Category: Family

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It’s hard to say Happy New Year in March, but the way things were going in our crazy world, I wasn’t at all certain I’d be around for the daffodils or Daylight Savings. Hooray, we made it! It’s difficult to be positive, but I am positive that I’ve never lived through such chaos and insanity in my long, long life, as I’m experiencing now. Small comfort­­­­­­, for sure.

Speaking of chaos, I just returned from a walk around the Langley Woodmen Cemetery in the bright afternoon sun (a blessing right there!), and had a complete tour of the Grand Canyon and several rivers and oceans nearby. “Omigod, how did you do that?” you say. It’s my macular degeneration. In order to adjust to the deterioration of my eyesight, my capable and rather sassy brain provides me with vivid hallucinations, which at first were horrifying, but now are incredibly beautiful and amazing. It’s as if I’m making my own reality. I’m treated to interesting woodland scenes, and huge caves and deep canyons that became deeper and scarier as I look at them. So I just take my walking poles and dig them into the unseen ground and sail over the vast, beautifully sculpted holes. Fortunately, a friend was walking ahead of me, oblivious to what I was seeing. There was an imaginary thin wire covering over the holes, which only I could see, and the more I walked on them, the deeper and more elaborate the holes became. I’ve already told you about the purple flowers and other imagined foliage. It’s as if I’m being treated to an endless display of paintings each day…the Louvre at my fingertips. Isn’t life exciting? A surprise a minute!

The last three months have been wonderful with family and friends, and, wonder of wonders, the weather has been mild and more sunny than usual. That’s a big deal in the Northwest. And we were especially lucky, since most of the U.S. was suffering with snow storms and freezing weather. Even the weather is going crazy!

Family gathering playing the game Imposters

Hauling manure for the garden

Grandson Thomas

Thomas with Sunny, the neighborhood dog

Son Tom and his wood pile

I want to share a heartwarming experience I’ve been having with two recent graduates of the boarding school I went to in high school, Emma Willard School in Troy, NY. Both these young women, Hannah and Piper, had read my column about the class of 1946 in the alumni news and wanted to get to know me. They called, separately, and at first I thought they were fund-raising for the school. No, they wanted to share ideas about the differences in our experience of the school, but, mostly, had copious questions related to present day travel as compared to fifty or more years ago. How did I get tickets or plan trips with no cell phone or computer? A travel agent is pretty much a thing of the past. Also, the solo hitch-hiking I did is not very prevalent these days. They wanted my opinion on the treatment of the elderly, the Peace Corps, theater, music and social trends that have changed over the years. Both of themare in projects to help the environment or children’s health and are as upset as I am about the direction our country is going. In the midst of our present chaos it’s good to know people who are soldiering ahead with optimism and a belief in the goodness of human beings and their ability to make life better. Getting to really know other generations is uplifting and necessary. A good lesson for all of us.

You all know how attached I am to my scraggly Christmas trees, which are “volunteers” growing on the edge of our parking lot. One cedar and one fir, tied together, took up a good chunk of the living room. You may remember last year’s homage, and here is a poem I wrote to honor this year’s tree as it was being taken down.

FAREWELL, DEAR FRIEND

While my kids took down the tree, the Christmas bells were ringing,
And if you listened, carefully, you’d hear the angels singing;
With loving care they placed the sparkling balls right where they should,
Untwined the lights and trimmed the branches, laid them in the woods.

I know it may seem silly to be grieving for a tree,
But I became its friend, its forceful eyes spoke truth to me;
And they became symbolic as I scanned each tiny light
To find a bit of hope throughout the world to make things right.

I realized that only when each one of us stands up
To every problem big or small, whatever fills the cup,
We never do expect to solve them all, just do our share
To serve our own community with love, and stay aware.

Age is a subject I have written about a great deal…as has everybody else in this country, who has passed 70. I never thought about it at that age, and it wasn’t until I was floored by pneumonia at 95 that I finally said, “Hey, what gives?” All around me were people diagnosing every ache and pain as “what do you expect, you’re OLD! Stop complaining and start planning for end of life and a good memorial party you can watch from above.” Well, my friends, these constant reminders are not at all helpful. Instead, my motto is, “Rejoice as you try to live as rich and productive a life as you can.” And, by the way, stop reminding me of the inevitable.

To counteract this universal ‘inevitable,’ I have written some crazy poems, some of which I have posted. Now I give you a more thoughtful one as I accept my fate and am grateful for the blessings as well as accepting of the pitfalls of a long life. Enjoy.

LIFE

Those were the days!

