MAKING A DIFFERENCE

MAKING A DIFFERENCE

I belong to a cult.

Use your Imagination. Apple does not allow use of their icon.

Of the technical variety.

My first computer, bought thirty years ago, was a Mac.  Since then I’ve loyally trudged through Mac-Land. I now own a MacBookPro. And, an iPod, iPod Touch, iPad, and, after next week, an iPhone. Except for my son-in-law, I’ve successfully converted my family from PC’s to Apple products. He’s a lawyer. He’s a holdout. It will happen.

If you are technically challenged, and, I am, the learning curve, with each new product, is Mt. Everest. That’s why I belong to Apple’s One-on-One program. For $99 a year, I can take a weekly private lesson to get set up, get trained, and get going on each new Mac device. Admittedly, there are some why’s and wherefore’s to this program, but, let’s just say, I have tenure.

The Apple employee/tutors in this program are amazing, patient, kind and young. How can they be so computer literate at 12 years of age? Which brings me to Troy, a One-on-One tutor at my local Apple store, and the reason for this Post.

During the last presidential election, we were both involved in the campaign. “Fired Up” would be an understatement. I’ve always been a political animal, but this was a new and exciting world for Troy. Being engaged in the democratic process lends importance to being an American and Troy, for the first time, felt it.

Fast forward to three years later.

Following a recent One-on-One session, referring to politics, I asked him, “What do you think?”

In a flash, he responded, “I think I don’t make a difference.”

Subject closed.

His response has haunted me. He’s too young, too smart and too vital to this country’s future to think he doesn’t matter.

His response also begs the question, for me at least, about making a difference. Do I?  Beginning in 2011 and continuing for the next 18 years, between 7,000 to 8,000 Americans will be turning 65 years of age every single day. We’re in the fourth quarter. So it occurs to me, many Baby Boomers will be asking themselves that very same, legitimate question.

This past week I have had time to ponder this. My husband Michael, who lives in a nearby memory care facility and is under Hospice care, developed Shingles. Not good. Luckily, I had been vaccinated, could ignore the quarantine, sit by his bedside as he slept, and conduct a one-way conversation with myself (if you know me, that’s not all bad).

I liked my answers. Does Relevance still live at my house? Yes.  Do I make a difference? You bet. The difference in my now-differences as compared to my past-differences is the key (one more time) difference.

In the past I’ve made a difference not only to my family but also to my students, my employees, board members, and everyone dependent upon me for one reason or another. My students needed a class grade to graduate. As an editor of a small newspaper, operating on a barebones budget, I hired young reporters and trained them well before kicking them up to better reporting opportunities. On charity and nonprofit boards, I organized  fundraisers. Girl Scouts? Leader and Cookie Mother. Perpetual Room Mother – cupcakes for every occasion. Sunday School teacher.  The list goes on and on. I am no different from millions of others heading into retirement.  Like so many, I think I saw myself as more important than I ever was.

As for now, my universe for making a difference and being relevant is smaller but is, and this is my premise to all of you, just as necessary. It may be even more important to you women, like me, who live alone by choice, death, divorce, or health reasons.

First, I am fortunate to have many communities of friends. To every extent, they make a difference to me and I, to them. Friendships must be nourished and treasured, there’s joy and value in each one. Second, while sadly I don’t make a difference to Michael anymore, he does not remember our life together, I make a huge difference to the professionals who care for him. Every patient needs a ferocious advocate and I am his. Ironically, his caregivers appreciate that.

Lastly and what struck me as surprising, is how important I feel I am to my family. Besides loving me, which they do, they make me feel necessary and important and relevant.  America is not a country that has ever valued older people. I suggest to you that phenomenon is changing and it’s this Sandwich Generation*, our kids, who are making this occur. So now, I believe, it’s up to us. It’s how WE handle this attitudinal change that will make the difference in our lives and theirs.

Please understand, my children are smart, capable, self-sufficient and very good parents.They both work and are successful. And, more often than not, a helping hand needs to be extended my way rather than theirs. I’ve concluded their lives, albeit happy, are far more complicated, difficult and challenging than mine ever was. That’s why sometimes my role is to listen, not my greatest virtue, offering unconditional support. More often, because I’m able to see the forest, I can suggest a quick-fix. Done. At times, I anticipate bumps and can smooth them out. Many a moment, it’s just the, “Hang on, this, too, shall pass,” advice that they have to hear.

