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good tidings

Posted by cgcopy on April 12, 2024 in finding the sunshine, little bits of joy, music & lyrics

Post-eclipse aside, it just doesn’t seem like the sun (metaphorically, in this case) shines very much these days. But just when it seems like we’re facing the dark side of the moon, figuratively, finding one’s light can really help. Even if it’s just for a few moments, letting the sunshine in can surely mean the difference between feeling like we’ve been sentenced to seven more centuries of (psychological) winter and feeling like (symbolic) summer is just around the corner.

To wit, I often find my sunshine in music, and yesterday’s ray of happiness overtook me not quite by surprise, but certainly by delight – The Beach Boys. Listening to a CD (remember those?) as I drove along on a perfect spring day, windows open, Southern California sunshine pouring in and the breeze blowing gently, all of a sudden I felt a lightness of being that I haven’t felt in quite a while.

While California Girls played its heart out, my own heart was lifted by the absolute joy of the music and lyrics (and my right to call myself that after all these years here). The sweet longing of Surfer Girl making one’s “heart come all undone”; the devoted promise of Don’t Worry, Baby; the true summer-love declaration of God Only Knows – all of these songs share the sunshine, the shoreline, and the melody lines that translate into smile lines.

To that end, I defy you to sit still while listening to Surfin’ USA, with its upbeat drumbeat and its literal tour of the best places to surf. Or to not smile while hearing the joyride that is Little Deuce Coupe. Or to keep your grin under wraps while the pure fun, fun, fun of well, Fun, Fun, Fun (featuring Daddy’s little darling and her T-bird) plays.

So much Beach Boys music is an ode to the innocence of summer – a paean to those moments of falling in love for the first time and to the joy of declaring it to the world. From its opening signature bars to its wish to hurry to the time when one can be grown up and in love forever, Wouldn’t It Be Nice is one of my favorites – a song that always, always brings a smile to my face. And while Good Vibrations is lauded by so many as the Beach Boys’ masterpiece, it’s the sweet songs of summer that capture my imagination – and my heart – for sure.

When I recently mentioned to B. that the Beach Boys would be performing here in a few months, he reminded me that the original group is no more (he saw them decades ago when most of the original members were still there and tells me that those were some of the most fun concerts he’s ever been to). He asked if, knowing that, I still wanted to go. Maybe, I said. Maybe it’s a way to hold on to endless summer all the way until next winter when, hopefully, the world will be brighter and fears will have thawed. (And maybe the fact that he purchased tickets, as an early anniversary present, after hearing me read aloud the first draft of this blog post is the reason he remains my forever summer love.)

To the beach, boys.

©2024 Claudia Grossman

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candle scandal

Posted by cgcopy on March 28, 2024 in birthday girl, circling the sun

They say that age is just a number. Okay, then, here’s a number for you – 66.

Yup. Today is my 66th birthday, the start of my 67th trip around the sun. And, if I’m perfectly honest with myself (the person I find it the most difficult to be perfectly honest with – don’t we all?), sometimes it feels like more than “just” a number.

At age 66, I have twice the wisdom I had at age 33. Twice the life experience. Twice the mileage (let’s face it, it shows); twice the wit (with age comes the ability to think funnier on my feet); and twice the laugh lines. Let’s think about that last one for a minute. You can choose to see the “twice the lines” part of that statement or you can opt for the “twice the laugh” part. I go with the latter. Because one of the most important things I’ve learned with each passing year is just how important it is to be able to laugh. At myself most of all. (Sure, I’d love to trade the facial lines of 66 for the smooth skin of 33, but not enough to go back. Not at all.)

More stuff that’s doubled in the last 33 years? The number of books I’ve read, for sure. The number of pages I’ve written, without a doubt. The number of baking successes (and fiascos!) I’ve had; the quantity of excellent music I’ve heard; the number of tulips I’ve photographed. Most important, the amount of love and support I’ve given to and received from my dear friends – and double the dose of reality to recognize true friendship from its disappointing imitation. And, while we’re in the neighborhood, at 66 my bullshit meter is twice as sharply honed as it was at age 33. Cool.

