Iris Ruth Pastor's Blog, page 23

Can You Go “Home” Again?

Going back to my hometown is a zipless path back to my past:  

     Seeing friends who go back as far as first grade 
     Catching up with couples my husband and I sat in the stands with while watching our kids play soccer in the fall, basketball in the winter and baseball in the spring. (We thought it would all go on forever.) 

Now when we visit those couples, we sit in comfortable family rooms sharing photos of grandchildren, talking about updates we have made to our homes so we can stay in them longer (called handicap accessible) and notice that though we are readily recognizable to each other, our hair is grayer, our walk not as robust and our short-term memories shot.  
  
It’s not all about visiting the people. My time is also spent driving past the houses I have lived in or have been a significant part of my life. I drive past them often when I’m in town because each home marks a different chapter in my life. And when I feel surrounded by ghosts, it’s more comforting for me to visit the homes they inhabited than the cemeteries where they now lay buried.  
  
I drive past at different times of the day, slowing down to take a picture from my car window or trying unsuccessfully to see beyond the windows into the physical interiors. 
  
I notice casement windows have been replaced with double hung. A front door is now mahogany, not fire engine red. The top of the towering oak tree still dangerously overhangs the garage in the back yard. I notice the landscaping, the condition of the lawn and driveway, the number of cars in the driveway and the sheer size of the homes themselves – always much smaller than remembered. 
  

And I wonder about the people. Who lives in my old room in Bond Hill? If it’s a little girl, is she worried about the boy who lives across the street peering in her oversized window facing his house – like I was?

Are there still beer cans hidden in the bushes of our former home in a suburb of Cincinnati? Do kids sneak onto the family room roof to smoke, as mine did? Did the new owners expand the finished basement – update the kitchen replacing the chipped Formica with granite and the knotty pine kitchen cabinets with more upscale scale cabinetry?And in my parent’s former home, did the new owners finally break down the wall between the kitchen and dining room as we had begged my parents to do for years to make it more expansive? Is the chain link fence still there – the one that housed our family dog? Is that ugly white tile still on the guest bathroom floor?  

I tried to find out. Respecting COVID concerns and recognizing how suspicious people are nowadays, I was hesitant to knock on the occupants’ doors of the houses that had meant so much to me and request a tour. So, one evening, I got the bright idea to send each of the occupants of the three homes a postcard. (After all, I knew their addressees.) I simply stated I was in town, had lived in their house or my parents had lived in their house and I’d love to come by and see it. 
  
I mailed the stamped postcards over two weeks ago. 
I listed my cell phone and e mail address.  
I eagerly awaited a response.  
None came.  
My efforts to connect came to naught  
  
Maybe it’s better that way –  
My memories of those special houses won’t be sullied by seeing improvements, updates and rehabs. I won’t see other family’s photos adorning the walls. Strange furniture flanking the fireplaces. Unfamiliar cars in the garages. 
  
Maybe it’s better that way –   
In my mind’s eye, my mom is still serving us dinner in the wood paneled breakfast room in Bond Hill.  
My kids’ soccer cleats still block the first step of the staircase leading to the second floor bedrooms.  
My kids and husband and I are still enjoying Sunday night dinners with my mom and dad in the ranch house they moved into after I graduated from high school, watching our kids shamelessly begging for free samples of the steaks my dad was gleefully grilling for us all.  
  
Maybe memories and past images are better left undisturbed and not updated.  
  
Keep Preserving Your Bloom, 
  
Iris Ruth Pastor

How I Feel About Turning 74

On August 5, I turn 74 years old.
 
Modifications are in the making: 
             When it comes to my purses, fashionable has been replaced  by  practical.            
             When it comes to my jeans, funky has been replaced by comfortable.                               
             When it comes to my brassieres, sexy has been replaced by sturdy.
 
My sports heroes – like all-time greatest baseball catcher Johnny Bench – have long since retired. But I have to admit, after meeting him in person last week, he’s still a pretty cool dude. 
 

 
 
How do I feel about turning 74? Hmmm. Let’s peruse my body: 
             My mouth is filled with capped teeth, implants and bridges.
             My fingernails are false, my hair heavily conditioned and colored.
             My knees, hips and shoulders are still my own, but saggy, achy and stiff.
             And my ankle, sprained badly over a year ago, is still swollen and sore.
 
