Fitting In

Cooling down from a workout at the gym the other day, I started talking to Kim, a bright, energetic woman I often see there. We were talking about ways we don't fit in here. Unlike many of our female neighbors, we hate shopping, have no interest in fashion, detest card games, avoid any day trips having to do with casinos and aren't into crafts.

We agreed that this didn't make us feel superior to our neighbors. To the contrary, it made us wonder whether we really fit in.

"I buy all my clothes online at Lands End," Kim said. "Shorts and t-shirts. That's it!"

"Me, too!" I said smiling. "These shorts, my daily outfits -- mail order -- all of them."

As we discussed the sparse exercise class schedule for summer, Kim said "I spoke to the Fitness Director and he said they aren't scheduling classes until November because nobody is here. I guess we're nobody."

I smiled. "Then there's a pair of us. Don't tell! They'll banish us, you know."

Kim laughed with recognition at the quote from Emily Dickinson.

There is a thrill in discovering a kindred spirit.

And yet, reflecting on the whole concept of fitting in to this over-55 community in rural Arizona, I have come to realize that, for all my peculiarities, I do have a wonderful feeling of fitting in.  So many people around me -- who do not share my questionable taste in clothes, my equally questionable politics and few, if any, of my interests -- have become very dear to me. And I feel accepted, in turn.

My next door neighbor Louise is a sweet, tough, generous soul as well as a very gifted artist and makes beautiful ceramic pieces. She gave me a lovely vase she made just for my birthday and it has become a favorite on my display case. Her joyous spirit brings me pleasure on a daily basis.  My neighbor Phyllis, who lives three doors down from me, grew up in circumstances very different from my own and her worldview and experience are all quite different. Yet I treasure her friendship, good talks and time shared and greatly enjoy her insights and perspectives. I also admire her courage in her fight against cancer and her  resolve to live life fully every day. My other next door neighbor Judith is a dedicated Republican whom I greatly admire because she is fully committed to her political beliefs and causes. She doesn't just voice her views. She does the hard work of knocking on doors, making phone calls, planning events featuring political candidates.  While my views may differ, I respect her integrity and hard work -- and enjoy her very much as a person.

What we all tend to share in this community is age and a certain slice of life experience: when the music system at the pool plays Beatles tunes or Doo Wop hits, our eyes light up with recognition and memories from the music of our youth.  We all have aches and pains and health concerns -- and are doing our best, in a variety of ways, to stay active. Most women here are grandmothers and delight in talking about their children and grandchildren. I'm childless and don't share that critical life experience, though I enjoy seeing pictures and hearing stories about the young ones.  While many women I know here have lived much more traditional lives than I, there is little comparison or criticism. We seem to have made an unspoken pact to enjoy each other in the present moment, as is, with no judgment.

And I think about the bad old days of grade school and junior high when fitting in was such a challenge, when wearing the wrong label or having a bad hair day or just not being cute or cool could cause one to be ostracized and ridiculed. Or even in young adulthood when having a different point of view or life plan could make one suspect. And I could be just as judgmental as any -- if I perceived someone as stupid or shallow or Republican or not having much in common with me, I wasn't interested in knowing them.

Life is different now.

While I greatly miss regular face-to-face contact with some lifelong friends who have shared both youth and aging with me, I'm delighted with new friends here who come with such a rich variety of life experiences, interests and perspectives. We may not always agree, but we tactfully avoid the sensitive areas of politics and religion. We accept each other as is: quirks, eccentricities and all. While it can be a special pleasure to discover a new friend who shares interests, phobias and a particular point of view, those whose interests and experiences differ significantly can be delightful as well. We've all given up on cute and cool and have come to appreciate authenticity. And I wonder how much I missed in the past by passing judgment so quickly and unfairly on those who were not like me.

One of the lovely bonuses of getting older and wiser is seeing the value of differences as well as similarities in the friends, both old and new, who bring such joy to our lives.

Father's Day: Remembering a Complicated Love

There aren't any Father's Day cards made for the kind of Father I had.

He wasn't a benevolent Daddy. He wasn't a pipe-smoking golfer or a duck hunter or the bland but benign Dad of 50's situation comedies. He wasn't a good-natured guy who brought home the bacon.

He was a difficult, conflicted man. Although charming to co-workers and employees, he could be a beast at home. Though sometimes tender as a parent, he could also terrorize. Though he has been dead for more than 30 years, I can still feel the impact he had on my life.

My father was, at once, nurturing and encouraging, abusive and devastating. "You think I'm crazy?" he would shout. "Well, you kids made me that way. Having children ruined my life. Everything was great until you came along. Marriage with children is the absolute, complete catastrophe of my life."  The words stung more than I knew. For many years, well into adulthood, I carried the heavy burden of knowing that my father's life had taken a horrible turn the minute I, the firstborn, came into the world.