We all need to feel valued rather than tolerated, appreciated and respected rather than ignored. For Baby Boomers, life has been all about goals, accomplishments and providing not just good but better and best for our loved ones. To slow down our train is difficult, to climb off, even harder. That’s why, as we step aside and Life continues barreling down the track,  we each need to ask ourselves these questions, find our niche and honor who we are.

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* The Sandwich generation is a generation of people who care for their aging parents while supporting their own children.

 

  • Traditional: those sandwiched between aging parents who need care and/or help and their own children.
  • Club Sandwich: those in their 50s or 60s sandwiched between aging parents, adult children and grandchildren, or those in their 30s and 40s, with young children, aging parents and grandparents.
  • Open Faced: anyone else involved in elder care

 

A CONFESSION: I LOVE PINTEREST

A CONFESSION: I LOVE PINTEREST

A confession: I love PINTEREST.

I joined. I follow and am followed. I pin and am re-pinned. I create my boards and am impressed, inspired and invigorated by the boards of others. Everything about this spunky new social-networking tool hits my pins…..uh, make that, buttons. It rains feel-good, drip by drip by drip.

Petula Dvorak, a writer for the Washington Post, recently called Pinterest  “digital crack for women.” If that’s the case, then I’m addicted.

Pinterest – a visual bookmarking site that lets you “pin” and share images of things you deem worthy of sharing.

 

For those of you unfamiliar with this site, let me explain. First, Pinterest, a virtual pin board of pictures, is the fastest-growing Web site in history. Last month, according to Forbes, about 11 million unique visitors navigated through. It is on-line scrap booking at its simplest. You’re the pinner, filling memory boards with images of your interests. If others like your pinned images, they can re-pin them to their boards. I have created 9 boards. I follow a gal who has 38, another, 52.

As New York Times writer David Pogue recently wrote, “The ability to round things up into tidy collections is powerful and visual.”

Apple Pie, Pinned on PINTEREST http://mashable.com/

Wedding Photo, Pinned to PINTEREST http://mashable.com/

I first learned of Pinterest last year when Lynn Burgoyne, a professional artist and educator, mentioned she was dropping Facebook and moving to Pinterest as her social networking outlet. Since she is such an innately imaginative woman, a powerhouse of creativity, I was interested. Lynn sent me an invitation (no longer required), and I joined.

I recently asked Lynn what distinguishes this new kid from other on-line social networks?

“I was attracted to Pinterest because I needed some creative stimulation,”  Lynn replied. “Facebook allowed me to connect with people I know and with long lost school buddies. It was wonderful but after a while I was totally bored. I felt that I was wasting precious time and wasn’t being productive throughout the course of the day. A friend introduced me to Pinterest and a whole new creative world opened up to me!  It’s a smorgasbord full of visually stimulating ideas!”

Even the Washington Post’s Dvorak is impressed with the site graphics. “These bulletin boards are simple, clean spaces,” she says, “and are filled with cool pictures of food, crafts, fashion, travel spots, home remodeling, decorating ideas, fitness tips, hairstyles, furniture, architecture, kid projects, pithy sayings, cute animal photos, and cheeky wedding plans.”

To my thinking, it’s worth a visit to this site just to read a few of the hundreds of labels given these imagery boards. For example:  Besotted with This; Sweet on the Standards; I Carry a Torch; Gris Galore; Felt Up; Their Dish & My Dish; Green Eggs & Pam; For Crying Out Loud; Women Roaring; Whacked My Funny Bone; Noah’s Intention; Ways to Save Moo-lah; Nuts about Nutella; and R U Worth Your Salt?

Lynn, who has created 97 boards, has 627 followers and has been re-pinned 12,076 times, making her one of the more successful pin-pals. “I’ve been on Pinterest for over a year” she says. “Since then I’ve been inspired to paint three paintings,  produce a beautiful garden with a bumper crop of goodness. My culinary art skills have improved. I’ve read books that I might not ever have known about and saved money doing DIY projects. I’ve come up with new art project ideas for my students and become more educated in world culture, travel, art, music…the list goes on!”

