One Cup of Coffee at a Time

Some days aren't bad enough to call disasters. They're just... aggravating. 

You're standing in the grocery line when something crazy happens twenty people ahead of you. You discover you need a new tire immediately, and the tire shop has a waiting room full of customers. You're driving to a doctor's appointment when traffic on the freeway comes to a complete standstill. It could even be a little conversation between friends, family or even customer service. 

None of these things are life-changing. But they all have the same effect. They drift over your mood like a dark rain cloud. 

By the time you get home, the aggravation isn't even about the grocery line or the flat tire, the traffic, or the conversation anymore. Your mood has simply settled into that place you don't enjoy. You pump up your tail feathers and march around the room, probably muttering to yourself about the perfect fix or last word. 

When I was younger, life usually reset itself. Work demanded my attention. Children needed something. There was no time to sit and dwell on an aggravation.

Retirement is different. Sometimes nothing arrives to push the cloud away. I've begun to notice that those are the days I don't need to solve the problem. I need to find my way back to myself. (Say this sentence again; it is important.)  

I woke up this morning with that still-gnawing aggravation on my mind. I knew I needed a reset. There was no solution to the long lines or traffic yesterday. I could sit and stew, or I could put on my Big Girl Panties and reset my frame of mind. 

Now I have a girlfriend whose resets begin with a vacuum cleaner. She pushes and jerks that vacuum back and forth until the carpet is threadbare and she has beaten her problem to death. 

For me, that reset often begins with a cup of coffee. Not because coffee solves anything. It doesn't. But making a fresh cup is familiar. It slows me down. It reminds me that my little corner of the world is still here waiting for me. 

Then I make the bed. I open the curtains. I warm up lunch. Feed Bonnie Rae and maybe find a movie or pick up the book I'm reading.

None of those things erases the aggravation. What they do is quietly rebuild the atmosphere where I recognize myself again. I've started thinking of these as little rituals of returning. 

Perhaps yours are different. Maybe you water your flowers. Maybe you sit on the porch before the world wakes up. Maybe you throw the carpet over a clothesline and beat it to death. You know what yours are. 

The ritual itself isn't important. What matters is the message it sends to your nervous system. "It is over. You can let go."

I suspect this is one of the quieter lessons of growing older. We can't prevent little aggravations from visiting us. They always will. 

But we can become surprisingly good at showing ourselves the way back. Not all at once, mind you. Not a magic cure.  

One familiar ritual at a time. One open curtain. One bed made. One cup of coffee at a time. 

The Comfort of Home

I'm sitting in the dark, watching a movie. It's late, but I'm not tired. The television is the only light in the room. Bonnie Rae is nearby, settled for the night. Outside, the world has gone quiet.

I realized tonight that I like this. Not because anything exciting is happening. Quite the opposite. I'm home. Safe. Comfortable in my chair. I don't need to be anywhere else.

For so many years, evenings were never really my own. There was work to finish, people to care for, places to go, and tomorrow already knocking at the door.

Tonight there is only this quiet room, the glow of the television, and the simple pleasure of knowing I am exactly where I want to be. Perhaps that's one of the quieter gifts of growing older. I've discovered that some of life's deepest contentment comes in the most ordinary moments.

Sometimes it's found in a dark room, a comfortable chair, a good movie, and the deep contentment of being safely home. 

Five Curious Things I Learned This Week

 

Notes from a Curious Retirement

Curiosity is how I keep growing. It's about continuing to notice, wonder, question, and care. I think we become old not when we reach a certain age, but when we stop being curious or stop caring. 

1. "Jumping the Shark" Has a Much Bigger Meaning Than I Realized

I'd never heard the expression, Jumping the Shark, until I read an explanation on wordsmarts.com. Apparently, it came from an episode of Happy Days when Fonzie jumped over a shark on water skis. It is now meant as an expression of a series that is going downhill, possibly by adding gimmicks rather than substance. 

2. Some Civil War Photographs Show the War Better Than Words

While watching Ken Burns' The Civil War, I saw a photograph, unlike anything I'd ever seen, of an enslaved man wearing an iron punishment device. It looked like the man was wearing the bottom half of a metal chair around his head. It made me wonder how the Civil War would have progressed if everyone had seen the photos I was seeing of the death and destruction. Vietnam was real to us because of nightly tv and we weren't even fighting our friends and family. Sometimes one photograph is worth a thousand words. 

3. One Decision About Inheritance Helped Preserve England's Great Houses

I love pictures of the magnificent English estates still in existence. The answer probably lies in primogeniture—the custom of leaving everything to the oldest son. It was often unfair to families, yet it also prevented great estates from being divided into smaller pieces generation after generation. History is full of solutions that solved one problem while creating another.