 He could be monstrous. He would stagger drunkenly around the house, waving a loaded gun, threatening to kill us. Mike, Tai and I would retreat to the bedroom we three shared and push our dresser firmly against the door to keep him out. Then we would lie flat on the floor, afraid to breathe, to sleep, to cease our vigilance.  He was frighteningly abusive to Mike especially -- beating him into unconsciousness, forcing him to wear one of my dresses when he thought Mike was being a sissy for crying during a beating, once giving him what he claimed was a lethal injection and chuckling as Mike and I sat up all night, clinging to each other, sobbing and waiting for Mike to die. He would fly into rages and scream that he hadn't been able to fly in combat in World War II, having to settle for being a stateside test pilot, that his dreams for medical school and a career as a physician never became reality because of us. At such times, we would do anything possible to stay out of his way.

On the other hand, he could be surprisingly gentle, loving and encouraging. He held me in his arms and cried when I was diagnosed with polio at age six. He encouraged me to start writing as soon as I learned to read. He emphasized, over and over, as I was growing up the importance of getting a good education, having a direction in life, planning a lifelong career. He tutored me in math, my least favorite subject, insisting that I was buying in to society's limitations on women's achievement by thinking I couldn't do math. He wanted me to succeed and encouraged me every step of the way at every level of school.

The dramatically different aspects of his personality and parenting were scary and confusing.  As a child, I often wondered what caused his erratic behavior. And as I grew older, he told me stories about his own childhood and I began to understand, at least a little.

He had adored his father, a gentle, scholarly man who didn't believe in hitting kids to discipline them. Prompted by his wife's shreiks to "Take this boy to the woodshed and heat the tar out of him!",  Henry would walk slowly to the woodshed with Jim, whip in hand. They would sit and talk, his father explaining why what he did was wrong, how he needed to change this behavior. Eager for approval, my father would agree, tears in his eyes for disappointing his Dad. When they emerged from the woodshed, his mother would see the tears and nod with satsifaction. His father, an attorney who worked with under-served minorities in Tucson, Arizona,  occasionally took him along to visit clients -- Chinese immigrants and Native Americans. Jim would watch, fascinated, as Henry spoke Chinese and Navajo with his clients, watch the mutual respect, enjoy treats offered -- lychee nuts and fry bread. He thought his father was the greatest person in the world.

                                  Baby Jim and his beloved father Henry in 1913      

Unfortunately, his father died when he was only eight years old. He had gone to Mexico to seek treatment for a disorder that my father always suspected was pernicious anemia and he had died there. His mother couldn't bear to tell her young children that their father was dead -- so she didn't. She told them that he was on a long business trip.

Six months after his father's death, classmates at his Catholic elementary school teased Jim about his father's death: "Your Daddy's dead! Your Daddy's dead!"

"No he's not!" Jim yelled back. "He's on a business trip! My Mom said so!" A group of classmates took him to the cemetery near the church and showed him his father's grave.  Jim fell on the grave, screaming and sobbing. The intensity of his grief was so frightening, the other boys ran away. When he told me this story, more than 50 years later, tears rolled down his cheeks.

When he got home and confronted his mother about it, she beat him and threatened further mayhem if he dared tell Molly the truth. So it would be another five years before Molly would find out that her Daddy was dead.

                                          Jim, Molly and their Mother in 1921  

Soon after, his mother, quickly losing her grip on sanity and sobriety, moved the family from Tucson to Los Angeles so my father could support the family by working in the movies and in vaudeville. He hated acting but was good at it -- and it was something he felt he had to do.  The family lived in a boarding house in downtown Los Angeles. His mother mostly drank. And when money was tight, she would beat  and berate Jim for not being a better provider.  So, in addition to his film and vaudeville work, he started selling and delivering The Saturday Evening Post and doing night janitorial work at the Central Market in downtown L.A.  And after his mother died of alcoholism when Jim and Molly, who had skipped three grades, were teenage college students, Jim continued to work multiple jobs to support them and get both himself and Molly through college at UCLA.

                                    Jim in movie publicity still about 1924
                                    (The freckles are mostly make-up for the film!)            

Hearing his stories about the hardships of his early life, I would bristle with anger. "Your mother was a horrible person," I would say. "She had an education. She was an English teacher before she married. How dare she take your childhood away and demand that you support the family and then beat you for not being a better provider?"

My father's face would soften. "Oh, no," he would say. "She was a wonderful person in so many ways. I guess you had to have been there."

As a parent, my father showed signs of his own father in gentle storytelling and encouragement to grow, but more signs of his brutal, drunken mother in angry words, belittling, beating, lashing out in fury. I alternately loved and feared him. When he would go on business trips, we all -- my mother included -- would call that time "The Golden Opportunity" to have fun, to relax, to live without fear.

On my 13th birthday, he lost his executive-level job in a corporate merger -- but, really, because of his alcoholism.  He was never able to get another one.  He started a small manufacturers' rep business, selling rubber magnetic strips cut to order.  The cutting was done with an ancient punch press without a guard device. He decided that we -- Mike, Tai and I -- should run the punch press -- a scary mini-guillotine -- "because I'm the breadwinner and if I lose a finger or part of my hand, it would be a disaster. You're just a kid. If you lose a finger, it doesn't really matter."

Despite our efforts, the business never really took off. Father continued to drink, could never get up before noon and rarely made the sales calls necessary to help the business grow. We slid from upper middle class to near poverty.  And an atmosphere of chaos and despair settled over the household.

                               Unhappy Family Man - Summer 1966 - with, from left:
                               Tai, 11, Mike, 17, Mother, Father, and me, 21.            