It seems that life is just a flicker in the curve of time,
You start out with a burst of strength and soon you’ve passed your prime;
Your energy is positive, your thoughts are off the charts,
Despite some disappointments you are full of brand-new starts.

You fill your life with study, search for meaning at the core,
And soon you know a complex labyrinth is at your door;
But that is life: exciting, full of music, poems, and art
Adventure, travel…write it down, spill all that’s in your heart.

How can you in one single life absorb such depth and beauty?
A maze, conflicting laws, to understand them is your duty;
But as your life is shutting down and you look all around,
Try hard to keep the joy and wonder as your light goes down.

Grandson Thomas and daughter Martha are enjoying the cemetery with Grandma.

And now, fast forward…I’ve entered what I think are the pearly gates, but with my lack of a sense of direction, made one last goof. Just so you won’t do the same thing, here’s my dire experience.

Oops! I TOOK THE WRONG TURN….

I really am not feeling well,
I find myself in Satan’s hell,
St. Peter said “You must turn left,”
I took the right now I’m bereft!

Directions never worked for me,
And now I see men drinking tea
They sit bedraggled, in a slump,
I think the ugly one is Trump!

Good Lord, how long have I been dead?
These mafia-types fill me with dread,
I’m on the left, they’re on the right
We’ll sort it out, I’ll spend the night.

Then Satan said, “Let’s hear your plea,”
He asked the question just of me;
“These men are evil,” I replied,
“But I forgive them, they have died;”

Trump interjected, screamed and spat,
“But she’s a fucking Democrat!
They all should die, burn at the stake,
Destroy their families, make them quake.”

Satan spoke to me quite gently,
“Don’t mind him, he’s damaged ment’lly.
Go outside, turn left ahead,
You’ll find the place to rest your head.”

(It pays to follow directions.)

Living in the Northwest I have come to realize the deep connection between the fog and the sun.

                           A FOGGY DAY IN LANGLEY TOWN

I was heaved out of bed by my jarring alarm, but I saw not a sliver of light;
So, I went back to sleep right away, for I thought that it must be the dead of the night…
An hour went by, I awoke, it was dark, Oh, my God, have I fin’lly gone blind?
Settle down, calm your nerves, it is just a dark day, No, you haven’t gone out of your mind.

Every-one needs a rest at least once ev’ry week, and that’s also the same for the sun;
It’s Sunday and what better time to relax, unless you’re a priest or a nun;
By ten in the morning a roof line appeared, could it be that the sun gave a blink?
This raised up my spirits, the light will return, only positive thoughts shall I think.

So, all you naysayers and haters of fog, remember our prized Golden Rule…
And do unto others, including the sun, she will notice, she isn’t a fool!
And look at the fog as it starts rolling out and a thankful old sun peaks around,
She’s had a good rest, and we’ve learned to be patient, she’s smiling, not making a sound.

Hit any key to continue…

Death by Computer

Lately, I’ve been finding that my computer is acting on its own. Or so I say, when asked by any techie who is trying to straighten out my documents. Or maybe it’s just that Apple has decided to update my operating system, once again, and change the settings to keep me on my toes.

It’s not fair, is my woeful cry as I struggle to stay functional. But, I’m beginning to see why so many of my generation eschew the computer. It’s not that they’re stupid. It’s that they’re smart!

Call Henry a figment of my imagination…but to me he is real.

HENRY, MASTER COMPUTER DUDE

Will Henry be the death of me, obnoxiously infernal?
He seems to pop up constantly, his presence is eternal!
I thought I knew my way around, could press the proper key,
And then, when Apple made a change, I was no longer free.

I couldn’t enlarge, my margins seemed forever set in stone,
I searched for all my tools, just like a dog who lost his bone;
The rules had changed to test my brain and see if I was clever,
And all the time I knew that Henry led the whole endeavor.

Oh, please, dear God come rescue me from endless, hopeless failure;
How do I lose my open documents? I need a savior,
And, meantime, Henry opened up my massive download folder
To prove that he will not reform, is simply getting bolder.

Without permission he will press the wrong key just for laughs,
Deleting lines without consent, and guess who’s blamed for gaffs?
But I blew up when I found out my contacts had been hidden;
I have the facts, will testify, this action is forbidden!

Note:
I just want all of you to know that Henry makes each day more impossible and more tedious for me. And, with our justice department in such disrepair, I doubt that he’ll even be prosecuted when I finally die.

Still hugging trees…

This is what happens when the weather turns warm and sunny and you want to soak up all of the natural beauty before winter comes. So forgive me, loyal friends around the globe and accept my belated end of summer greeting.