The number of books I have bought and then abandoned after a few chapters is growing. The latest is The Weight of Ink. Life’s gotten too short to stick with a book that lulls me to sleep, rather than rallies me to action.
 
Deletions: 
            I’m no longer wearing my contact lenses daily. Why? Dryness of my eyes – not to mention the other areas of my body suffering the same fate.
            I’m no longer wearing over half the shoes in my closet. Why? Heels too high. Balance too wobbly. 
            I’m no longer buying razors on a regular basis. Why? No need any more to daily, twice weekly, bi weekly or even monthly shave my legs. This is the opposite situation from my need to deal with reoccurring, coarse black hairs increasingly appearing at an alarmingly rapid rate on my chin. 
 
HB2Me (Happy Birthday to Me).
 
Reality Check: I took the worst picture of my life in the waning days of my 73rd year.
 
“You don’t really look like that,” my husband quipped after seeing the horror on my face and handing me a tissue to stem the torrent of tears streaming down my face. “Just a bad angle, babe.”
 
“Yeah. Right,” I muttered. “You’re only saying that cause you happen to look pretty good.”
 
He didn’t reply.
 

 
After posting it, I pressed DELETE and gleefully watched it disappear from my phone photos – hopefully forever.
 
In addition, I’m suddenly squeamish about driving on the very expressways I’ve driven on fearlessly since age 16. I swear the lanes have gotten narrower, semi-trailer trucks have gotten larger and speed limits are more blatantly ignored. I’m now the little old lady I laughed at years ago – the one stalwartly driving with both hands clenching the steering wheel, besieged by scowling faced drivers impatiently zipping by her, as she stubbornly adheres to the posted speed limit of 55mph. 
 
Wine makes me fat and sleepy. Not sensual and gabby.
 
And my hubby has grown immensely tired of my constant refrain of yelling “What?” after every thought, opinion or phrase he utters. My hearing was tested and next week I will be donning hearing aids – designed to make my ability to decipher all that jumbled noise (aka conversation) into something crisp, clear and sharp. 
 
My birthday present was an Installation of grab bars in our bathtub and shower (plus my hearing aids) – cancelling out a Chihuly knock-off I’ve been eagerly ogling at a local gallery for the past year. 
 
Now, when we get together with family and friends, our grandkids and our aches, pains, procedures and meds are edging out talk of travel, fashion, new restaurants and politics.
            Travel is too far.
            Fashion is too skimpy.
            New restaurants too noisy. 
            Politics too crazy. 
 
My beloved generation of compatriot baby boomers have turned into geezers and crones. And how do I feel about that? 
 
All in all, I think we’d agree, “Better over the hill, than under it.”
 
So, HB2usall (Happy Birthday to us all).
 
And may we keep blooming,
 
Iris Ruth Pastor 

I Can’t Get No Satisfaction Or Can I?

First, I was hugely annoyed that the scale was projecting once again an upward northern movement – 6 ounces to be exact.
 
Second, I was somewhat annoyed that the prescription for my high cholesterol meds was once again delayed. (I know, my priorities are slightly skewed!)
 
Third, I was annoyed that it took five minutes to figure out how to work the clasp on my new necklace – which resulted in me being late for my weekly lunch date with my friends.
 
Geez. Life is sooo annoying.
 
Then I got the e mail about Susie.
 
It came from Woodward High School – Cincinnati, Ohio – Class of 1965 and the subject was: In Memory Update. That always signals that one more of our high school classmates has passed on.
 
This time it was Susie – a junior high friend who I haven’t seen since our 10th high school reunion. 
 
Shame washed over me. Being in good health, how petty that I allowed myself to be saddled with huge globs of aggravation over the minutiae of my daily routine. Geez.
 
Not only did my husband and I attend the same high school, but we graduated the same year. 
 
 

And how very lucky we are to have an active high school website, plus a valued chronicler keeping our huge graduating class informed of both milestones and events. Thank you, Mark Abrams. 
 
Susie’s demise jumpstarted me to do some digging – uncovering some stats on those of us who went to high school in the late 50’s and early to mid 60’s. 
 
We were the first wave of baby boomers, so the Class of “65 was huge – 760 of us. We were a diverse bunch – hailing from the wealthiest suburbs of Cincinnati to the less affluent parts of the city. We were black, white, Jewish, Christian, bright and not so bright. While many of us worked, after school, many of us didn’t – pocketing our allowance to eagerly spend at the new shopping center across the street from our massive school. 
 