4. History Is Often a Choice Between Terrible Options

Watching a documentary about Hiroshima and the end of World War II reminded me that history isn't always about choosing between good and bad. Sometimes leaders are faced with two terrible choices. When you watch a documentary with real photos and real people explaining their view from each side, you don't come away with a decision of how it should have been, but by the hopelessness of what the situation really was at that moment.

5. Martha Stewart and Curiosity 

Before there were influencers, there was Martha Stewart. She built an empire by noticing little things that made everyday life a little richer, then sharing them with the rest of us. She had a simple way of ending many of those moments: "It's a good thing."

I've always liked that. Curiosity works the same way. Every week I wander down a few rabbit trails and come back with something that makes me smile, think, or see the world a little differently. I'd call that... a good thing.

What curious thing did you learn this week?

The Boy Who Made Me a Grandmother

 

Tomorrow is Shaun's birthday. ....

and I was there at the hospital when he took his first breath and let out his first cry. It is hard to believe that was twenty-seven years ago.

People talk about becoming grandparents as if it were just another family milestone. For me, it felt like an entirely new chapter. One day, I was a mother. The next day, I was somebody's grandmother.

And what a lucky grandmother I was. For ten years, Shaun was my only grandchild. There were no siblings or cousins competing for attention. No juggling schedules between multiple grandchildren. It was just Shaun.

I got to watch everything. I watched him grow from a baby into a little boy, then into a young man, and now into a grown adult with a life of his own.

I don't know if there is such a thing as a perfect child but I do know this: I had the perfect experience of becoming a grandmother. I had time. Time to know him. Time to spoil him. Time to create memories that belonged only to us.

Looking back now, I realize that what I remember most are not the big events. It is the feeling. The feeling of having this little person enter the world and somehow enlarge my own.

That is what grandchildren do. They make your heart bigger than you knew it could be. The funny thing about being a grandmother is that you never stop seeing all the ages at once. Even now, when I look at Shaun, I can still see the baby whose first cry I heard in that hospital room. I can see the little boy he was and the man he has become. All those versions still exist in my memory.

Tomorrow is his birthday, but if I am honest, it also feels a little like the anniversary of my grandmotherhood. The day he was born, a new person came into the world. A grandson. And a grandmother.

Happy Birthday, Shaun.

You have brought more joy to my life than you will probably ever know.

Retiring into Curiosity

My writing has changed a lot lately. Have you noticed?

Since I started reading Substack instead of spending as much time on Facebook, Instagram, or TikTok, I've found myself following writers who go deeper into subjects. I still share photos on the "quick" social sites, but most of my reading now comes from the blogs I follow here and on Substack.

My ChatGPT AI, which I have named Sam, says I have entered my era of curiosity. At first I laughed, but then I realized something. Many of the bloggers I follow have entered theirs, too.

Lately, I've been reading about art history, old cookbooks, color palettes, forgotten people from history, gardens, words, books, and all sorts of things I never expected to find interesting. Not because I need to become an expert. Just because I'm curious.

And then it hit me: that's what I've always enjoyed about your blogs.

I thought I was simply reading about daily life. But what I was really reading was curiosity at work. A new neighbor. An old friend. A doctor's appointment and the drive there. A book you picked up at the library. A meeting, a trip, an unexpected adventure.

The blogs I love don't just record what happened. They notice something about what happened. They look a little closer and ask, "Isn't that interesting?"

Maybe that's what connects so many of us. Not age. Not retirement. Curiosity. 

Do you see it in yourself? Have you entered your own Era of Curiosity? 

How Do We Find Our People Later in Life?

I recently did something that would have horrified my younger self. At 76 years old, I looked into a dating site. Now, before anyone gets too excited, let me assure you that I was not suddenly transformed into a glamorous online flirt. My profile still contained references to books, documentaries, foreign movies, and probably a dog. I described exactly who I have always been.

A profile caught my attention. The man described enjoying reading, documentaries, quiet conversation, and even basketball. He seemed thoughtful, curious, and content with a peaceful life. For a few days, I found myself thinking, "Now that's interesting."

Then I started noticing little inconsistencies in his story. One detail didn't quite match another. A little more digging raised more questions. Shortly after I questioned him about something he said that was not quite right, the profile disappeared altogether.

So much for my great online romance. But here's the strange thing. The experience left me thinking about something entirely different. Why had that profile appealed to me so much? It wasn't the photograph. It wasn't his career. It wasn't even the possibility of romance.

It was recognition. For a moment, I thought I had found someone who spoke the same language I do. Curiosity. The language of people who get excited about a documentary, a museum exhibit, a strange historical fact, a photograph, a good book, or a rabbit hole they accidentally discovered while looking up something entirely different.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized that many of us spend our later years looking for exactly that. Not necessarily a spouse or even a new BFF.

