle upstairs bedroom that overlooked our front yard. I would sit on the bottom bunk, always with a young one in my lap, and begin my tale. I didn’t just tell the story, I acted it. I changed my voice for each character, varied my intonations, spoke loudly, spoke softly, and had the attention of all before me. I took a perverse delight in the freight in their eyes, but if they were too wide eyed, like Mary Ellen and Geoff would get, I would tone it down a bit. My stories were made up on the spot, and the words would tumble from head to my lips and it was my first taste of power over others with the weapon of words.

One day, when I was in the middle of a riveting scene, without any reason, no noise, no smell, just instinct, I handed the baby to Ronnie and said “I’ll be right back.” I closed the bedroom door and headed toward mom and dad’s room. When I opened the door I was stunned to see the wall behind their bed on fire. It was surreal and the few seconds it took for it to sink in, really felt an eternity. I closed the door and went back to the children. “We have been invited to the neighbors for ice cream." Their innocent minds did not question why a neighbor would invite us at night, past their bedtime. As the scrambled for their shoes, I said “No, this is a midnight adventure and we have to go as we are and quickly or the ice cream will melt.” They giggled as I herded them out of the house.

After the fire truck has come and gone I heard the grown ups talking. Our neighbor whispered to his wife, “The fire deputy said another five minutes and the fire would have caught the draft in the wall and the whole side of the house would have been up in flames.”  I pondered that. Sometimes life can be more dramatic than made up stories, but alas, not always.

Baby Boomers is a generic term!

Baby boomer is a generic term. It refers to infants  born during the years of 1946 through 1964.  A boomers experience differs widely depending on the year born and the geography. This 20 year span has been the common denominator and
marketers lumped all of us together. Not fair. Let's talk about the 46'rs.  We grew up during the 50's when moms stayed home, and parental roles were clearly defined. "Spare the rod and spoil the child" was a refrain often heard. Authority was respected and feared. Those of us who grew up during that period look back on it as the best years of living in the U.S. Our dads had fought for our country and our freedom and patriotism was alive and well.  The news was often about President Eisenhower playing golf. No stream of murder, violence and mayhem strolled across our TV screen. It's hard not to be nostalgic and wax those years poetic.
Fast forward to the present. We 46'rs have mostly retired. We live in a world we could not even have imagined back when. It is an exciting time, and a challenging time. In the words of Charles Dickens, "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times." The internet has brought us exceedingly close to the world out there. Knowledge can be had with the click of a key on our keyboard. Information is as abundant as snowflakes in a snow storm, and it is a snow storm. With all the information whirling about us we can experience a white out. Information overload. Knowledge is a beautiful thing, and in our new chapter we can pick and choose what matters most to us. Communication like Face Time or Skype allows us to bring our families and grandchildren right into our homes. It's the Flintstones in reverse.
Many of us have the freedom to design our day the way we want, using technology as our servant. We can ignore the Nay Sayers, the cynics, the steady stream of criticism that makes up most talk shows, and if we want to, politics itself. No need to feel guilty. We have done our part, and now we want to smoke the peace pipe. The world might have its' preponderance of ills but we don't have to let them in. We can turn off our TV's, censor our activities and find the wonderful gratification that comes from the simplest things. That is the personification of  the best of times, now we can choose.

Baby boomers essence is still intact!

Unless you have had the unique experience of living in the same town all your life, there is a certain longing that comes with getting older; remembering your friends of long ago. So many of us google long lost high school sweethearts, or school buddies to see where they are and what they are doing. You can do this surreptitiously in the comfort of your home.  We all remember our long ago friends looking how they were when we left off.  Unfortunately time has changed the configuration and the bloom of youth, and you are reminded looking in the mirror that you too have changed. Age has a unique physical signature.

 The good news is that we are still the same inside.  Hopefully we have gained wisdom, are less winsome, and more temperate in our opinions. Fortunately the seed of our essence is still intact. We can catch some of that magic of the young by engaging in frivolous activities. Would you dare skip when you return the grocery cart, would you forget the umbrella and lift your eyes to the sky and taste the rain, would you splash through the puddles instead of going around them?  Why not?  We are not on our way to the big, bad, corporate world of competition and boss pleasing behavior. We do not have to be sycophants to the powers that control our paychecks and advancement.  Now your smile is always genuine and your friendliness extends to the grocer, the waitress, the people behind you in line. Unencumbered you can be your authentic self with no props needed.  Age has brought a liberation that puts a lilt in your step. Best of all now you have the time to smell the roses.

  

A different kind of Boomer adventure

I confess here and now that I love adventure: heart stopping, dangerous, titillating, adrenaline pumping moments, and all from the comfort of my great big blue overstuffed chair. Reading has always been a source of unmitigated joy and danger with the shore always in view. I have another confession to make; I live vicariously through my children, especially a daughter who travels the world, seeks adventure like an eagle seeks land, sometimes with as little as a knapsack on her back, and experiences lives and cultures at the grass roots level. While admittedly, she did not get that wanderlust gene from her mother, I bask in her experiences, hold my breath at her endangerment, and release it when she is safe.