 
The hourly wage in 1965 was $1.25
A new home cost about $21,500.
The cost of a dozen eggs was 53 cents.
The cost of a regular gallon of gas was 31 cents.
 
And here’s one of the most popular songs of that year – now heard on You Tube, sandwiched between ads – no longer blasting from a fat tube from which the records would drop down and play one at a time.
 
https://www.google.com/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=web&cd=&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=2ahUKEwjWiI2kh-3xAhXlKVkFHcc3Ca8Q3ywwAnoECAUQAg&url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DnrIPxlFzDi0&usg=AOvVaw33fijInlWYlWL6l-bSJgxE
 
Back then, I feel pretty sure that even with having just one phone, a mower you had to push, a black and white TV with only 3 stations, Lipton’s Onion Soup as our only dip option, not much privacy, no Internet, no swiping, no cell phones or no virtual reality that we muddled through and did “get satisfaction.”
 
And now? Fifty-six years later? Well there are no stats on our happiness quotient, our marriage status, our occupations, our income, the number of children and grandchildren we have. The President of our  Class didn’t become the President of the United States. Ditto for the Vice President. And in spite of high expectations, the class’s “CUTEST COUPLE” didn’t stay together either. My boyfriend actually married a woman who later became one of my best friends – but that’s another column entirely.
 
I like to think that each one of us from that very memorable class and that very memorable time did manage over the decades to “get satisfaction.” 
 
Many of us found that satisfaction by remaining in place. Two hundred thirteen of us still live in Ohio. But many of us spread out from the Midwest – reflecting the growing trend of the times to relocate. We are in 34 states, Mexico, the Cayman Islands and Washington DC. And the highest number of graduates who left Ohio now live in Florida, followed by California and Kentucky. 
 
At first, deaths of our classmates were from freak accidents or acts of nature. Increasingly, our ranks are being reduced by physical ailments and diseases. At this writing, 106 of us are deceased out of the 594 of us who are accounted for on the website. (Approximately 200 folks are missing – without contact information.)
 
Our class Motto was: 
                 ESSE QUAM VIDERI: To be rather than seem to be
 
I like to think that each of us, in our own way, lived up to that motto.
                                                                                                     
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
 
Iris Ruth Pastor
 

You Never Know What You’re Going To Get

My husband and I decided to embark on a road trip to our hometown – Cincinnati Ohio – starting from Tampa, where we now reside.  
Basically, it’s just “down the street a ways” on I-75. A thousand miles or so.
 
Our first stop was Macon, Georgia, six hours from Tampa. I googled bed and breakfasts and the Burke Mansion popped up immediately. 


 
It is a Queen Anne Victorian residence built in 1877, sporting the largest butler’s pantry in Macon, highly decorative molding and fireplace mantels throughout and a massive front porch. Not to mention, the proliferation of stain glass windows and exquisite furnishings gracing every room. 
 

 
Of course, when you by-pass word-of-mouth suggestions, and go straight to the internet for your research, you just never know what you are going to get. However, I just had a feeling the Burke Mansion was my kind of place: old, charming, low key – with maybe a few ghosts hanging around. And, in the stillness of the night, maybe a few walls that would speak of past grand events.
 
I booked it immediately. 
 
 
The mansion was constructed by Thomas C. Burke, referred to locally as a “Merchant Prince” in 1877. Townspeople remarked that an invite to the Burke Mansion was “highly coveted.” 
You know the kind of house: the one you gaze at longingly from the street, thinking that “If I lived there, I’d be happy forever.”
 
Apparently, even the Burkes weren’t immune to sorrow penetrating their grand fortress. Public records revealed the Burkes had five children, but only two daughters made it to adulthood. 
 
The two surviving daughters, May and Martina, never married nor had children. After the death of both parents, they split their time between their Macon antebellum mansion and New York City, where they resided at The Plaza Hotel. 
 


 
Rumors hinted at a sisterly rift, as it appeared the two did not dine together. Actually, they did – each ate at opposite ends of the immensely long dining room table in the enormous dining room – thus those passing by saw each of them through a different window and assumed it was in different rooms!
 
