The 70-Something Blog

Gluten-free Mother's Day Weekend

I could write about how great it was to be with our son Jeremy and his family in Maryland for Mother’s Day.  I could say how amazing the grandchildren are, how much I enjoyed Leo’s soccer game, the barbecue at their neighbor’s, the visit with a childhood friend, our Mother’s Day brunch, and Seth’s Mother’s Day email from Berlin which, of course, made me cry.   All good.

Instead, I want to write about gluten. 

We went to lunch after Leo’s soccer game.  The kids and Peter went to Five Guys, a hamburger place, and Katrina and I went to Sweetgreen next door  where  the counter staff composed a gluten-free salad per my direction but put a piece of bread on top of the greens.  “No,” I shouted—you’ll have to start over—I said I needed gluten-free.”

“Not to worry”, they replied.  “It’s gluten-free bread!” 

We took our salads next door to join the males.  Five Guys makes their French fries in a dedicated fryer and they are therefore gluten-free.  I ate my first fast-food French fry since my celiac diagnosis fourteen years age.  It was heavenly.

That night the neighbors offered piles of barbecued pork and chicken brought in for their party.  I planned to stick with the raw veggies.  But my daughter-in-law called the barbecue place and they said I could eat all but the bread. 

The one disappointment was at Costco’s on Friday night where Peter and Jeremy each had a huge ice cream dipped in chocolate and crushed almonds.  The woman at the counter didn’t understand what gluten was so I couldn’t join them.  Peter admitted it was fantastic.  I sulked.

But when Jeremy called Costco customer service after our Mother’s Day Brunch and learned that, in fact, that bar is gluten-free, we took a quick detour on the way home, and Jeremy bought me my own ice cream bar dipped in chocolate and crushed almonds.  Delicious.

Life is gluten-free and good.

Nap

I don’t nap.   When we arrive in a foreign country after an overnight flight, everyone else naps before setting out.  But I am ready to roll and power through until bedtime.  There are sights to be seen.

I can’t nap during the week because of work, but I also avoid the couch on weekend afternoons because I always believe there is something more important to do.

I’ve always been like that.  As a kid, I would rush out of my best friend’s house saying I had to go home because I had “things” to do.  Whatever that meant.

But then there was last weekend.  It had been an unusually busy week with various crises at work that brought me home later than usual. I didn’t have Friday night to recover because we had company for dinner.

Saturday morning we were busy with errands.  In the afternoon, I decided to take a short break to read the paper before doing some yard work. Two hours later, I woke up,  a new woman. 

Napping could become the new normal.

Bikes and Us--A History

One of my favorite photos shows me at age ten in the driveway of the house where I grew up.  Two good friends and I face the camera on our new three-speed bikes, grinning from ear to ear.

A bicycle was my sole means of transportation in college. But I didn’t bike much after that except around the neighborhood with the children. When I biked four miles on vacation one summer, I thought that was a great accomplishment.

It wasn’t until 1985 when we took our first real bicycle vacation that I came to love biking for biking’s sake.  For the next twenty-five years, we vacationed by bicycle every summer, and then forty to fifty miles a day was no problem.

Things change.  Peter’s Parkinson’s disease brought an end to our bicycle vacations five years ago.  But, until recently, we could still bike short distances together on the weekends. Last month, that too ended when Peter’s cardiologist told him to stop biking altogether.

Tuesday night, we sold his bike to a lovely student from Niger.  We had so much fun talking to her that we were tempted to just give her the bike.  When she offered us $15 less than our asking price, we sold it to her for even less.

We watched her ride off with very mixed emotions, one more reminder that “We had our time.”

 

Home Owners Lament

Don’t get me wrong.  I am grateful to have a roof over my head and plenty to eat because there are so many people who don’t. 

But when the roof over my head has to be replaced in the same month that the oven, the dishwasher and the furnace choose to dysfunction, living in a cave sounds like a good idea. Oh, and did I mention that last Sunday, my iron called it a day?

So we’ve had a revolving door of repair folks, mostly when Peter can be home.  And their charge for walking in the door, before parts and labor are added, is already higher than dinner for two at an upscale restaurant.  

I hear my mother’s voice in my head. 

“They don’t make things like they used to.”

Helping our Vets

The other day, I joined some colleagues from work to help clean up the grounds at the Veterans Administration Hospital in Boston.  The hospital’s funding has been cut, so they were delighted to have our help.  It was a beautiful spring day, and it was nice to be away from the office.

We planned to treat ourselves to lunch in the neighborhood and we asked the men who supervised our work to be our guests.   There were a dozen of us and two of them, both veterans themselves.

 At first the conversation was a little slow, but we got into sports and where we grew up—they were born and bred in Boston and only one of us could claim that. They love the Red Sox no matter how bad they are, and they were very proud of their city’s response to the marathon bombings. 

Food is a great equalizer, and by the time we parted, we had made new friends.  I still smile when I think of their parting words, “We can’t wait to tell our friends that Harvard bought us lunch!”

Checking in with Florence

It’s been fourteen years since I learned that I have a half-sister.  She is twenty-one years older than I am and was eighty-two when she found me. There is no way to make up for the years we lost, but we are in touch regularly now.