Where have I been living as I do through my daughters sojourns? I have traveled high into the hills of Thailand, to an elephant sanctuary, thrown buckets of water on the rescued elephants, and watched them stomp in joy. I have traveled roads cut through the mountains that curve like a snake seeking shade. Oh yes, she has been where cobras wander the lush green jungles of Bali, but remember, I am still safely ensconced in my big blue chair. I tell her 'write down your adventures,' but she is too busy living them, while I am busy imagining them.

While I have a greater appreciation for the cold climates, I enjoy most her pictures and descriptions of places like Kazakhstan and Iceland. A little closer to home, Seattle and Vancouver look lush and inviting without the fear of creepy, crawly things that swarm in the warmer climates.

Then there is the food, the face of which has no match in my own repertoire of meat and potatoes. Vegetables and fruits that I have never heard of are put in front of her and she relishes new sights, new sounds, and new tastes like no tourist I have ever met. Maybe the biggest surprise came when my daughter told me that horse meat is very common, and yes she did try it.

How can someone go from the tropical jungles of Vietnam to the arctic climate of Kazakhstan where the average temperature is forty below zero in the winter. She described a beautiful, indoor upscale mall, where they have created an actual beach with sand.  The buildings have other worldly architecture and the city inhabitants are young and upwardly mobile. Mmm, mobile where the snow piles high, the wind blows hard, and your breath is visible with every word you speak.

As my daughter journeys to these far away places, many of which I had  never heard of, I begin my research. Kazakhstan, the 9th largest country in the world. Predominately Kazakhs, but inclusive of 131 ethnic groups.  It is a city built with futuristic architecture, which to many seems more like a space station with a myriad of shapes and sculptures jutting out into the vast blue sky.

Is she really my daughter?  That is the spirit of adventure, and I also have it, as long as I am in my blue, overstuffed chair.

Baby Boomers Grow Up Kinda

Not all Baby Boomers have retired but those of us who have are living in a new chapter. It starts with our body shapes which in many cases have traveled south. While I recognized there are exceptions to every rule, the majority of us don't have the oomph of old. Our senses are on a slow slide and tread mills are guilt trips used in spurts. Yet, this is a great, grand time to be a senior. The rat race we endured is over. We can be friendly without hidden motives. There are no competitive games going on now, and we can enjoy people for who and what they are. We talk to everyone, the clerks in the store, the lady behind us in line, the butcher, the baker and the candlestick maker. We can take a nap whenever we want, and watch TV until two in the morning. It's freedom with a new hue.
Now I cannot hear my husband complain and glory be, he cannot see me as well as he used to. If that isn't progress what is?

It gets better. Our beautiful grandchildren are thoroughly enjoyed and then returned to their rightful owners when we are utterly worn out. We couldn't do that in years of yore. We get to enjoy and spoil them but discipline is left to the parents. That gives us a huge advantage and we gladly take the hero status. Our schedules have slowed down and we get to smell the roses literally. So many of us enjoy gardening and pampering our plants to new heights.

Double income couples have a few adjustments to make when both are home all day. Roles that were clearly defined are now fuzzy and one's way of doing things is not necessarily compatible with the other. Case in point, loading the dishwasher.  After loading the dishwasher for thirty plus years do you really have to be told how to do it "properly." Then there is the battle of the remote. Viewing habits are inevitably different; multiple TV's come in handy. Have you ever noticed how the women who was always cold is now always hot, and the man who was always hot is turning up the thermostat because he is cold. It is a cold war of sorts. It all works out eventually, aided by the fact that you both don't hear so well. Blessing in disguise.
It's time to travel when you can, go where you want and remember to bring along the Tums.

Baby Boomers Grow Up

The question might be; did we grow up or grow out. I am guessing there was some of both. We are older, somewhat wiser, certainly heavier than those willowy teen years, and we cling to our youthful memories like bark clings to a tree. We are in a chapter that we laughed at when we were young and fearless. Grandmas’ with false teeth, Uncles grey haired and stooped, Aunts with tight perms that looked like the nest of a bird. How we laughed. Well certainly our older population does not quite fit the mold.  We work out to some degree, we color our hair, we fix our teeth, and more than a few get a little help from the plastic surgeons. How we embrace this chapter of more limited mobility, as in dancing the Twist to Chubby Checker, or running a marathon has a lot of variables but there are some things there are no escaping, our bodies are older and more worn.

The clever marketers have new labels for us, active adults, independents, vibrant and anything that will entice us to embrace their products.  The realities lie a bit beneath all that hyperbole.  We have a deserved reputation for being avid consumers and the peddlers are still out to get us. The difference is that by now we live with realities that are not depicted in their incessant commercials about the good life.  It is a good life but for a lot of different reasons.

The biggest tool in our bag of tricks for facing the challenges of getting older is a sense of humor. It can carry us through a myriad of circumstances that otherwise might have ignited us into a raging fire. Where there were raised eyebrows and racing heart beats now there can be a good belly laugh. That sense of humor can keep you younger than anything they put in a bottle or capsule. I want to explore the daily challenges that come upon us and how a sense of humor casts a light of guilty joy.