As for me? I joined Pinterest last Fall. Since I’ve never bonded successfully with any social-networking sites nor even played interactive computer games, I’m surprised (and, pleased) with this playful, responsive and, yes, time-consuming, platform. It’s relatively easy to gear up and start pinning,  although I  admit to being helped by computer-geeks-the younger.

A Honey-Do for Pinterest Users   someecards.com

It’s important to note, however,  that Pinterest primarily attracts females (80%) but is not geared to aging Baby Boomers like me. To my thinking, that’s the narcotic. I feed off the frenzy of the enormous creativity produced by countless younger generations of women. Their imaginative ideas help me visualize, more fully, their thinking process and the rhythm of their vibrations. It’s fun, really, really, fun, to look and learn from them.

For Lynn, who lives in an isolated area of California’s Sierra-Nevada Mountains, it’s another critical lifeline to a bigger world. “I have interacted with several “pinners”,” she says. “The first to come to mind is Sam.  We share similar tastes in art as well as other interests, and I’ve learned a lot from his pins as he is a world traveler  and collector of art in every form!”

Like anything that is the newest, latest and greatest, the buzz has landed Pinterest squarely in the media spotlight. According to the Wall Street Journal, it has also grabbed the attention of Silicon Valley angel investors who have, to date, pinned $37.5 million onto the Pinterest boards. Although the closely held company, created by Ben Silbermann of Des Moines, Iowa, wouldn’t disclose financial figures, it is currently valued at around $200 million, according to a person familiar with the matter.

Ben Silbermann, PINTEREST founder (middle) shopsweetthings.com

 

It seems to me that New York Times writer David Pogue puts this phenomenon in proper perspective. “It might seem hard to believe,” he writes, “but yes, even in the Facebook-Twitter-Tumblr-LinkedIn era, there’s still room for yet another successful, popular social media site. At least there’s room online. Whether there’s enough room in your busy life is a different question!”

Success via PINTEREST shopecards.com

An Italian Recipe for Happiness

An Italian Recipe for Happiness

by Michelle Morgando

(My first Guest Blogger, Michelle Morgando, is a lawyer, judge, and professionally-trained Chef, who lives in Henderson, Nevada. She has just returned from a one-week travel and food writing trip to Italy and has agreed to share her fabulous story with us.)

A recipe should be simple, right? No guesswork, just follow the instructions. Of course you can improvise but when you do, be prepared for a result you may not expect. I dreamed of a trip to Italy, Tuscany in particular, for many years. The views, food, wine and culture fascinate me. I planned a trip to Tuscany for a travel writing course and two months later, my travel “recipe” that seemed so exciting at the time, felt meaningless. I lost my Mother, after several years of health issues, at a time and in a manner that was unexpected.  Do I go, do I stay?  If I go, will I live the experience as I once hoped?  I decide to go. thewritersworkshop.net