Being this age has granted me twice the grace, I hope, in moving through each day (not twice the gracefulness, unfortunately – that’s a different story). I’m a better listener and a better advisor, when asked. I’ve also learned the lesson about not giving advice when it’s not asked for, something that takes years to understand.

Another difference between age 33 and age 66? My confidence in myself. In my belief that I do have a voice and that it is worth hearing. And in my ability to use that voice for good. Or for funny. Or for both.

When I was 33, B. and I were still just friends, living on two different coasts. The single act of changing that dynamic and of getting married has multiplied – by way more than twofold in the ensuing years – the love, the caring, and the belief that someone cherishes me completely. You know how the Grinch’s heart grew ten sizes when he finally understood the meaning of Christmas? Mine has grown a million sizes because of this one remarkable person and his love.

Living well – that is, living a life that is meaningful in the important ways, like being there for others, having kindness as my credo, contributing through my art and my heart – is something I was only beginning to do at age 33. At age 66, I have blossomed, and I hope that what I share with the world is evidence of that.

So here’s to another candle on the cake; in fact, here’s to another slice of cake (or even two, if I feel like it – and I get the one with the extra frosting and the pink rose). Because living the joy is what I’ve discovered to be the secret of life.

That, and sharing my toys.

©2024 Claudia Grossman

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my life as a meerkat

Posted by cgcopy on March 6, 2024 in a writer's life, finding the funny, must love animals

If you’re familiar with meerkats, you know that they are adorable-looking creatures, with patches around their eyes, known for standing up on their hind legs a lot of the time and always focused on what’s above them. (Google them – they’re cute.) Like skinny little sentries, they stand guard for their friends and themselves, always with their eyes up, up, up. Because up, up, up is where their predators are. So, to avoid being swooped up and carried away, the meerkat keeps a watchful eye to the sky.

My life as a meerkat extends only so far as the metaphorical eyes-up stance. No, I’m not waiting to be flown away to a terrible fate – I’m just always looking upward, waiting for that other shoe to fall on my head. You know, the one that’s hanging over me, ready to come crashing down, bringing the latest mishap, calamity, or havoc.

Yes, I’ll cop to being neurotic by birth (honestly, have you met a true New Yorker who isn’t?); anxious by pastime (a writer without some kind of weakness isn’t really a writer); and threatened by, well, everything going on in today’s world (anyone who doesn’t feel the least bit uncomfortable is hiding their head in the sand – instead of looking up). And so, my meerkat persona.

Wherein I’m always aware of that other shoe that’s just hanging there. Is it the sharp point of a stiletto heel about to come down on me with yet another glitch? Or how about the thick sole of a hiking boot about to crush my hopes for a day unencumbered? Or maybe it’s a seemingly innocent little flip-flop about to flip flop all over my plans for, oh, I don’t know, not worrying for the next 20 minutes.

Certainly looking up at all times (even metaphorically) precludes looking around at all the good things. I get that, and I do try not to focus on my meerkat sensibilities too much. Not every day brings tough stuff – life is a mix. It truly is an art to live in the moment, in the sunlight, and in the belief that, while bad things may happen, wonderful things do too. And why waste time dwelling on the small upsets – why lose a beautiful afternoon to the proposition of what-if (because you’ve just what-iffed yourself out of several hours you can’t get back).

I understand it all. And I do my best. But, honestly, I don’t think I’d feel comfortable losing my inner meerkat completely.

You can take the fear out of the girl, but … well, wait a second. No you can’t.

Eyes up.

©2024 Claudia Grossman

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something stinks

Posted by cgcopy on March 4, 2024 in empowerment, seriously?!

At first I thought that TV commercials with bears explaining to us how to use toilet paper was the epitome of talking down to an audience. Bears? Really? Of course, that might answer the age-old question about whether bears do their business in the woods. But, aside from feeling a bit put off, that does not stop me from buying said toilet paper.

But there’s something new I’ve noticed recently that, in my view, goes beyond simply talking down to an audience – I find it downright offensive. And that is the avalanche of commercials about a slew of products designed to help women keep their bodies from stinking (the advertisers’ word, used or implied, not mine).

Forgive me for being a bit indelicate here but yes, we all know that body odor exists and that some people suffer from it more than others. And great, there are products out there to help with the problem.