As an adult, I felt sadness for father's pain and disappointments and his ailments  -- diabetes, Parkinson's, heart disease -- and fury at his rejections and belittling. He tossed my first book - THE TEENAGE BODY BOOK -- the only one of my books that my parents would live to see published -- aside, calling it "dirty and disgusting." He refused to meet Bob or my sister's first husband Larry, locking himself in the bedroom when we would come over. My sister eloped. Bob and I had a lovely wedding -- which he boycotted.

The day he died, my mother and I were going through his safe, looking for his military discharge papers to give to the mortuary for veteran's benefits for his funeral. She picked up a manila envelope and handed it to me.

"Take this home and read this," she said. "It's important that you read it. It will explain a lot."

It was a transcript of the divorce proceedings from his brief first marriage. In this, his wife Mary and her mother described in detail his outrageous, abusive behavior. I gasped as I read their testimony. So he was like that long before I entered the world. I didn't ruin his life after all. The weight of that responsibility slipped off my shoulders and soul.  I felt instantly lighter. I hadn't realized the burden I had been carrying.

In the months after his death, I felt so much bitterness and anger fall away as I reflected on the pain of his life, the disappointments and dreams that, for a variety of reasons, none related to his family, didn't come true.

And yet, I can see him in all our dreams that did come true.

Mike would live Father's dreams -- for his own reasons, not for Father: he was a fighter pilot in combat in Vietnam and, when he returned home, he went to medical school at Stanford. A noted physician and expert in medical informatics, he is currently affiliated with both Harvard Medical School and USC after many years as the CIO of UCLA Medical Center.  The battered little boy his father said would never amount to anything has become what his father wanted to be but could never be: a sober, successful physician and a consistently loving, nurturing father.

In fact, Mike closely resembles the loving Dad our father lost too soon: the physical resemblance is startling and he is also a gentle, scholarly man who doesn't believe in hitting children to discipline them. Like the grandfather he never knew, he speaks multiple languages fluently and has a fascination with Asia. Our grandfather lived in China for some years in his youth. Mike has lived in Thailand and now, married to a wonderful Thai woman, splits his time between homes in the U.S. and Thailand.

Tai, whose strong spirit and warm, loving nature were evident early on as she sat with our mother in the bathroom during gall bladder attacks, holding her head as she vomited and saying softly "Mommy, I won't leave you."  eventually became the caring and competent nurse that our parents were convinced she could -- and should --be.

And, though he took issue with some of my subject matter,  I became the writer Father always encouraged me to be.

As Father's Day approaches once again, I think about my father.  I feel immense sadness at the pain of his life and sadness that he passed the pain on to his own children. I feel grateful for the resilience my siblings and I had in making our own lives. I feel regret that he wasn't able to share in the happiness of our marriages and career milestones. I'm sorry that he didn't get a second chance at loving via grandparenthood. He died many years before either Nick or Maggie were born.

But I don't feel angry or bitter or cheated. I'm delighted to have had a father who, during moments of sobriety, was intellectually stimulating, a great story-teller.  I feel fortunate to have had a father who expected much from me, who encouraged my writing and overcoming societal constraints on women, even before Betty Friedan and other feminists challenged the social order. I feel grateful to have known him. And I feel a surge of warmth and of surprise when I remember that, as much as I feared him, I also loved him.

For in between the brutality and anger and bitterness, he was wonderful in many ways.  I guess you had to have been there.

                               Family Portrait 2011: Mike, his wife Amp and daughter
                              Maggie, me and my husband Bob

Quiet Endings

There is a time in our lives when it seems that our parents will be there forever, when we get out of bed in the morning without a single pain, when our career dreams seem infinitely possible.

And there is a time in our lives when we know that our parents -- and ourselves -- are not exempt from mortality, when everything hurts first thing in the morning and when our career highlights are in the past or largely so. And when endings no longer surprise us, but still tug at our hearts.

I had such a moment yesterday, when Susan Ann Protter, my long-time literary agent, called to say that she was retiring and closing her agency. Why did I imagine that she would go on forever? Why did I feel a twinge at her retirement -- at age 71, for heavens sake? We talked about the recent loss of her beloved dog. We talked about the difficult logistics of closing an agency where dozens of royalty accounts for books sold remain active and must be passed on to another for safekeeping. And we talked about the past.

When we first encountered each other in 1976, I was an established magazine writer dreaming of writing books. But her interest wasn't sparked by one of my articles or a query. She saw the clarity and passion of my writing in an angry letter.

I had written it to a New York psychologist who wanted to collaborate with me on a book. After he had gone through four or five agents and refused to consider any changes to  a seriously flawed proposal, I wrote an angry but measured letter pointing out the proposal's conceptual and structural problems. He sent my letter to Susan, the latest agent he was trying to persuade to represent him, with a note that "I've found a new and wonderful writer!" She read the letter and liked my writing style, but didn't want to have anything to do with the psychologist. She called to ask if I had any other ideas I could do on my own or with someone else. I had longed to write a book on teenage health and sexuality with my friend Chuck Wibbelsman, a physician specializing in adolescent medicine. Two months later, she sold that book to Simon and Schuster and "The Teenage Body Book" was born. It won the "Best Book for Young Adults" award from the American Library Association a year after its initial 1979 publication. It has sold hundreds of thousands of copies world wide in a number of foreign language and domestic editions. The latest U.S. edition was published by Random House in 2008.