If you lived in the Northwest during the recent All-American summer heat, you were and are definitely lucky: sunny and 65 in the morning, 75 at midday, and back to 65 at night. Breezy, heavenly, worth enduring all the rain and fog of the winter months!

This is what I wrote two months ago. I better get it posted pronto, before I change my mind!

So, let’s start with my June birthday celebration. It was open to anyone who wanted to come and enjoy the superb music of Nathanial Talbot’s band at the Double Bluff Brewery in downtown Langley. Dancing, libations, good food, and laughter galore. What else can you do when you turn 97, except maybe wish it was 87. But that’s rather fruitless…and who cares?

Among the guests you will see friends and relatives from Maplewood, New England, and Colorado, as well as a superb collection of locals. You have to admit they’re a beautiful bunch!

The summer flew by with many visits from families and friends…always with trips to the beach at Ebey’s Landing, Coupeville, and this year nightime slug collecting in the garden with my great-grandsons.

MP, Ruth Klukoff, Barry Hamilton and Cary in Coupeville

Granddaughter and great-grandsons at Ebey’s Landing

Martha, Cary and MP

Farewell to Heidi Jefferson

Thomas, MP, Tom, Anna and Cary at China City

Brandon Collins, old friend from Jersey

Garden zucchini

Nightime slug catch

My grandson Adam Bixler and his wife Allie celebrated the summer by opening up a new fitness Alpha Fit franchise in Livingston, NJ. Check it out if you live nearby!

Personally…I’m staying away from a minute examination of the world at large and I bet you can figure out why. Unfortunately, that news just gets worse and worse and all we can do is keep up our hope and work for change in our own way.

But in closing, I must share the little ditty I wrote the night of the Nov. 4th election. Yes, I was extremely happy and encouraged as were so many others. Here is the poem that came to mind as I was watching the results unfold.

Today was quite exhausting, but was sunny to the end,
When suddenly a huge surprise occurred that seemed a trend;
At last, from coast to coast as voters streamed to all the polls,
It felt as if America had redefined its goals.

No, we are not a dying country, ridiculed and shocked,
No longer will we watch as our democracy is mocked;
For now we are awake, again, our soul once more in charge,
The struggle will be challenging, but the rewards are large!

We’re back again, my heart breathed in with happy joyous beats,
It’s early, yes, but there’s still time for dancing in the streets….

And keep hugging trees!

Photo by Jerene

GETTING OLD…is getting OLD!

I trust that my clever readers will see the irony of this statement, especially if they have been subjected to the relentless blitz on the written page and online about OLD AGE, its consequences, its pitfalls, its progression, and its ultimate result. Yes, and there are some who actually think it can be solved. Good luck, Charlie! Now that most of us are living longer, old age has been pushed down into the seventies. Makes no sense to me. I would think it would go in the other direction. Anne Lamott, one of my favorite authors, is now writing columns about what to expect and how to face the inevitable. A User’s Guide to Aging, her lessons for 70 and beyond, just appeared as a newsletter in the Washington Post. It seems to be a part of every conversation on earth. I have to say that I didn’t think about growing old when I turned 70. I was busy seeing the world, hitch-hiking and backpacking, and having new, exciting adventures. Yes, I had good health and was grateful for it, but nobody ever invited me to a meeting or a class to discuss the end of life, or the music I wanted at my funeral, or the detailed particulars of my “passing.” And nobody batted an eye when I climbed Mt. Kilimanjaro at age 81 or climbed to Khopra Ridge (12,000 ft.) on the Annapurna Circuit in the Himalayas at 90. Now THAT is OLD, and it needs no announcement! You just do it if you want to and are able, and when it becomes too difficult and is no longer fun, you go on to other things. You can analyze it if you wish, and you will certainly have moments of deep longing, but you will soon move on and find natural beauty at a lower level!

This is in no way minimizing the problems of getting older, and the enormous amount of time it takes to maintain our body. Yikes! And there are those who masterfully help us face the frustrations of those diseases that lurk in the future waiting to challenge us. I want to tip my hat to Doris Carnavaldi, a 101-year-old Seattle-ite who has fashioned a well-written blog, Engaging With Aging, now published as two books, full of warmth, humor, and really helpful, practical advice for people who can wear the mantle of age authentically and with pride. I learned about these books from one of her dedicated promoters, Grethe Cammermeyer, at the Clinton Book Fair for local authors last November, in which I participated.

If you want an upbeat book on facing death, I recommend Proof of Heaven, by Eban Alexander, a highly-skilled neurosurgeon who went into a coma for seven days due to a severe case of bacterial meningitis, and came out of it with a fascinating, down-to-earth, report about his experience in the afterlife. It’s short and to the point and makes you want to head out tomorrow…once you have your things in order. Yes, I do not wish to be inundated with seminars about the end of life. I know it will come in due time, but, in the meantime, there’s still a lot to discover in this realm and an awful lot of photos to be sorted….