But that’s not what this seems like.

This new strategy of reaching women plays right into the insecurities many women share about our bodies not being perfect in all ways. It plays right into the hands of those who like nothing more than to keep women down by preying on those insecurities. And it plays right into the effectiveness of selling a product by first demeaning and shaming the potential user before promising to save her from the ingloriousness of it all.

For decades, deodorant has been advertised to the masses without this kind of insult added to injury. Even so-called intimate deodorants for women were advertised in softer terms. But these new products? Their advertising comes right out and tells women that our bodies stink all over in a multitude of places – even in areas we might not ever have considered (and probably should not have to). Talk about creating a need where there may not be much of one and about making women second-guess themselves.

What does it say about us as a society if we feel free to demean women to this extent instead of empowering them to feel their best? Last night I counted no fewer than four commercials for product lines all with this same message to women: You stink. Fix it.

Not the kind of message we want to send to young girls. Not the kind of message we want to communicate to the world. And not the kind of message that we, as women, should have to take to heart.

So there, I’ve said it. It stinks – fix it.

Bear with me.

©2024 Claudia Grossman

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reading the room

Posted by cgcopy on February 22, 2024 in finding the funny, must love books

For someone who reads as much as I do, it might come as a surprise that I’ve only belonged to one book group – and that my tenure there lasted only through a few books. Not because of the “book” part (although the choices were not my thing) but because of the “group” thing – this particular group at least. Let’s just say that evenings with this book group made me just want to go home, get under the covers, and hide my head in, well, a good book.

As you may know, I moved out from New York to California for a boy I’d known since we were teenagers – B., that is – about 28 years ago. At that time, he was living in Santa Barbara and before I knew it – poof! – so was I. I worked from home at the time and didn’t really know anyone, so, in an effort to make me feel more comfortable, B. asked a friend of his if she would please invite me to join her book group. He thought it could be a good way for me to meet a circle of women who might become my friends.

A great idea, yes. In concept. But not so much in execution. Because the majority of the women in the group were either divorced; recently broken-up-with; tired of dating Peter Pans; disgusted with the singles scene; or up to here with married men who claimed to be unattached. To say that this group was comprised mostly of manhaters would be accurate. To say that they were not eager to welcome a new member who had just moved to town to be with the love of her life would be an understatement. And to say that I felt as if I didn’t fit in would be much more than just a feeling – it was a self-evident, set-in-stone fact.

The rules of book group were clear. Each month, one woman would select the book to be read and then host the group at her home for dinner to discuss it. As in many book groups, conversation about the book was superseded by conversations about everyone’s life – and, in this case, almost everyone’s negative takes on men. Every single meeting. No matter what the book was about. See where I’m going here?

It should be noted that the books chosen were not my thing either. While I don’t expect every book in book group to be my first choice (being exposed to other kinds of books is part of the point, right?), these books were as far from popular, everyone’s-talking-about-it fiction as you could get. It was truly a chore for me to try to get through every dreary, boring, heavy-on-the-pseudointellectualism but light-on-the-enjoyment tome (and tomes they were) each month. But, being the new girl in town, I did.

When it was my time to host, I deliberately chose an Oprah’s Book Club selection, figuring that it was a good bridge between intensity and bestseller-ness. No one frowned, and I thought I was in the clear, until I was informed of another rule of book club. No husbands or boyfriends were allowed to be at home on book club night. Which meant that a very annoyed B. needed to take himself to the movies that evening – and also meant that L.A. Confidential has become a touchy subject in our home (for me, not him – I’m annoyed that I didn’t get to go with him to see it). When I tried to get a reason out of anyone as to why men had to be banished, I was told that that was the rule. Period. End of discussion.

First rule of book club, apparently, was that you don’t talk about book club.

After about seven meetings (and months), I’d decided that I’d had enough. I appreciated B.’s effort and that of the person who had first invited me, but I just couldn’t do it anymore.

Me: “I’m going to skip book group tonight.”

He: “Uh, no. I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Me: “I do. I don’t enjoy it and it stresses me out.”

He: “I think you should give it another chance.”

Me: (getting a little impatient) “All I’ve been doing is giving it another chance. I’m done.”