On the one night we were there, my husband retired early so I spent the entire evening roaming the house – getting acquainted with its bones. No ghosts were sighted. No walls spoke of past intrigues. Only a quiet dignified silence accompanied me as I roamed from room to room. The house drew me back to a bygone era – an era where a whole room was devoted to sewing and multiple first floor sitting rooms were devoted to entertaining company engaged in lively conversation. And people actually sat in their front porches rocking, relaxing and hanging out.
 

 
The childless sisters lived in their family home until their respective deaths in the 1960’s. Proceeds from the sale of the Burke Mansion  started the T. C. Burke Foundation, which cares for terminally ill cancer patients in Bibb County. It’s still flourishing today. 
 
FYI: American actor, producer and director Tyler Perry recently rented The Burke Mansion for $25,000. Its massive dining room will be featured in his next upcoming movie “A Jazzman’s Blues” for all of 14 seconds.
 
You never know that you’re going to get when you are in the midst of Preserving Your Bloom.
 
Iris Ruth Pastor

What Happens When You Get Out Of Your Comfort Zone?

When my kids heard I was going to knitting camp, I imagine they rolled their eyes. Then, if we had all been together, they might have looked at me with something akin to pity. Then they’d probably would mutter the following to each other, as they patted me on my head: “Mom has way too much time on her hands, but camp will keep her occupied and off our backs, so that’s a good thing….”

I think they would have been surprised to learn that though I actually was looking forward to the experience, it also was stress inducing. One of my favorite quotes is “Knitting keeps me from unraveling” and knitting is what I would be doing six hours every day for a week. So why was going to “knitting camp” filling me with such anxiety?      
I knew no one
      No access to TV
      Spotty cell phone service 
      Dependent on myself to orient, socialize and absorb
      And, after 7pm each evening, no activities 

I remind myself: Where is my joy?
      Learning new skills
      Meeting new people 
      Traveling to new places
      Feeling the knot of fear and doing it anyway
 
So it’s not surprising that early Sunday morning I found myself ambivalently boarding the plane to Atlanta. Final destination: rural North Carolina. 

My week turned out to be a roller coaster ride of emotions and situations:
      Information overload 
      Stimulation
      Jubilation
      Frustration
      Appreciation
      Sheer Fun
 Information:
Learning a bit of local yoreMy knitting foray is at John C. Campbell Folk School, located in Brasstown, North Carolina. Historian and sociologist James W. Loewen identified Brasstown as one of several possible sundown towns in North Carolina.

According to www.blackpast.com, Sundown Towns are all-white communities, neighborhoods or counties that exclude Blacks and other minorities through the use of discriminatory laws, harassment, and threats or use of violence. The name derives from the posted and verbal warnings issued to Blacks that although they might be allowed to work or travel in a community during the daytime, they must leave by sundown. 

It’s no wonder I misread this sign near the entrance to the school as “lawlessness,” not “lowlessness.”
 
 Stimulation:
Mastering techniquesWe were seven women, ranging in age from mid-forties and up, (I think I was the oldest) with varying degrees of knitting expertise. (I self-ranked myself as the second least accomplished knitter of the group.) 

Free-form knitting was the focus, with more emphasis on  technique rather than turning out a finished product. We practiced seams, intricate patterns, adding beads to our creations, difficult stitches, composition. However, with these guys, creativity couldn’t be stifled.

One knitter started on a purse, then turned it into a work of art as a iPad holder.

 Another turned her miscellaneous knitting scraps into a collage of all-seeing eyes. 

 

Jubilation I was so happy that I had ample opportunity to add to my stash of quotes:

“I sat down and knitted for some time – my usual resource under discouraging circumstances.”
Isabella L. Bird, A Lady’s Life in the Rocky Mountains“Knitting,” he thought, “was a comfort to the soul. It was regular. It was repetitious. And, in the end, it amounted to something.”
Jan Karon, At Home in Mitford 
 
“I knit so that I don’t kill people.”
Anonymous FrustrationI was very slow to pick up every new technique we were introduced to. While my classmates incorporated their samples into works of art, I produced only a heap of scrumbles to carry home. (Scrumbles are any little pieces you knit, use and put together.)And as I jotted down pages and pages of written instructions, my inner voice roared:I can’t do it
It’s too hard
I’m too oldBut I persevered. And practiced. And practiced some more. 
AppreciationThe range of classes at John C. Campbell Folk School was sweeping. Just by chance, the cooking class was next door and on two afternoons we were treated to brimming platters of desserts – sweet potato pie, zucchini bread, and bread pudding.