My mother and I had a particulary strong bond where food was involved.  We may disagree on politics or my choice in a spouse, but food connected us without conflict (except when I did not do things her way).  She encouraged me to explore my fascination with food and my decision to attend culinary school at the age of 42.  After she died, I wondered if I would enjoy cooking again.  Perhaps my trip to Italy might hold some answers.
I arrive in Montalcino, Italy on a Sunday and have some time before I meet the instructor and fellow students.  I do something I  have always wanted to do. I take a walk through town to look, listen and imagine  what it would be like to live in such a place.  I feel unsettled.  Is it jet lag or the  sudden realization that I can’t call my mother and tell her all the sights and sounds  of Montalcino?  I keep telling myself to snap out of this mood.  I wish there was  someone who would reassure me that I was going to be fine.
The next several days are filled with writing classes on the beautiful patio of the  hotel, lunches, dinners, wine tastings and exploring.  The food is both exceptional  and simple.  Baked Pecorino cheese drizzled with local honey, earthy and pungent  tagliarini with porcini mushrooms and black truffles, and the enormous and truly  satisfying Bistecca alla Fiorentina, a regional t-bone steak finished with coarse  salt. The people of Montalcino are gracious and interesting.  I visited a wine shop during my first day and attempted to speak to the owner in my limited Italian.  He spoke very little English but said “speak slowly.”  After 15 minutes and and education about Brunello, I left with a great bottle of wine and a few new Italian phrases.  My fellow students are diverse, talented and adventurous.  Some are professional writers, many are not, but we were all in Tuscany to learn and enjoy the the experience. I still wonder, when will I feel that pure, unmitigated joy that I am in a place I have always wanted to be?
On our third day, we take a day trip to  Pienza.  One of our stops is the Palazzo  Picollomini, commissioned by Pope  Pius II as a residence for his papal  court.  It is  breathtaking but I am  drawn to the Cathedral Cattedrale  dell’Assunta next to the  papal  residence.  I think about my first trip to  Europe with my mother and  remember how we visited so many churches in London.  I enter the church with  Jenny, a fellow student, who lost her mother some months before me.  We wander  the cathedral, admiring its beauty and Jenny stops to light two devotional candles, one for her mother, and one for herself, her husband and son to help them with their grief.  I was struck by the reverence with which she placed the candles and without any conscious thought, found myself reaching for a candle.  Jenny had left a space between her two candles for reasons we can’t explain.  I light my candle and pray for my mother and for my family as I place it between Jenny’s candles.  Another student, Heather, follows me and lights a candle for the son she lost. I then realize that this is the moment , this is the reason why I decided to take this trip.  In this cathedral in Italy, where for centuries so many have grieved or joyfully worshiped, I realize that I am not alone in sadness.  At that moment, I know that I will always love my mother and that she will always love me, but I would need to learn to experience happiness again.

Michelle, Jenny and Heather

As Jenny, Heather and I leave the church, we are crying but realize through the loss we share we have found each other.  As we stood outside the church, I tried to memorize the way the sunlight reflected off the centuries-old stonework and the sound of the church bells as they rang at noon. The picture I have of the three of us on the cathedral steps will always remind me that grief and joy are universal emotions.
As I continue with my trip, I begin to appreciate all that Tuscany offers.  Dinner with new friends, a truly exceptional glass of Brunello, eating gelato as I walk through Montalcino, a rainstorm in the middle of the night.  One of our last events is a cooking class with a resident who travels the world, but seems to be happiest in Montalcino.  I then realize that I am excited to cook for the sheer pleasure of cooking, and to be cooking in Tuscany.
We make our way one evening to the home of Teresa Galli, former resident of Rome and world  traveler.  She welcomes us into her home and kitchen and begins our cooking class.  We are all  assigned tasks for our dinner.  I am given the job of making one of the doughs for our pasta.  As I  am forming the dough, I listen to Teresa and my classmates talk, laugh and yell at each other and  I feel something light up in me.  This is healing, joyful and at times, truly hilarious.  Permanently  stamped in my memory is the assembly line of my friends trying to feed strips of fresh pasta  through the pasta machine as the handle of the machine keeps falling on the floor.  This is what I  want my life to be about, this feeling is what makes the difficult times bearable.  We sit down to  dinner and I sit with Teresa and listen to stories of, as she describes, her first six lives and what  she plans to do with her seventh.  Her description of her early years in Rome, her bicoastal  existence between Rome and New York and her travels to all the amazing countries I have never  visited feed my soul as much as the food that we made that evening.  We walk back to the hotel in  the rain with full stomachs and hearts and an evening full of memories.
As we were leaving Teresa’s, she kissed my cheeks, took both of my hands in hers and said “Cara,  you must cook for yourself every day, this will make you happy.”
I have my recipe for happiness. I will cook for myself and the people I love, and I will go back to Italy.  I will cook with the memory of my mother as the best part of the recipe.

 

Michelle’s Welcome Home to the USA Party (note the “Aspen” caps as party favors)

SNAP OUT OF IT! Island Day!

SNAP OUT OF IT! Island Day!