He: (looking frustrated) “You can’t be done. You have to go tonight.”

Me: (realizing at that moment that I’d moved 3,000 miles across the country to spend my life with this man who now apparently thought he could tell me what to do) “I have to go? You don’t get to tell me what I have to do or don’t do. You’re not the boss of me.” (Okay, maybe a bit overdramatic.)

He: (sighing) I’d never tell you what you have to do. And of course I’m not the boss of you. It’s just …”

Me: “Just what?”

He: (covering his eyes, head in hand) “Just that they’re throwing you a little surprise bridal shower tonight because they know we’re getting married in a couple of weeks.”

Me: “Oh, s**t.” (after a minute) “Sorry.”

So, I went. And it was as awkward as I thought it would be. Well, actually, a bit more awkward. Because the woman who was hosting that evening was someone B. had gone on one date with years before. I knew about her but, apparently, she hadn’t known about me. When the other women asked whom I was marrying and I mentioned B.’s name, the hostess did a double take. And then a double shot. And then double-timed through the rest of the evening, hurrying us out shortly thereafter, book discussion be damned. (I guess she had had a thing for B. that had gone unreciprocated.) And did I mention how uncomfortable it was to receive best wishes on my upcoming marriage from a group of women who were mostly taking bets on how long it might last?

My exit was as gracious as I could make it. Because we were moving to LA shortly after my last appearance, I used that as the reason for my farewell, thanking each member in a handwritten note for her lovely shower gift and for having had me in the group. The response? Not a word. I guess I’d read them right after all.

But I do appreciate the time spent in that book group because it confirmed for me that I really do like to read on my own – what I want, when I want, how many pages I want or don’t want. It also confirmed what I sort of already knew – that spending time with people who don’t support you, who don’t boost your confidence, and who don’t empower you to feel good about yourself is time ill spent.

Turn the page.

©2024 Claudia Grossman

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we are a-mused

Posted by cgcopy on February 6, 2024 in a tribute, creative inspiration, life stages, music, strong women

There is a wonderful recent New Yorker cartoon showing two baby boomers watching the Grammys and knowing none of the performers – until, with a sigh of relief, they recognize Joni Mitchell. That cartoon could have been created about B. and me.

Indeed, in watching the awards show a couple of nights ago, we found ourselves drawn to Joni’s performance the way moths are drawn to a flame, that flame being her indefatigable spirit, her voice silvered with age but golden with life stories, her presence a testament to the power of art as a life force. Her very appearance that of a muse sharing her gifts.

Those of us who are old enough to remember Joni Mitchell as a young woman, who have listened to her music for years, and who have found parts of our own voices in hers, can understand the impact of seeing her now, at 80, continuing to sing her life. Her artistry and creativity are one of a kind; her voice – a unique signature sound – recognizable immediately at its core, despite the decades that have passed; her passion for continuing to express herself something one can only regard with awe.

Her long platinum angel hair continues to be her crown, now captured in two still-hippie-esque braids; her clothing and accessories remain genuinely, effortlessly bohemian; her bright blue eyes continue to hold the spirit and the spark of her storytelling. A virtual phoenix, Joni has had to learn to rise and walk three times in her life – as a baby, of course, but then once after contracting polio and again after having suffered an aneurysm nearly a decade ago. She is truly an indomitable force of nature, whose love for her craft and whose sheer will to express herself set her apart within the too-often-used but not-often-enough-earned legend category.

With lyrics – poetry, really – that loop and swirl, delve and discover, lilt and cry, and with melodies that are often unexpected but always, always true to herself and the soul she shares with us, Joni Mitchell’s work is a touchstone for what true art is. Her creativity and sensitivity are undeniable; her commitment to her artistry, whether as a singer / songwriter or a prolific painter, is abundant; her heart, filled with a lifetime of memories that she has captured in song and shared with the world, beats to a rarefied tempo.

Listening to Joni Mitchell sing about looking at life and love from both sides now – at this stage of her life – is bittersweet, of course. She has seen those things from the perspectives both of a young woman and an old one, nearer now to the end of her life than when she was part of the Laurel Canyon sounds of the late Sixties and Seventies. Then, she was a beautiful, ethereal young woman making her mark on the world in a completely original way; now, that glow of youth has been refined, burnished, and polished to a patina of luminescence – an aura that emanated from Joni as she sat and regaled us with her bows and flows, her clouds of remembrance, her life’s journey captured in that singular performance.