"It will probably be the last," Susan said yesterday. "Dr. Oz is coming out with a book on teenage health. It will probably be the death knell for "Body Book."

"Probably," I said. "But it has had a nice, long run."

So have we, Susan and I.  It hasn't always been easy.  Susan tells you what you need to hear, not always what you want to hear, but I've learned, over the years, to trust her judgment implicitly.  On two occasions, I overruled her judgement -- both for financial reasons -- and turned out to regret my decisions -- once with a book that had a bad contract that ended up causing me no end of grief and once with a year-long speaking tour that disrupted my smooth writing schedule and was the beginning of a downward slide in my career.  And there were the times when I left her agency -- once in a fit of omnipotence, once in a move to get my career back on track -- and each time I ended up coming back. There were times of anger and times of triumph and times of delightful mutual understanding.  In short, over the years, we became family.

Because she is family, Susan's closing her agency doesn't mean closing the door on our relationship.  I will always care how she is doing and feeling and what she is up to.

And because I'm not ready to retire as a writer, I will work with another agent, Gene Brissie, on future projects. Gene is a fairly new agent but has spent more than 30 years as an editor and publisher at major New York publishing houses. We first met when he was a very young editor at Simon and Schuster and his first editorial project was the original "Teenage Body Book" in 1979.  Gene is also a skilled professional and someone who will tell me what I need to hear, not always what I want to hear.  He is also someone with whom I share a long history and a professional yet familial relationship.

But there will never be anyone in my life quite like Susan -- with her larger than life personality, her tendency to be blunt, occasionally outrageous, always caring. Who knew all those years ago what a long and productive professional path we would travel -- and, despite or maybe even because of all the conflict and pain, shared victories and adventures in the changing world of publishing -- how much I would grow to love her?

We've had a good long run, indeed, Susan.  May retirement be another good long run and excellent adventure!

Retirement Nightmares: A Different View

Not long ago, a local newspaper ran a story about Ralph Ver Ploeg, a 75-year-old Mesa, Arizona man who works the drive-through line at a McDonald's in neighboring Gilbert. People opt eagerly for his line, even if it moves a little slower than the other. Why? Because, in addition to his order-taking efficiency, Ralph asks how a customer's day is going. He delights in hearing their news and offers support to people struggling through a job loss or divorce. He's kind. He cares. And his goodbye is "God bless."

In some ways, Ralph would seem to be living a old-age nightmare: he needs to work to supplement his retirement benefits. He was laid off from a full-time job in security two years ago and was unable to find full-time work. So he applied for part-time positions and landed at McDonald's.  He sees the lay-off as a great blessing because it brought him to the drive-through and the opportunity to share his love for God and life in general with hundreds of people a day.  His eyes filled with tears as he talked with the reporter about his job: "I love it so much. I feel that my whole life has been in preparation for this."

Such a positive attitude in the face of harsh economic realities is an inspiration and a lesson in making the most of what life brings.  I've seen seniors with so much more in material comforts complaining about being bored or not having friends or a spouse not being available enough -- or being too present -- and I can't help but think what we can learn from peers who seem so rich with so much less.

I have a dear friend I'll call Joe. I met Joe about twenty years ago in graduate school when I went back for a clinical Master's in psychology. When he walked into the classroom for the first time, clad in jeans and a Laker's t-shirt and speaking with a heavy New York accent, he seemed like a big, personable jock. Not surprisingly, he was a high school teacher and coach. I was shocked to discover, some weeks later, that he was, not so incidentally, a Catholic monk.

Initially, my reaction was to avoid him. A lapsed Catholic, I didn't want to get into a discussion of my issues with the Church.  "But you don't understand," he said, sitting beside me at the dinner break one day. "I'm in a period of my life when I'm questioning so much. I really would like to talk with someone who has questioned, too." With our questioning, our doubts, our stresses in working full-time while taking on a demanding graduate program, we became fast friends.  In our classroom clinical exercises, Joe showed promise of being an excellent therapist: he listened, remembered, encouraged, was down-to-earth, used humor appropriately and cared deeply.  Although he ultimately decided to transfer to the non-clinical program to become a school counselor, we still met for dinner breaks. On graduation day, we went out for a celebratory dinner together with our families.

In the years since, life has been less than kind to Joe.  He made the painful decision to leave the religious order he had entered at the age of thirteen. He taught religion and ethics at various Catholic high schools. He fought bouts of depression as he struggled to make his own way in the world after more than 40 years in a religious order. He went back to New York to care for his mother during her last illness. Some years passed. After her death, he headed back to California where, now 65, he has struggled to find work. He put in applications for substitute teaching. Nothing. He worked at Home Depot where, as the most recently hired, he was laid off in a cutback. He is currently living mostly in his 15-year-old car with his beloved dog and is surviving on lean Social Security benefits -- lean because, for the more than 40 years he worked as a religious order teacher, the Church did not pay into Social Security. His benefits cover only the last 15 years of his work since he left the order.  But he isn't complaining. He sees life as a blessing and a chance to reach out.  