And above us was the singing class, who not only serenaded us regularly, but composed a song about knitting.  
Sheer FunHow do you imagine an avid knitter to look? To act?    Kinda sedentary
   Passive
   Contemplative
   Slow acting
   ConservativeThink again. We were anything but.

Wednesday afternoon, our instructor, fighting a mid-afternoon onslaught of drowsiness (probably from all the sweets) decided to pepper up our atmosphere. On the big screen TV that was magnifying her knitting steps all week, she linked to this YouTube video entitled “Pardon me, I didn’t knit this for you.”
https://youtu.be/dUOgqefnt_I

It was truly the highlight of my week at knitting camp.I took a risk
I ventured out of my own self-limiting silo
I hustled rather than hovered
I controlled my own remote.
 
I’d like to hear how you control yours.
 
Keep Preserving Your Bloom, 
Iris Ruth Pastor

Muscles, Cleavage And A Ride I’ll Never Forget

His name was Alfred and he was 21 years old, just like me. 
He was married with one child, just like me.
Unlike me, though, Alfred was a high school drop-out. His father had abandoned the family years ago and his mother died some time after that.
 
And, unlike me, Alfred would die young from complications stemming from chronic high blood pressure – well before his 40th birthday. He would leave an estranged wife and four more children.
 
But I’m getting ahead of my story. On that bright sunny day in April of 1970, dying was the last thing on Alfred’s mind. Or on mine.
 
Alfred worked for my husband’s father as a truck driver. He was a solidly built young black man with sparkling eyes, macho mannerisms and a sexy swagger. Alfred knew he had “people appeal.” It’s probably what got him the job in the first place.
 
Alfred and I were thrown together that spring afternoon by casual circumstances and I didn’t know then that it would be a day indelibly impressed in my memory
 
Alfred was driving a truckload of fabric to a new store in Daytona Beach, Florida which my husband was preparing to open that week-end. I was tagging along for the ride – planning to join my husband for a week-end of grand opening festivities. 
 
About 30 miles outside of Tampa, our truck broke down. Alfred, as mechanically savvy as he was resourceful, couldn’t get the truck to start. As the minutes mounted, he seemed to be sweating more heavily, wiping his brow more often while continuously and nervously glancing around.
 
After a while, a “friendly” trucker pulled his rig up behind us on the apron. He looked keenly at Alfred’s well-muscled physique and then stared pointedly at my cleavage.
 
“Son,” he called to Alfred after surveying the situation, “you’ve got a big problem here and you need some help.”
 
I felt Alfred’s terror, but I knew not from where it came.
 
“Hop on in – both of you,” he said generously. “I’ll run you up to the next exit. You know what to do, boy.”
 
“Yes, sir,” Alfred, nodded dully. “I know what to do.”
 
I glanced uneasily over at Alfred. He looked grim. Fearful.
Subdued. All signs of his sparkle and his machismo were gone.
His head hung slightly forward, signifying deference. His
swagger was looking more like a shuffle.
 
I sat meekly between both men on the high seat of the cab, berating myself for wearing my skimpy flowered top. And as we bumped down the highway, I tried to figure out what was going on. I knew some essential message had been transmitted between the two men, but what it was eluded me.
 
When we got to the next exit, Alfred jumped down and bee-lined it to the phone booth. I prepared to follow.
 
Not so fast, miss,” the trucker admonished. And that’s when I saw the gun. “You best not follow your friend. People down here don’t take to niggers with white women.”
 
Blind terror stilled my tongue. 
 
“Now I don’t know what your situation is, missy,” the big, burly trucker continued, “but if you want your pal to get to where you two are headed in one piece, you best be disappearing. So go check yourself into that motel up there. And don’t you come out til your help comes.”
 
I did as I was told. And I spent the fading hours of that late afternoon uneasily watching TV and cautiously peering out the window to look at Alfred. Most of the time he sat on the curb of the parking lot, staring at the ground, fiddling with a stick.
 
Towards dusk, another company truck and driver arrived. Alfred and the new guy went back to the immobile truck to transfer the inventory to the new one. My husband picked me up about the same time and together he and I drove to Daytona.
 