Speaking of cliches and overdone subjects, I thought I’d leave you on your own this year when it comes to resolutions and let you go over last year’s list of kind things you plan to do in the coming year. Good luck in finding that list!

We’ve just weathered a challenging cold spell during which son Tom did a masterful job of removing numerous plants, from succulents to geraniums to decorative shrubs to delicate flowers like the gorgeous Clevia here, that spent three weeks on our dining table until the snow and frost abated. They all have now been returned to the porch or the sunroom. I have to admit that it was rather exotic to live in such a splendid wild greenhouse during those dark cold days. Wandering through the bedroom, living room, and kitchen populated with such plants encourages you to become an amateur horticulturalist whether you want to or not.

I’ve let the first two months of 2025 go by just to prove to myself that we could survive, however shakily, the excesses of our “new regime.” Happily, I’ve noticed that the vast number of Americans who are shocked and scared by what is occurring on a daily basis have put to rest the complaining, and are organizing and taking action. I am involved in several groups around the country and although there will be dire consequences for much of the present action by the president and his henchmen, we will, ultimately, save our Democracy. Please keep your spirits up and yourselves informed, and do your part. I rest my case.

HOLIDAY CAPERS

Goodbye at the ferry.

December started out with a welcome visit from Judy Wyman, a longtime member of the Peterson extended family. Judy joined us when she was twelve and had just moved back from Belgium to the states with her family. She and her mother, Sylvia, a close friend of mine from our summer camp days, became our steady climbing companions in the White Mountains, Katahdin, Moosilauke, and all points north. This was Judy’s first winter visit to Whidbey and we managed several sunny days, a few woodland walks, and the Langley beach where the views of Camano Island and the Cascade Range of snow-capped mountains were in full view.

It was wonderful to welcome my children at Christmas. Here we are in front of the leaning tree: Robert, Tom, M.P., Cary and Martha. Christopher will always be with us in spirit.

Grandson Thomas and his partner, Cass, joined us as well. This was not a picture-taking time. We concentrated on talking. A Peterson tradition. Ha ha. Some family visits are busy with going places and enjoying long walks in the woods or on the beach, and others are filled with sitting around the table, conversing and eating. This Christmas family time was the latter!

And Martha, a chef extraordinaire, was amazing. We had plenty of catch-up time, and since no one comes to Whidbey Island over the holidays for the weather, we hunkered down by the wood stove, and thoroughly savored our unparalleled social time!

Alas, during the visit, I had to go to the ophthalmologist for my latest and greatest in the “birth, old age, sickness, and death” Buddhist, or Shakespearean (take your pick!), progression of life—macular degeneration. After a life of excellent eyesight this has thrown me for a loop, to coin a phrase. It’s one of those challenges you didn’t ask for and don’t want. I wonder what the jealous gods will come up with next year. Enough already!

Christmas Eve dinner at Anna’s house

Going away dinner at Double Bluff Brewery

We had two marvelous family gatherings – Christmas dinner at the home of Tom’s partner, Anna, and her three lovely daughters, and our farewell dinner at Double Bluff Brewery in Langley.

Christmas Eve has always been special for me…carols, traditional stories, quiet meditation, and gratitude for all our gifts. This year Tom, Martha, and I went up island to church and as we returned we were thrilled to be treated to the silent magic of the foggy moon. I felt so happy and blessed.

More family fun can be found in the second hand inflatable hot tub that Tom bought for $45. He refurbished it and tends it with the same care he gives his plants.

He pays close attention to the temperature, which has to be 103 or it’s no go!

I just love it and fifteen minutes will keep me warm for the rest of the day. I especially like going at night when the moon is high above. Here we are: Anna, Tom, and yours truly.

The permanently affordable house project Cary is involved in, Whidbey Home-Raising, has made great progress since I last mentioned it in my October blog post. Now the house is roofed, and has siding! The electrical is going in, and soon the insulation and drywall. A great crew of volunteer carpenters comes every Monday and Tuesday to “raise this home” and because of the generosity of these community members, and local businesses and donors, it will be below-market and truly affordable.

One way Cary wanted to thank all the volunteers this Christmas season was with a gingerbread house making party! This is something we’ve enjoyed doing in the Peterson family for years. She and Martha spent hours baking the gingerbread and making frosting, and setting out the candy. Then families, Upper Langley community members, friends, and volunteer builders all came to enjoy the fun of building gingerbread houses.