Talking with a depressed teenage girl in a park one day, he dug deep into his suitcase of his life's treasures and gave her a copy of the 1994 edition of my "Understanding Teenage Depression" book that I had signed and given to him all those years ago, encouraging her to take it home and share it -- and her feelings -- with her parents.  He found a $5 bill on the sidewalk one day and invited another homeless man to enjoy a feast with him at a local fast food restaurant. He is upbeat about his situation. "Sure I'd love to be working, teaching, again," he says. "I'm going to keep applying for teaching jobs, for any jobs. But I feel blessed. I've made peace with myself. Even if nothing changes, I'm a happy man. I'm living in an area I love. I have my faithful, sweet dog. I feel God is with me. I enjoy the sunshine and the ocean air. I can laugh at myself and at life. I have no regrets and wonderful memories. I loved my time as a monk. I loved teaching and doing missionary work in New Guinea. And studying psychology was such a gift. Think of it -- me, this poor kid growing up in a tenement in New York. What a great life I've had! Sure, I'm broken in some ways. I know now that depression is in my genes. My father self-medicated with alcohol. I take medication. Life isn't always easy. But I'm blessed. I still love. I still laugh. I still have so much to give, however I find a way. My goal is random kindness every day I live."

I marveled at his enthusiasm as we spoke on the phone.  I've been plagued on occasion by bag lady fantasies and have wondered how I would cope if I were to lose everything and be looking at growing old on the margins of society.

Perhaps those challenges are not the worst nightmares of old age after all. Maybe there is more to fear from what I see from some other peers:  pettiness, boredom, selfishness, bigotry, unkindness or complacency.

I don't know if I would be as gracious as Ralph Ver Ploeg if I found myself working the drive-through at McDonald's or as kind and giving as Joe if I found myself homeless. But the lessons they can teach on savoring an unlikely opportunity, counting blessings, living with kindness and gratitude and love every day are priceless. 

Used To Be

Some years ago, I was on a book tour when a familiar face appeared at my last television stop in Oklahoma City.  She was my favorite (and toughest) former Northwestern University journalism professor Elizabeth Swayne Yamashita. Elizabeth was a tough on the outside, soft on the inside Australian, big, blonde, larger than life, a sort of female Crocodile Dundee. She was a noted journalist teaching part-time when we first encountered each other at Northwestern. Her other world was at Time-Life where she was an investigative reporter for Fortune magazine.

By this time, she had shifted the focus of her career to mostly academic pursuits and was now dean of the journalism school at the University of Oklahoma. She planned to write books when she retired six years hence. Thus, I was surprised when she replied to the television producer's question about whether she was a journalist, too. "I used to be," she said softly.

My heart sank. Used to be. There was nothing "used to be" about Elizabeth. In my mind, she was still a journalistic star, still a contender, and was choosing, as well, to pass her craft on to new generations. How could she be talking about "used to be"?

I told her the phrase made me sad, like she was giving up a part of herself

"I not finished," she said. "Just growing on."

The conversation has stayed with me through many of my own life changes.

The other day, in the gym, a fellow exerciser was talking with my husband Bob about his concern over his wife's serious depression. When I joined them, the man smiled and said. "I heard that you're a therapist."

I felt a mix of emotions -- wishing I could help, especially when I heard how difficult it was to get psychotherapy in this rural area. But my licensure is in California, not Arizona.  I made the decision to retire from practicing psychotherapy to concentrate on writing once again when we moved last year. I can't legally practice in Arizona.

"I used to be a therapist," I said at last. And it only stung for a moment, mostly because I wanted to help more than I was able.

We say "used to be" at major transitions points in our lives -- as we look back to the certainty of what was as we stand poised for the uncertainty of the future.

I remember my first night at the freshman dorm at Northwestern University.  We all sat in the hall that night, trying to look cool and not nearly as scared as we were. Many smoked for the first time. We shared stories about the big shots we used to be in high school. We were trying to hold onto our specialness, trying to impress each other. But we were in for a shock: we had all been high school superstars. When I said that I had been editor of my high school newspaper and co-editor of the yearbook, there were echoes down the hall "So was I." "Me, too."  "Count me in as well."

My shoulders sagged and I wondered if I would ever be special again. Only a few weeks later, I found myself excited and happy to be surrounded by so many bright peers who shared my passions.

It isn't all that different in early retirement when, at least initially, who you are in your own mind is more the person you used to be rather than the person you're becoming. It's harder for some than others. Observing people whose retirement wasn't voluntary,  I see some of them choke on the words "used to." Others scramble to find a new cause, a new identity, to fill the gaping hole of loss.

There can, indeed, be a grieving period when one steps away from a career that has meant so much, even if that step is completely voluntary. I see it in retirement. And I saw it throughout my working life.

I have some experience with stepping away, winding down, one career in favor of another -- and grief has been a part of each transition.