Here’s to more than the voice of a generation – here’s to the woman who has sung her way into our hearts by letting us into hers; who has shown us that inspiration knows no bounds; and who has proven that remaining true to yourself is truly a lifetime achievement.

Brava. From all sides now.

©2024 Claudia Grossman

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laughing through the snow

Posted by cgcopy on December 22, 2023 in finding the funny, holidaze

One more from the holiday archive. This post made me – and a lot of my readers – laugh when it first appeared in this blog several years ago. And because laughter is the best gift I can give you all right now, I thought I’d enhance it (including a new title), put a big bow on it (figuratively, that is), and present it to you here (all shiny and almost new). Season’s giggles to you all.

Whether it’s Charlie Brown and his tiny, brave little tree or Rudolph with his beacon of a red nose; that Grinch we all love to hate or that annoyingly adorable little girl from Miracle on 34th Street; the inimitable George Bailey and his not-so-wonderful-to-wonderful life or the actually wonderful characters in Love Actually (come on, how can you not love that little kid with the drums?) – these characters and their movies are a big part of the season’s culture. But what if I were to wrap them up a bit differently, even throwing in some additional titles to add to the merry mayhem? To wit:

The Three Scrooges. The madcap adventures of those original wild and crazy guys – the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present and Future – and everyone’s favorite bad boy, Ebenezer. Nyuk, nyuk, nyuk.

It’s a Wonderful Wife. The true story of how George Bailey’s wife coped. Do you know how hard it is to live with a pathological do-gooder? To say nothing of having to listen to those bells ring every time an angel gets its wings?

Frosty the Snowplow. How our villain, disguised as everyone’s favorite snowman, manages to plow in an entire neighborhood’s driveways.

Jingle Sells! Or, how to sell the hell out of the holiday season, now starting as early as July at a store near you.

Randolph the Brown-Nosed Reindeer. The untold story of Rudolph’s kiss-ass cousin (and his plot to win the reindeer games).

How the Winch Stole Christmas. The hilarious account of what happened when dad tried to string holiday lights from the roof and the fire department crane had to get him down.

Let It Snow, Let It Snow – Let It Go Already! A heart-wrenching drama that follows one L.A. woman through therapy as she seeks to get past her frozen, paralyzing, unrealistic hopes for a white Christmas. (Spoiler alert: Not. Going. To. Happen.)

’Twas the Night Before Hanukkah. A retelling of the classic bedtime story wherein “visions of sugarplums” are replaced by “dreams of Bubbe’s latkes,” and that damn mouse is eradicated by pest control. (A mouse in my clean house? Oy!)

Santa Claws Is Coming to Town. The nail-biting thriller about the cat that takes revenge on Santa for always drinking its milk. Now who’s your Santa, baby?

Yes, Virginia, There Is an App for That. The heart-warming tale of one little girl and her quest for the truth: “If I see it on an app, does that make it real?”

This holiday season, may your hearts and tummies be full, your lights be bright, and your stockings be coal-free. And remember to practice safe mistletoe. (Especially you, Vixen.)

©2016, 2023 Claudia Grossman

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do you hear what i hear?

Posted by cgcopy on December 8, 2023 in finding the funny, holidaze

I first wrote a version of this blog post a few years ago under a different title; given how much we can all benefit from laughter this holiday season, I thought I’d reprise – and revise – it here, adding a few more chuckles per column inch. May all your celebrations be bright. (Helpful hint: avoid talking politics at the dinner table.)

I have fond memories of walking into New York City’s legendary department stores just after Thanksgiving to find that they had been transformed into a winter wonderland overnight. Interiors strewn with garlands and velvet bows; ornaments in red and gold, silver and blue; twinkling white fairy lights. And those store windows – magical glimpses into the realm of nutcrackers and angels, Santa and Toyland.

No more.

