OH, HOW GREAT IS NINETY-EIGHT?!

At my recent 98th birthday party, recounted here below, I shared this poem as a tribute to my Whidbey Island community.

My daughter, Cary, was a fabulous Master of Ceremonies.

ALL HAIL TO MY WHIDBEY ISLAND FAMILY

I came to Whidbey Island as a kid of eighty-five,
The time was right, the rent was low, I knew that I would thrive;
I loved the Cascades, the Olympics, and The Mountaineers,
And with my climbing buddy, Jon, we backpacked without fears.

I planned to stay, but not too long, to see what Whidbey offered,
I loved the people, and the fine community it proffered;
The trees were lush, the trails were deep, was nothing to disdain,
But no one warned me to expect a three-month winter rain!

Too late, my fate was sealed and I had gotten in the groove
Of artist groups, and theater, and charities that prove
You do not need a city with a diverse population
To make a difference in this world of active dedication.

So now I’ve added many years, no longer climb Rainier,
Have settled in an HOA with friends, all kinds, all dear
And think the reason I’m still clicking is because I dread
To wait so long to find a doc, so fix myself instead.

I came from Jersey near New York, where drama was my passion,
The cobbled streets, the music; crazy people were in fashion;
But now I’m in a different space that’s meditative, quiet,
And what a group of in-ter-est-ing friends…I think I’ll buy it!

I’m looking at my loyal friends who’ve come to wish me well,
You’ve stood with me in times of joy and when things went to hell;
I give a hug to each of you in joyous celebration,
My heart is filled with gratitude and deep appreciation!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ninety-eight? You ask, “What do you think of 98?” Don’t get me started! I could fill a book of crazy poems in answering THAT question. But the older you get the harder it becomes to emphasize the craziness and be upbeat when life goes south. Still, I recommend that you keep trying and you may find an inexpensive way to solve your need for a therapist: a poetry circle where each member contributes one crazy poem a week. Nobody’s looking for perfection, and rhyming is not required, unless desired. Come up with your own format and your own outrageous expressions. The more the merrier. Trust me! Here is my contribution.

CRAZY-MAKING JUST FOR YOU

You’re 98, how does that feel? Why do you ask this question?
Just because a year goes by, does traffic like congestion?
And are you all excited to experience indigestion
When climbing up a normal hill, an unwise, bad suggestion?
And when you get a brand-new pill, will that assure perfection?
Or will it just cost money and boil down to sleep dejection?
Try macular, it’s quite a kick with fine hallucinations,
They may be funny, but they symbolize eye degradation;
I’d like to be a Pollyanna, exercise each morning,
Quote happy poems, jump up and down, tell jokes, off-color, charming;
So, ask me if I’m happy, and can sing and dance with glee,
And I will ask you if it’s ninety-eight you’d like to be.

~~~~~~~~~~

I guess I can say that it all boils down to acceptance of what life throws at you, gratitude for all the help that gathers around you every day and in times of crisis, utilizing one of life’s most important attributes, your SENSE OF HUMOR, and making wise decisions at the crucial time, about whether you want to soldier on, stay around (i.e.for the next election), or say goodbye and check out the next dimension.

After enjoying the company of my wonderful friends on Whidbey Island, tripping the light fantastic to the jazz, blues, and swing of Kristi O’Donnell’s Quartet, and eating the scrumptious cakes made by Corinna Inmann and my daughter, Martha, I decided to hang around awhile.

Click on the photos to enlarge.

I’m a woman, so I can change my mind, but right now I’m all in…98, come and get me! And a huge thank you goes to daughter, Cary, for putting my party together at Double Bluff Brewery, and to Anne Zontine for welcoming and tagging all my friends.

Oh yes, and there were others: Judith Adams whose poem is printed below, Detmar Straub, who came out of the woodwork and treated us to his inimitable juggling, and Nancy Nolan, who serenaded us with her cool rendition of Night and Day.

It was so wonderful to have my four children and their partners at the celebration! In the photo: Cary, Martha, Gwen (Robert’s wife), me, Robert, Tom and Anna (Tom’s partner.) Christopher, my son who died in 2001, was, and always is, in our hearts.

Hooray to all of you who came out, despite the cool, unpredictable weather, and made me feel glad to be ninety-eight!!

Poem by Judith Adams

God knows why I am writing another poem,
They don’t recycle, no use to the economy.
And Meg keeps on having birthdays.
You can’t stuff Meg into one poem.
She’s a lifetime of poems some of them
not fit for consumption,
others pinned to the truth.
On the bench in the cemetery she
is not conversing with the dead, or
into Buddhist preparation, nor curious
about what is going down but what is going on,
peppered with humor, her own brand
that comes to life in the worst of concerns.
You will be entertained by an extraordinary mind.
If you are polyamorous she’ll ask how’s it going,
or if you have a theory she will
want it well explained adding comment
that dismantles depending how good your defense.
Never show her the small print
she’ll find something to edit some little error,
a rule you have never heard of.
Her unique analysis ignites conversation that could
go in any direction no matter how out of bounds.
When in sorrow her heart-warming voice
modulates and softens.
I know you aren’t going to let this poem
get away with anything unless of course it rhymes
Like irrelevant bells persist with their chimes,
fragrant with mischief.
pour out of you with the skill of a high-speed mechanic.
I want to save some of this poem for next year
anything can happen in any stretch of time.
Meg is still galloping, the last furlong can be the most
exciting some lives simmer, some never come to the boil
I suspect Meg was born bubbling over the
edges of her life over the top to freedom.
She has covered on foot more miles than cups of tea.
I don’t know anyone’s life with so much
fodder for epic literature a trilogy might work but
certainly a poem is too small for such a
Large and giving heart.

~~~~~~~~~~

If I live to be 100, I cannot find enough thanks you’s for you, Judith. I have forgiven you for calling me, in the past, a blender with the lid off. Oh, to be that, again!