When I checked in with Florence last week, she wasn’t her usual upbeat self.  Now ninety-six, she has just given up her car.  “I failed the vision test,” she explained.  She also told me that her legs aren’t working very well, so walking is a problem.   But she does walk to the corner to pick up groceries. She uses a “senior ride” service so that she can still go to the movies with friends, all of whom are younger than she is and used to depend on her for rides themselves. 

But when Florence admitted that she is “finally feeling old”, I was surprised.  At seventy-five, I’m not feeling like a spring chicken myself.  But if I can be like my half-sister, I have twenty-one more years to be young.

I’ll go with that.

Lean In

If you haven’t heard of Sheryl Sandberg, you haven’t been paying attention. Chief Operating Office at Facebook, formerly with Google and the U. S. Treasury Department, Sandberg’s book Lean In landed at the top of the New York Times non-fiction bestseller list upon its publication in March.

It is The Feminine Mystique for her generation.

In the book, Sandberg argues that gender bias is still common in the workplace. As one of many compelling examples, she tells us about two sets of students who were shown the same venture capitalist resume.  For one group, the venture capitalist’s first name was Heidi, for the other, Howard. The rest was identical. 

Understandably, students in each group found the individual competent.  But the “Howard” group found Howard “appealing” and the “Heidi” group found Heidi “not the kind of person you would want to hire or work for.”

Until both men and women find Heidi as appealing as Howard, women will have a hard time taking their place at the table.

Looking at it from the viewpoint of my generation whose options were pretty much limited to teaching, nursing, or marriage, it seems that we’ve made great strides.  Sandberg’s book acknowledges that, but shows women how to move ahead.  

You can get the basics by joining the millions who have listened to her TED talk at http://bit.ly/hcnwRz

Boston Strong

Watertown is my destination when I’m headed for Target or Home Deport.  But most of the time, it’s a place I drive through on my way somewhere else.

But Watertown became the world’s town on Thursday night when one of the Boston Marathon terrorists eluded police there.

In neighboring Cambridge, we obeyed our governor’s order to “shelter at home.”  Normally, an unexpected Friday off would have been a productive one.  I would have changed the closets over to spring, or got started on a project.  Maybe even read a book.  But on Friday I spent the day watching TV until I couldn’t stand seeing the same images over and over again and turned on the radio. And then back to TV after the bloodied boat cover was found. 

When our law enforcement officers got the suspect out, alive and without further loss of life, the world sighed in relief.  We watched our neighbors in Watertown cheering as the police and fire vehicles left the scene, job well done.

In my car doing errands Saturday morning, I heard a tribute to those who kept us safe, and my eyes filled with tears.

Boston Strong! 

Tragedy in Boston

Patriot’s Day is a holiday in Massachusetts, but not for me.  Nonetheless, I love the spirit that surrounds the Boston Marathon.  When the kids were young, Peter used to run it, and we would cheer him on.  It’s a time when the world is watching Boston, and most of the world is represented in our city’s famous race.

At three o’clock on Monday afternoon, I heard about the explosions.  Word spread quickly thanks to the Internet.  That people were injured was apparent, but no one knew how many and how seriously. 

No more work was accomplished that afternoon—everyone was checking on loved ones and watching the same frightening footage of the scene over and over again on their computer screens.

That evening the emails poured in.  A college roommate I hadn’t heard from in years. A young woman who used to work for me, now a medical resident and out of touch for some time. My brother, Peter’s sister, and my 101-year-old Aunt Ruth.  All wanting to know that we are safe.  All sad for those who suffered and for Boston.

On Tuesday we gathered outside work for a moment of silence and remembrance that brought tears to my eyes and 9/11 feelings of vulnerability.  Since then, we’ve been hearing about heroic helpers and acts of generosity by the people of Boston.  Even Stephen Colbert paid his respects (http://bo.st/Yv2VOd).

This was the 116^th Boston Marathon.  There will be a 117^th Boston Marathon next year, but it won’t be the same.

Missing Sue

Our neighbor Sue has moved to assisted living.

When she and her husband Leo came to our neighborhood, she knocked on everyone’s door to introduce herself, much as if she were running for office.  In fact, her nearly one hundred neighbors would say that’s exactly what she was doing.

Sue became our “mayor.” Before we knew it, she had formed a committee to lobby the city and our neighborhood streets got repaved. Soon after, the town aborist checked our aging trees and planned replacements.  Sue was our organizer.

Sue reigned at our twice-yearly neighborhood block parties, bringing updated lists of addresses and introducing new residents. She was a force.

A few years ago, Leo died.  Shortly thereafter, Sue began to lose her vision and she developed other health problems.  Her grown children and grandchildren didn’t think she should stay in the house on her own, and eventually she gave in. Two weeks ago, she moved. 

I got Sue’s address and wrote to thank her for all she did for us and to tell her that we miss her.  She replied that she had loved living in the neighborhood, watching it come together, introducing folks to each other. She added, “ I am sad to leave and I envy everyone of you.”  

Neighborhoods turn over, but somehow Sue’s departure is different.  It is a loss for us all.