For one thing, so many of those department stores are gone. But, more to the point, the ordinary-to-extraordinary retail transformation doesn’t wait until after Turkey Day but happens everywhere around us the instant that Halloween is over. Candy corn is replaced by candy canes at a speed to rival that of Dancer and Prancer circling the globe. Suddenly it’s Christmas and Hanukkah and Kwanzaa and Festivus wherever you look – even while those jack-o-lanterns still wear their manic grins and Thanksgiving turkeys are just a glimmer on the horizon.

Is this rush really necessary? To add to the clamor, our too-early holiday hysteria is set to a deluge of seasonal music played everywhere we live and listen – radio stations, malls, restaurants, theaters, elevators, even doctors’ offices – starting the first day of November and going all the way up until New Year’s Day. All holiday sounds. All. The. Time.

Sure, lots of holiday songs are fun, upbeat, spirited, spiritual – but not one of them warrants that kind of over-and-over-and-over play. Even Irving Berlin’s White Christmas can go from dream to nightmare in a matter of spins, with days of mellow and bright threatening to become anything but. To wit:

Deck the Halls First time I hear it: Oh so jolly! Fifth time: Such a catchy tune! Tenth time: Stop telling me how to decorate and just go fa-la-la yourself.

Jingle Bells First time: Everybody into the sleigh! Fifth time: Sing it, ring it! Tenth time: Jingle no more. Ever. Please. (And what the hell is a bobtail anyway?)

Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer First time: A shiny red nose, how adorable is that! Fifth time: Yay – Rudolph gets to lead the reindeer pack! Tenth time: The only thing more annoying than hearing about Rudolph’s never-failing red noselight is seeing that drum-playing battery spokesbunny.

Dreidel, Dreidel First time: Aww, look how cute – it’s made out of clay! Fifth time: Spin it, baby! Tenth time: Shut up. And gimmel me a break (okay, you have to have played dreidel to get this one but trust me, it’s funny).

I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus First time: Ooh, a little naughty there! Fifth time: How fun – and she’s tickling him too! Tenth time: Stop the music – this little kid is going to need therapy. Either Mommy is cheating on Daddy or Daddy is really Santa and Santa (gulp!) doesn’t exist.

All I Want for Christmas Is You First time: I’m yours forever. Fifth time: What a sweet lyric! Tenth time: Sounding a little needy. Go away. 

Santa Claus Is Coming to Town First time: Such a cute little song! Fifth time: Okay, I won’t pout. Tenth time: He’s making a list? He knows if I’ve been naughty? What is he – a stalker?

Santa Claus Is Coming to Town / Bruce Springsteen Version (Obviously, an exception to the rule.) First time: It rocks. Fifth time: It really rocks. Tenth time: Turn the volume way up!

So, to all the music-programming gods out there: Can we mix in some other songs among those unending holiday tunes? Or can we hold off on the barrage until December? Or can you at least put a pair of noise-cancelling headphones in my stocking?

Silent night.

© 2019, 2023 Claudia Grossman

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day lights

Posted by cgcopy on November 20, 2023 in friendship, heartfelt

While Thanksgiving is almost here (yay, stuffing!), finding gratitude in these uncertain, uncharted times is not always easy. “May you live in interesting times” has never felt more double-edged, nor the hunger for peace of mind more acute – a hunger that not even the most delicious Thanksgiving feast can sate.

But.

In these days of turmoil and angst, finding bits of gratitude is like finding bits of light. And light is surely the only way through at this moment.

Sometimes, these pieces of light – whether people, places, or experiences – come into our lives when we least expect; if we’re really lucky, the radiance they leave behind lasts. Thankfully. To wit:

A little over ten years ago, I met a woman who worked as a volunteer in the used-books store of the local library. We connected very quickly over our shared love of reading, and I truly enjoyed chatting with her each time I dropped in. I published an essay in the LA Times shortly after we met and received an email from her that very Sunday, asking if I was, indeed, the author of that piece (unsure of my last name, she had looked me up on Facebook based on the byline; seen my photo; and put two and two together). She even went so far as to share my essay with numerous friends of hers. Her kindness touched my heart.