SNAP #3 – Island Day

A Day Devoted to You.  (When has that ever happened?)  Pick your favorite spot in your dwellling – the couch, bedroom, porch area – where you’d love to spend the day.  Surround yourself with supplies, what you love and need:  Books, CD’s, DVD’s, Spa Necessities, Verboten Snacks, Artistic Materials, Magazines, Happy Things. Wear something deliciously comfy, please yourself. Announce to your friends, family and co-workers that you’ve scheduled an Island Day. The telephone goes unanswered.  E-mail responses are not returned. Visitors are unwelcomed (unless it’s a pizza delivery). Work emergencies can wait. For one day, put your Outside World on hold to nurture your Inside World.  You’ll looooooove it.

 

You Can Go Home Again

You Can Go Home Again

For three weeks I’ve been in Colorado, my beloved state-of-choice for 16 years.  In 2004, we sold our Aspen home, shed most of our belongings, and moved to Nevada. I have only returned for a brief few days each year.

Nothing is unique about my packing up our belongings and heading further West. According to the U.S. Census Bureau, one in ten U.S. residents, more than 31 million people, traded places in 2009. I’m thinking that’s probably enough Hertz rental trucks to circle the Equator!

While most of us move for housing, family and employment reasons, I needed, because of my husband’s health issues, to trade snow for sun, altitude for sea level. Our move, like many, was out-of-necessity, not choice.

Although Thomas Wolfe says you can’t go home again, I say you can. Luckily, I still have a small condo, for rental purposes, in Aspen. For the past three weeks, I’ve been the Renter. Returning home, and Aspen will always be that, has caused a myriad of emotions to wind their way to my surface. Honestly, it’s been more a gusher of feelings. Finally, after some sleepless nights, I gave in, declared a truce and said, bring it on.

Not surprisingly, the gorgeous, breathtaking Rocky Mountains are still a major presence here and, as always, I rejoice in their beauty every waking moment. Give me a mountain to climb and I’m a happy woman.

The old eating joints have stubbornly dug in their heels and remain competitive in this tough restaurant arena. My traditional first lunch was a juicy burger at Little Annie’s, an evening meal, the deliciously messy rib stack at The Hickory House. I met my friend, Jane, for a margarita during Friday Afternoon Club at the Cantina.  Make that, two margaritas and nachos. I loved my premier meal at BB’s Kitchen, a contemporary place just opened by  Bruce Berger, a friend from Manhattan,.  He’s 70 years old, just handed his real estate interests off to his son, and loves to cook. So, why not open a restaurant in Aspen?  Yeah……….

 

 

 

 

 

For shock value, and I thought I was prepared, I drove, for the first time since leaving in 2004, down Silver King Drive.  Perhaps, just maybe, it was a mistake to re-visit my old neighborhood. Our house, thrown together in 1971 by ski bums, who worked only when they couldn’t ski or hunt, was a small German chalet, 3400 square feet of space, anchored permanently, so I thought, into Red Butte Mountain. After purchasing the property in 1988, and learning the house was framed rather haphazardly, we made some necessary structural changes. Wild and wooly Aspen in the ‘70s.  Apparently, those laborers drank and smoked pot on-the-job as well as off. If walls could talk.

What I discovered, at our old site, left me speechless, not something that happens often. Almost never. The chalet is gone, replaced by two adjoining townhouses, extending to the property lines (above).  Plowed under, cut down, and irradicated forever, are my potato plot, rhubarb clump, raspberry patch, wildflower garden and 50 Colorado blue spruces. C’est dommage!  And, Readers, you won’t believe the asking price, $5.5 million……….EACH.  The economic journalist who lives in my head, understands this concept. To be honest, I just laughed, thinking, there goes the neighborhood!

What forever will bind me to this tiny enclave tucked into the Rockies are the people who call it home. I’ve woven the social fabric of my life through 25-years of interaction with the community of folks gathered here.  Most of us didn’t begin in Aspen, we chose it.  Coming as strangers, we’ve determinedly folded into our communities of friendship. Glitz and glitter for some. Grits and granola for others.

Friendships need fuel. Nurturing. Updates. Generosity. And, Kindness.  For the past 7 years, thanks to modern-day innovations, I’ve clung to these bonds quite effortlessly.  To the question, “Can you hear me now?”, I’d answer a resounding, “Always.” Bash the “social media” all you wish, but through e-mails, Skype, Facebook, iPhones and Blackberries, to name a few, my Colorado ties have remained tightly bound together.

We lose only what we choose not to feed and fortify.