My first five years after college, I had two demanding careers: I was a writer and editor on the staff of a national magazine and I was a professional actress, doing stage, television and voice-overs. When I was 27 and in the middle of a run of the musical "High Button Shoes" starring Gavin MacLeod, I came to the painful conclusion that while I liked acting, I didn't like the business. It wasn't a good fit for me emotionally. Even those of us who were working at least a little in the business experienced so much rejection and insecurity. I saw very talented actors who were not stars -- though they deserved to be -- aging, working less as actors and more in marginal part-time jobs. And I didn't want that to be me. So I decided to quit,  once the show closed,  and concentrate on writing. Although I ended up doing one more show -- "Dylan" -- ironically, my favorite acting experience -- I stepped away from acting forever when I was 28.  I shed a lot of tears in the process of deciding and, again, after my last curtain call. Then I walked away and haven't looked back.

I used to be an actress. I can say it with wonder and amusement now. It seems like another lifetime, though my acting experience was very helpful when my writing career blossomed and I was a frequent guest on national television talk shows. I never felt that my time as an actress was wasted. It just prepared me to "grow on" as Elizabeth put it.

And twenty years later, when publishing began to change and my once flourishing writing career took a dive, I went back to graduate school to become a psychotherapist -- both to gain more credibility as a writer and to have an alternate gig to keep me afloat financially.  The transition wasn't easy. I shed a lot of tears over the downturn in my writing career.  Pursuing a whole new career demanded that I grow in very  different ways. But through all the hard work in school, in clinical internships and in establishing a private practice, I never even thought "used to be" when I thought of writing.  Even though my career as a therapist took a much larger portion of my time during the last 15 years of my working life, I was always, at heart, a writer first, though I loved reaching out and helping others as a psychotherapist.

Today, I can smile and say that I used to be an actress and a therapist.  I learned and grew so much from each career, each life experience -- and now I've come full circle back to writing. But it's different. The book contracts aren't lined up anymore. The national television shows aren't calling.  But I don't focus on what used to be.  I'm happy and growing and optimistic whatever happens.

I realize that I am fortunate to be rediscovering a passion. We all find our own ways to define our lives and life purpose in retirement.

Some find happiness and purpose by being only semi-retired. A former university physics professor who lives nearby is transitioning from college teaching to teaching physics at the local high school. He has taught there for two years and just signed up for one more. Then, he says, he will be ready to fully retire. Another neighbor, who found that he very much missed his managerial position in a major corporation, has become involved in local politics and city planning -- and finds that this gives the structure to his days that he so missed in his first months of retirement.  His wistful "I used to..." has become an excited "I am...."

Others find fulfillment by using the skills of a lifetime of living and working to help others as community volunteers.

Still others, who made a smooth transition from employment to full retirement, share excitement and wonder at pursuing so many interests and activities so long deferred and now quite possible.

Perhaps, whether or not we choose to launch new careers or to discover or rediscover passions, we need to counter all  of our "I used to" feelings with affirmative "I am.." statements.

So here's the list I'm just starting:

I used to be young.  Now I'm young in spirit.
I used to be slim.  Now I'm working on reaching a healthy weight.
I used to dance. Now I exercise more than I have in decades.
I used to have an exciting career. Now I get excited by daily life.
I used to be sort of, almost, famous.  Now I am content.
I used to think if I could reach another career milestone, I would be happy. Now I am happy.

We can allow our thoughts about what was, what used to be, to cloud our vision of today. We can look back wistfully to the days when we had small waists and firm thighs, big dreams for the future and a myriad of options. Or we can focus on the people we've become, who we are right now. And we can celebrate the ways that we've grown on through a lifetime of challenges and triumphs to the wonderful possibilities of today.

A Memorial Day Tribute

Many families have a shadow member, a beloved lost relative who lives on in faded photographs, family stories and continuing tears.

George Walter Curtis, my mother's younger brother, is a prominent shadow figure in our family. Forever young, forever missed, he haunted my youthful imagination.

I remember one summer, while visiting my grandparents' Kansas farm, I explored the attic of their house with my cousins Jack Hill and George Taylor, who had been named for the uncle he never knew.  I opened a drawer and pulled out a little box. Opening it, I saw a medal -- a Purple Heart. "Oh," said my cousin George, taking the box and closing it gently.  "Don't let Grandma know we saw this. Don't ever mention it to her. It will make her cry. That's Uncle George's Purple Heart. Both Grandma and Grandpa can't talk about George Walter without crying, even after all this time. So please don't say anything."

I kept quiet. 

But at home, George Walter was a real presence. My mother, who sometimes talked of him with tears in her eyes, told me stories of a sweet little boy, eight years younger than she, who loved to play hide and seek, but would always blow his cover by hiding in the same place -- his mother's sewing machine cabinet -- and by singing "Jesus Loves Me, This I Know" while he waited for his sisters to find him.

                                             George Walter Curtis - 1922

She told me that my grandfather not only adored him, but saw George as a vital link to the future of the family farm. From an early age, he did chores eagerly, learning every aspect of the farm's operation. He was an excellent student and star athlete, both in high school and in college, where he majored in agricultural science. 

                                          George Walter at age thirteen

He enjoyed life to the fullest -- whether he was working on the farm or playing with his new little niece Caron, named for my mother and the daughter of my mother's closest sister Evelyn. He loved to spend time with her and dreamed of starting a family of his own once the war was over.