I saw her many times in the library over the ensuing years, and we talked about books, movies, husbands, cooking, jobs, shoes, letting our hair go grey, knitting (her), crocheting (me), dogs (both of us), and more books. She was delightful company and a warm and lovely person. She was a fan of this blog and, when my novel came out in 2020, she couldn’t wait to read it (and then very graciously shared a wonderful review with the world).

During the pandemic, I reached out and phoned her, to connect in the way so many of us felt the need to do in those dark days. We shared several calls and even more texts over that first year, and each connection let in a little bit of light – she asked me my favorite color to wear and then surprised me with a handknit scarf (that she mailed to me) over the holidays; I supplied her with a steady list of my favorite novels and novelists to fill her iPad. She also invited me to visit at some time in the future, once things were safer, to share some iced tea and conversation in her backyard.

Her invitation was genuine, and I meant the “yes” of my reply. But then life got in the way, as it has a habit of doing, and time passed. When I next texted, months later, she answered quite briefly, saying that all was well. And then – nothing.

A few weeks ago, I received an email from her address in response to my latest blog post. I opened it eagerly, excited to hear from her again. But it was from her husband instead, telling me, sadly, that she had passed away over the summer after an awful illness.

The loss I felt was profound, which surprised me at first, because we had not been close friends. Then I soon realized that she had been a true and constant ray of light over the years. Someone who was always so full of life, so interesting, and so welcoming. Her energy was incredibly positive and vibrant, her sense of humor a tad wicked, her niceness so sincere.

My gratitude at having spent time with her is real; the serendipity of our having met at a place where books are the centerpiece has a brilliant rightness to it; and the image of her wrapped in one of her wonderful scarves, searching for a title for me in the bookstore, is one that will always stay with me.

This Thanksgiving Day, I welcome the chance to feel grateful for all the pieces of light I have in my life – the love, the laughter, the brightness – and I wish you all the same.

May your table be filled with good friends, good food, and good stories to tell. May you raise a glass to life.

And to light.

©2023 Claudia Grossman

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boomerang

Posted by cgcopy on October 20, 2023 in empowerment, finding the good, it's life

I’m not quite sure when it started, but, seemingly all of a sudden, I’m hearing of lots of friends dealing with the kinds of physical ailments that I used to associate with those much older. Than me – a baby boomer. And not an “original” boomer either – I’m talking about those of us born a little later on in the boomer generation.

Heart surgeries, hip and knee replacements, torn rotator cuffs, spinal fusions, rehab from falls and broken bones – when did all of this happen? And, more important, when did it start happening to such young people?

Ah, there’s the rub. Maybe we’re not so young after all. It’s really hard to claim being middle-aged when you’re a card-carrying Medicare member (how many people do you know who live to age 130?). But a senior? Maybe, technically, when it entitles me to discounts (and to polite young people reaching something on a too-high shelf for me when I’m shopping). But I just can’t get my head around that designation.

In short, we’re not the same kind of people as our parents were when they became seniors – they seemed to age more quickly in their thinking (and in their dress – dads in white belts and white shoes, anyone?). Our generation looks younger, acts younger, thinks younger, lives younger. Rather than looking forward to retirement as the time for early-bird specials and shuffleboard on the Lido Deck, we’re the ones looking forward to more adventure and intellectual fulfillment. Ninety percent of it, I think, is attitude; the rest is a combination of things – awareness; being willing to think outside the box; healthier living, maybe. And the fact that we love rock and roll (always have, always will).

Maybe my generation’s senior status is more like being a senior in high school versus a stereotypical senior citizen. We’re the cool kids; the ones who get to do stuff the others aren’t old enough to handle; the ones everyone wants to be like.

Alas, maybe not. But we’re still cool – we know it. We may be older, with some parts needing repair or replacement, but we’re built with a mindset that sets us apart from those who came before us. It’s hard to believe that those days of being the bright new minds in our various crafts have passed; that our era of working way into the wee hours without missing sleep is gone; that those evenings of dancing until dawn (in high heels, no less) are rare; and that the idea that, more than feeling the pulse of the times, we actually were the pulse, is behind us. But the passions we’ve stoked, the love we’ve nurtured, the wisdom we’ve gathered and continue to share, and that brilliant energy to believe – those things still define us.

Sonic boom.

©2023 Claudia Grossman

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