The gingerbread houses were given to donors and supporters throughout the community.

And now that the Christmas season and grimmer months of the Northwest winter are over, the daffodils and the crocuses are blooming…

and I’m still hugging trees….

With all the talk about the commercialization of the Christmas holidays and the laments about being inundated with tinsel and lights from Thanksgiving on, I began to reflect on my own experience over the years, and wondered whether the magic and meaning of Christmas no longer spoke to me. Was the stress of coming up with the perfect gift worth the time and effort, or could I persuade my beloved family members to put a moratorium on this obligation and let me enjoy bringing gifts to them from my travels, whenever the spirit moved me? And give them freely at whatever time of year? Of course, the moratorium did not apply to the great grandchildren. After all, I’m not Ebenezer Scrooge!

I remember spending most of the last ten years in Nepal during this time of year, and there were some charming children’s Christmas pageants in Boudhanath, near Kathmandu, and a few decorated trees at the guest houses, but it was subtle and not overwhelming. One year, at the Shechen Guest House next to the temple, where we were staying, a guest put up a line across the main lawn and hung stockings for all the children of the employees. It caused a great deal of excitement as well as some hearty laughs when one of the monks mistook it for a clothesline and started hanging up his wet socks.

Santa, Buddha and the angels

Christmas took its place along with other religious celebrations and there was a warm feeling of fellowship that filled me with nostalgia. Now, after two years of relative isolation, and a move to a co-housing community here in Langley, I can see that Christmas has no obligations. If you feel like wrapping up a piece of cake or a silly hat, and giving it to your neighbor, you do it. If not, you enjoy the voluntary brand of each individual’s generosity. It is charming and it is spontaneous. I’ve finally been able to weed out and laugh at the commercialism without becoming a part of it, and to retrieve the old-fashioned spirit that brought me joy for so many years. I wish this for all of you.

There are not many photos on this posting, but how many pictures of rain can you take? Instead, I want to share with you a chapter from my new book, I Love You To Death, But…. yet to be published. It seems especially relevant to our society at this time.

GIVE ‘EM WHAT THEY WANT

I’m ashamed to say that I always gave my children too much for Christmas. My rationalization: as a child I got almost nothing. Well, one, maybe two presents at most. Christmas was a religious celebration at our home. It was wonderful, heartwarming, and somewhat dull…except for all the wonderful cakes, cookies, and fruit baskets the parishioners showered on my father, a Methodist minister. And the traditional midnight candle service. I finally got to stay up past nine!

One year our big present was the LP (that’s old-speak for long playing record) version of Peter and the Wolf. My mother was sure the surprise would be revealed, since my father whistled Peter’s theme interminably. Not a problem. We were none the wiser and it was, indeed, a splendid gift. But we were three girls, and one record and a wood burning set just didn’t do it, especially when we compared our gifts to those of our friends. Oh, yes, Aunt Bea relieved the monotony by sending a pair of frilly panties to each of us, but that, too, became all too predictable. Still, I never complained. And we did have fun planning an afternoon Christmas concert for the family. I played the violin while my two sisters took turns accompanying me on the piano. And then we wowed everyone by sitting together on the bench and playing a three-part piano arrangement of the E Flat Minuet from Mozart’s Symphony #39. The scene was right out of a middle-European salon a la Haydn. At the end we all sang, “Oh, Come, Oh Come, Emmanuel,” while Grandpa slept and Grandma sang lustily in her calliope voice.

I wanted my children to have a little more excitement, but I overdid it. Every single thing they’d needed all year long arrived under the tree. Clothes, toys, educational games, school supplies, you-name-it-I-bought-it. I spent hours in the old wine cellar in the basement every evening for weeks, wrapping and labeling and looking for places to hide the gifts. I tried to make things equal. If one child seemed to have more, I raced out and bought something else to even things out. It was ridiculous and it was exhausting.

But that was just the beginning! Imagine the difficulty of transporting this raft of presents from the basement to the center hall, where the tree stood in all its glory…and doing this quietly so eager children, supposedly sleeping, would not discover the largesse until morning. Once again, the eldest child, who never really bought into the Santa Claus story, took it upon herself to arise very early and stand guard at the upstairs landing to keep the younger ones at bay until the parents, bug-eyed with fatigue, came lumbering down in search of coffee. Then the fun began, if you can call chaos fun. In less than an hour the work of months lay at my feet.

All this changed in 1970 when I read that all you ever need to give to a child for Christmas is the one thing he or she has been asking for, silly as you might think it is. A Barbie doll? No way. I hated everything Barbie stood for! But if that’s what Martha wanted, and probably all she wanted, give it to her.

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