I didn’t see Alfred for many weeks. And when I did, I thought I discerned a hesitancy in his manner toward me – an imperceptible stiffness, an embarrassment bred of shared humiliation and defeat. Our old, easy camaraderie had dissipated. It was never re-kindled.
 
I’m telling my tale on behalf of all the Alfreds in this world – who were and are subjected to cruel and inhumane treatment.
 
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
 
Iris Ruth Pastor

Finding Our “Happy Place“

The pandemic is winding down – hopefully no variants will eclipse our progress back to normalcy.
 
It’s time to once again get energized and empowered. 
To take control of our own remote. To be the boss of “ME”
How do we do this?  We need to embrace, honor and hold sacred our individual need for space. I call this finding our “happy place.” 
 
Our happy place is a place where we can create, step away from the mundane and re-fuel and re-energize. 
 
Personally, my happy place is anywhere I can knit –for knitting keeps me from unraveling.
  
My mother – of blessed memory – jumped in the car and popped a frank Sinatra CD into her CD player and drove around listening to him croon song after song. She always said she did her best relaxing and creative thinking in that confined space.
 
My mother-in-law – of blessed memory – made soup from scratch. Chopping, slicing and cutting elevated her to a relaxed and inventive state of mind. 
 
My friend Michele jumps in the shower. “Ah ha moments just happen,” she notes. “My body and my mind have relaxed enough to allow an idea, a possible solution, to formulate and burst forth, always surprising me.”
 
There are many ways to carve out the space. The first that comes to mind for people like me, who are of the Jewish faith is, of course, observing Shabbat every week from sundown Friday to sundown Saturday. And the rest of the time – the other six days of the week? We can conjure up mindfulness, create a Zen moment, meditate, journal, walk, do yoga, garden paint at will, stop to smell the flowers – all designed to take us to our “happy place.”  
When we make space to clear our minds, this clearing allows us to observe our experiences and accept life without always reacting to it and judging it. 
 
When we empty our minds of competing thoughts, obligations and to-do lists, we are crafting a “beginner’s mind.” This is a term from Buddhism – I didn’t coin it. A beginner’s mind is simply forgetting what we know and feel and think and look at something through fresh, garden, paint, unblemished eyes. Leaving judgement behind. Leaving defensiveness behand. 
 
Young Children naturally operate like that but as we age, we lose that gift
 
Margrit Irgang author of the book Zen: An Art of Living, says in order to empty our minds, we must forget ourselves. We must forget ourselves. 
 
What does that mean?  Well, for starters, the obvious: temporarily forget about the minutiae of our lives – clearing out the static.
         We forget about the wash that needs folding
         That our skirt lost a button
         That the dry cleaning is ready for pick up
         That we need to come up with a plan for tonight’s dinner
 
And the best part of conjuring up a beginner’s mind and emptying out all the superfluous junk or stuff? It stimulates our creativity. The mind is then open and receptive to discover new things. 
 
Perfect timing for re-entry into a post-pandemic world.
 
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
 
Iris Ruth Pastor

Iris Ruth Pastor on The Donna Seebo Show

My Life As A Swinger

Not surprisingly, one of my earliest memories is of my father telling me something.
         “You’re run of the mill, Iris,” he would say.  “Just run of the mill.”
         Maybe it was my first lesson in intuition, insight and savvy.  I knew by the way he said it that what he actually meant was, “You’re special. Very special.”
         And he knew I knew. And so the dance began.
         In 1947, my father was a young GI coming home from Europe to his war bride – my mother. 