                                                   George Walter and niece Caron - 1943

World War II loomed large in his immediate life plans. He became a Lieutenant in the Army Air Force and was a B-24 navigator. He wrote enthusiastic letters home from his training base in Texas -- how swell his fellow airmen were, how he had met a nice girl, how they liked to go to church together.  He was delighted when he got leave that would allow him to be with his parents for his mother's birthday on July 27 and his 24th birthday on July 28 before he left to rejoin his unit on July 30, 1944 for the long trip to England and combat over the skies of Germany.

                                 The last goodbye - Lt. George Curtis and his mother Gladys 
                                   

On October 6, 1944, his plane was shot down over Germany and George was hit by a stray bullet. As they prepared to abandon the flaming aircraft, a buddy dragged George, in his parachute, out of the plane. But George was dead before they reached the ground. 

For a farming family to lose an only son was a disaster. But the emotional toll was far greater. My grandfather, a kind and gentle man who loved his family dearly, never recovered from his loss, retreating into memories and quiet grief, as he continued running the family farm until his death in 1963 at the age of 78. While my grandmother enjoyed her daughters and warmly embraced her grandchildren, there was always the grief, the quiet moments alone, when the tears would come again.  And she would relive some of the old and chilling fears when, in another time and another war, three other loved ones went to war: my cousin George in the Navy, cousin Jack in the Air Force, flying transport planes from the U.S. to Southeast Asia and my brother Mike, whom she raised through adolescence,  in the Air Force, flying F-4 fighter jets in combat over North Vietnam. She welcomed them all home safely.  She lived to see Mike go to medical school. She lived to pass on to him a few of the keepsakes from her father that she had saved for her son who held her tight one late July day and then boarded a train, never to return.

The generation in the family who knew and loved George directly is quickly passing.  His entire immediate family is gone: his parents and all three sisters. Of the next generation, only Caron, born in 1940, knew him and felt the warmth of his embrace.  When she thinks back to those hazy, long-ago memories, her eyes fill with tears.  And those who came soon after, but too late to know him directly -- my cousins Jack and George, my brother Mike and me-- all of us born between 1945 and 1948 -- grew up feeling a bit of the grief our grandparents and parents felt, the void he left in the family, the heartbreak of the loss of this very special -- and very typical -- young man.

                             Cousins united in memory, from left: Caron Hill Roudebush,
                             George Taylor, Kathy McCoy, and Jack Hill
                                         

I was reminded of the loss, the sacrifice, the promise that once was when I visited the cemetery in Toronto, Kansas, the small town where my mother and her siblings grew up, on Memorial Day in 2007 with my cousin Jack. There was a moving ceremony with an honor guard made up of elderly World War II veterans, all of whom knew Uncle George well.

                                The Honor Guard: George Walter's cousins, classmates
                                and peers - Memorial Day, Toronto, Kansas - 2007

                            Clockwise, from top: cousins Jack Hill, Candace Sherman, 
                            Leslie Sherman and me, Memorial Day, 2007 at
                            Toronto, Kansas cemetery where Uncle George is buried.   

One of the Honor Guard, Leslie Sherman, was George's first cousin, at the cemetery that day with his daughter Candace, one of my favorite relatives. He told me that he also had been Uncle George's college roommate and felt his loss in so many ways, on so many occasions throughout his long life.  As they do every Memorial Day, Leslie and Candace had already decorated the grave that Uncle George now shares with his parents.

                                        

Seeing Leslie with Candace, I thought of all the life experiences that George Walter had missed: the church-going girlfriend who just might have become his wife, the cherished children, the farm lovingly tended, the blessing of growing old close to the land and to the people he loved most.  I thought how such a vibrant young life had been snuffed out in a minute, one of the many millions of precious lives lost in World War II and in all the wars to follow.

And I thought of the extension of grief, of missing him and loving him from one generation to another and then another.  And we, who loved him but never knew him, bowed our heads in silent prayer as a soft, warm breeze blew and a bugler played taps in the distance. 

The Secrets of Long, Happy Marriages

A news flash from the U.S. Census Bureau this week reported that the number of people in long-lasting marriages has increased over the past decade.  Some 55 percent of married couples in the U.S. have been together at least 15 years and 35 percent have celebrated their 25th anniversary. The Golden Anniversary 50 year plus couples comprise six percent of the married population.

Of course, we all know that a marriage that lasts decades is just part of the equation. Many of us have known long-married couples who could barely tolerate each other or who divorced after many years together.

And I saw many couples during my years as a marriage/family therapist who were ready to bail out of their relationship at the first sign of trouble or serious disagreement.  They had no tolerance of the occasional distance or discomfort that comes with any intimate relationship.

So who are the people who not only stay married for decades but who travel happily from youth to old age together?

I would love to hear the thoughts you have on the secrets of long-wedded happiness! For every couple, there is a unique story.  But it seems that there are also some characteristics that enduring relationships share.