         I was born within a year of his returning stateside – part of the first wave of baby boomers.
         Eventually my mom and dad moved out of my grandparent’s house into their own place.  The wooden kitchen cabinets were painted yellow.  A Lazy Susan was bought for Sunday night dinners of corned beef, pickles and rye bread. A deep maroon paisley couch with tassels was picked out and delivered.
         So was a metal swing set. Unassembled.
         The metal swing set is new, bright, shiny, massive and all mine.
         My dad works all day assembling the metal monster as I sit and watch. He digs four holes in which to place the swing set’s main poles. To my surprise, he sets the poles in concrete.
         Most Dads just dug a shallow hole and set the swing set’s main support poles in the dirt. The higher the swing went, the more the poles wiggled, vibrated and lifted out of the hole. Swinging kids squeaked with terror and delight as the whole structure rose, shuttered and fell back into place. I was always afraid that one day the entire swing set would just tumble over.
         Perhaps sensing my fear, my dad grounds my swing set in concrete so I can swing as high as I want – unencumbered by fear of the entire mass becoming air borne.
         I plant my bottom on the red metal seat. The toes of my clean white Keds brush the grass. I bend my knees and swing my feet forward. Lean back and push off. I start the climb to the sky – head tilted back to see the great blue expanse – my pony tail waving wildly from side to side.
         “Okay, Daddy, You can push me now,”  I scream.  “Real high. I’m ready.”
          The years pass. The grass underneath the swing set is matted down. Then worn away. Then reduced to finely ground brown grains that look like home plate on a kid’s makeshift baseball field. The red seats are not as shiny. The supporting poles have a few dents from my swinging crazy. And rust spots are starting to appear.
         I still swing.
         I graduate. Go to college. Marry. Divorce. Remarry. I have the kids and bake the cookies. And do the wash. And drive the car pools.
         Always with back-up, behind-the-scenes coaching from my dad:              Never let them see you sweat
                  Make it look easy
                  Do it your way
                  Do it
         More years pass. My own kids move many miles away. As my husband and I eventually do too. I come home to visit one last time before the For Sale sign goes up in my parents’ front yard. 
         The swing set is now old and rickety.  The push off mound is sunken in with shallow gullies.  The chains are disjointed.  The rust is heavy.  The seats hang crooked.
         I walk into the backyard unnoticed. I spot the metal monster  – now seeming so diminished in size. I approach the red seat warily. It looks so small. Can it hold me? I settle in. Squirm around.  Slowly push off and up. I arch my back and hang on tight.
         “Okay, Daddy, I say softly to myself.  “You can push me now. Real high. I’m ready.”
         My father gave me a firm foundation in which to grow.  And wings with which to soar. Without him, I would never have had the motivation, the zest, and the inspiration to get through life. Much less enjoy it.
 
         My dad’s been gone for many years. But his messages are internalised in all that I do and all that I am.
 
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
 Iris Ruth Pastor

Doing What The Hell I Want

 
I’ll never be too old to wear bright red nail polish – think OPI Big Apple Red.
 
I’ll never stop wearing lots of rings on my fingers – even when the age spots multiply faster than my chin hairs – and the chin hairs are appearing more rapidly each day!
 
I’m living according to how I actually feel, rather than how I’m told I ought to feel.
 
I’m embracing my thinning lips. I’m making peace with my less-than-perky (okay, really droopy) boobs. 
 
I’m pushing the boundaries and upending the status quo. Re-inventing life. Forging new paths. Creating new narratives.
 
I am following my friends’ leads:
     Like Tawny – who bought herself a bright red leather chair for her living room because she simply wanted to
     Like Jane – who decided entertaining is less about food and more about ambience
     Like Judy – who let her hair go au naturelle (gray) 
 
 These Are Things I Know:Doing What The Hell We Want 
Let’s define ourselves by our confidence. 
Let’s be more outspoken than we used to be. 
Let’s be engaged. 
Let’s be involved. 
And, as long as we are healthy, let’s stay active and living life to the fullest. 
 
There is no pattern to follow or template to adhere to. 
Let’s, therefore, write our own script. 
 
As British Photographer Alex Rotas says: “LIFE BEGINS AT ANY AGE YOU DECIDE LIFE BEGINS.” 
 
We don’t fear the future.
We don’t hide our wrinkles
We dress with “ageless chic” 
 
We are not invisible
We are confident
Authentic
And irrepressibleAnd When We Aren’t Confident Authentic, and I irrepressible?
We are savvy enough to know where to go to get re-energized.
 
So, if you crave a boost of confidence, optimism, and motivation to be the very best you can be, join me Wednesday, June 16 at 7pm EDT.
 
I’m doing an inspirational zoom chat – focusing on jump-starting change through reflection, imagining and re-booting – in order to live fully and joyfully. It’s all about firing up your neurons to maximize your well-being.
 

 
Link to register: https://www.jewishtampa.com/jewish-federation-events/womens-philanthropy-event
 
In the meantime, Keep Preserving Your Bloom,

Iris Ruth Pastor