Based simply on my own observations as a therapist, as the resident of an over-55 community populated by many happy, long married couples and as a partner in a marriage that has reached the 34 year mark today, here are some of the characteristics I've seen and experienced that the long and happily married seem to share:

• They tolerate the small annoyances with a spirit of generosity.  As a therapist, I heard many complaints about partners who didn't squeeze the toothpaste right, who told the same story twice, who have different standards of housekeeping and the level of outrage over this was intense in couples headed for trouble.  The long-married, on the other hand, seem to accept, even come to enjoy each other's quirks.  My husband Bob will listen to me tell the same story for the 200th time and, bless him, laugh just as heartily the 200th time as he did the first time. He says he is delighted by the consistency of my stories.  (A friend and co-worker who used to travel on business with me, on the other hand, could be driven to the screaming point by the second repetition of a story.) When someone remarked to our next door neighbor Larry that sometimes his wife Louise will start a parallel conversation when he begins to speak, he smiled fondly.  "But if she waited for me to finish what I had to say, she might forget what she had to say," he said. "I don't mind at all. I enjoy her spirit -- and hearing her talk!" And one has the feeling that their parallel conversations, in a very real sense, are like singing in harmony together.
• They team up in adversity.  While a life crisis can drive a conflicted couple apart, bonded couples combine forces to deal with the crises and difficulties that come to all of us. Bob and I have survived many of these -- deaths in the family, career transitions, illness, depression, adversities. One of the greatest challenges to marital teamwork is when a crisis happens as the result of one of the partners making a mistake. Supporting and troubleshooting, rather than simply blaming, is a sign of true partnership. Early in my relationship with Bob, when we had big dreams and little money, a major celebrity approached me about ghostwriting a book for her, offering me a sum of money that seemed incredibly generous then. When it appeared that I had blown the deal by inadvertently offending the celebrity, Bob embraced me warmly.  "We don't need that $10,000 from her," he said. "We were fine before she came to you and we'll be fine if she storms away. What matters is that we love each other and we're hard workers and we'll do just fine in our life together." And he was right.  His loving support actually gave me the courage to walk away from the project when I realized that accepting the deal would have been a horrible mistake.  And life went happily on with my true partner.  
• They don't panic during rough times.  I used to do therapy with a couple who, every time they were upset with each other, would threaten divorce. It hung between them as an ever-present threat, making their marriage seem tenuous and temporary.  Happy couples know that the times of depression and distance and anger aren't lasting and, in many instances, are opportunities to learn more and grow closer in the process of weathering the storm. Having faith in each other and in the relationship they have built over time helps partners over the rough spots that are simply part of life.  One of the greatest gifts I received before Bob and I were married was a letter from Barbe Schellhardt, who is married to Tim, one of my dearest friends from college.  She told me that if we could realize that marriage did not make one immune from depression, loneliness and other states endemic to the human condition, Bob and I would have a chance at long-lasting happiness and, indeed, she was right.  We feel depressed or lonely or sad for any number of reasons throughout our lives -- and if we see this as part of being human instead of automatically blaming our partners -- we do, indeed, have a chance to grow old together.
• They make each other smile.  A sense of humor is a great asset in any marriage -- and so is the desire to please each other. I see so many acts of kindness, so many quietly thoughtful gestures in the long-married couples who live in our community. There is an innate graciousness between the partners and, at the same time, an ability to laugh about things younger people might find hard to take.  At the pool, we laugh at ourselves and our inevitable signs of aging, with the knowledge that we're cherished by spouses who remember when we were young, slim and firm -- and who love who we were and who we are. The partners know when to tease and when to reassure -- and when to maintain a gentle silence. 
• They're committed for life, no matter what.  Growing together -- and growing old -- in a marriage doesn't mean gliding along in perfect harmony without missing a beat.  When I was young, I used to see long married couples take to the dance floor, whirling around so easily, anticipating and flowing into each graceful step -- and imagine that I would do that quite automatically with my future husband.  However,  after 35 years together -- 34 married -- Bob and I have not yet managed to cut such a figure on the dance floor.  Having learned to dance at a girls' school where I always had to dance the role of the guy, I can't follow to save my life. Bob hates wrestling me around the dance floor. While we have plans to take dance lessons and learn this gliding thing while we can still move, our inability to project grace and harmony on the dance floor in no way detracts from the grace and harmony of our relationship that has been built through love and hard work over the decades. Our roughest years of marriage were the early ones -- the ones people so often consider the blissful honeymoon years.  We struggled with the baggage of past relationships, conflicts with my parents, fear, insecurity and immaturity. And as we struggled together through those rough early times, it became clear that while life wasn't always easy, we were going to be living it together.  And the longer we lived and the more we learned through all of our life experiences, the more our happiness and our solid commitment grew.  We both agree that these last ten years -- as we've faced the challenges and joys of growing old together -- have been our happiest ever.  

Despite the poetic invitation to "grow old along with me.....the best is yet to be!" none of us have any guarantees. We don't know whether the best is yet to be -- or whether our best day ever is today or if the best is in the past.

But those of us fortunate enough to be growing old with a cherished mate or life partner know that, whatever comes, we'll be there for each other with love.

Best wishes to all of the long-married couples whose love has survived and thrived through decades of life's ups and downs.

And happy 34th anniversary, Bob.  Loving you and feeling your love has been the greatest blessing of my life.

                                                    Bob and Me - May 28, 1977

                                                   Bob and Me - May 28, 2006