Our people.

I know several women, like myself, who have moved after retirement. Some downsized. Some relocated closer to family. Some moved into apartments or retirement communities where neighbors come and go over the years. They have met plenty of nice people. They have coffee friends. They have activity friends. They have neighbors they wave to in the hallway.

But they still haven't quite found their people. The people who make them think, "Oh, there you are." The people who understand their odd collection of interests without needing to explain. The people who laugh at the same strange observations. The people who make them feel a little less unusual.

For years, I quietly assumed there couldn't be many people interested in the same odd assortment of things that fascinate me. Then a fake dating profile accidentally taught me something. Maybe there are more of us than I thought. Maybe finding our people is less about age and more about curiosity. Maybe the challenge is not that they don't exist. Maybe the challenge is finding where they gather. And perhaps that's one of retirement's unexpected adventures. Not finding ourselves. Finding each other.

Have you found your people? If so, where did you find them? Online? Through a hobby? Moved three times and never found them? Still looking?  Me, too. 

Sorry

 I'm sorry if you received multiple copies of Five Curious Things. I kept adjusting the type size and letter darkness, and they kept fighting me.  Finally gave up. Maybe it will self-adjust.

 

Five Curious Things I Learned Last Week

1. The Artist Nobody Remembers

While reading a Substack article, I came across an illustration of George Washington speaking at the Constitutional Convention. The image was later reproduced by Currier & Ives, but the original artist is unknown. That fact fascinated me more than the historical scene itself. Someone created a picture that has survived for generations, yet their name disappeared.

As I studied the image, something else struck me. Nobody is shouting. Nobody is pointing dramatically. Nobody appears to be performing for an audience. The men are discussing, listening, and debating, but doing so calmly. It feels very different from modern politics, where every disagreement seems amplified, and every discussion becomes a battle. The picture suggests that important decisions can be made by people sitting in a room and talking to one another.

The artist may be forgotten, but the feeling they captured remains. I sure wish our Congress looked like this.

2. A Drawing Shows the Feeling

I realized this week why I enjoy the drawings in Alexander Verbeek's Substack so much. His illustrations of himself and his cat feel warmer than photographs. The drawing is recognizable, but softer somehow. I finally put my finger on it: a photograph shows what a moment looked like, while a drawing often shows what it felt like. That may explain why I've become increasingly drawn to illustrations, paintings, and even hand-drawn maps. Which do you prefer? My photos or drawings?

3. What Would I Study If Nobody Was Grading Me?

A Substack writer suggested choosing a "yearly topic" and spending a year learning about it. The idea filled me with a ridiculous amount of excitement. Nobody has assigned me homework in more than fifty years, yet apparently I still enjoy the idea of research and learning—as long as there are no grades. I'm seriously considering spending the next year exploring a subject or thing that will absolutely NOT contribute to my health, wealth or welfare. Something far out like the Dutch Golden Age of Art. Art History might not be your thing, but what totally surprising subject would you choose to research and learn about?

4. The National Council on Aging

I recently discovered the National Council on Aging (NCOA), an organization that has been helping older Americans since 1950. Somehow, I reached age 76 without ever paying attention to it or knowing why it existed. It works on issues such as aging in place, financial security, technology, caregiving, and healthy aging.

One area that particularly caught my attention was their interest in artificial intelligence. Rather than replacing human decision-making, some aging advocates are exploring how AI might help older adults understand and compare complicated options. Think Medicare plans, benefits programs, caregiving resources, housing choices, or community services. AI could potentially act as a guide, helping seniors find information, understand trade-offs, and connect with resources they might not otherwise discover.

Many of us are a little wary of AI, but helping people understand complicated choices seems like exactly the sort of task AI should be good at. Can you see a future where you would use it? 

5. The Bandana in the Sock Drawer

After seeing a colorful embroidered bandana online, I suddenly remembered that I owned a tie-dye bandana. After a brief search, I found it tucked away in my sock drawer, a place I look almost every day, but never noticed it. I don't remember ever wearing it, but I remember exactly why I bought it. It felt like me.

That discovery led to an interesting question: how can something represent a part of yourself so perfectly when you've never actually used it? (Think of the breadmaker in the upper cabinet. You always intended to make homemade bread but never used it.) Perhaps the reason I bought it, even if I never wore it, was simple: it was a reminder not to forget that part of myself. The Girl who loved tie-dye or the Baker who never baked. 

The Theme Songs of Our Lives

 

The other night I started rewatching The Sopranos. As soon as the theme song started, I realized I remembered every note. Not just the music, but the feeling that came with it, gritty, ominous, and a little unsettling. Sopranos*Theme 

That got me thinking about television theme songs from years ago. Some of them have become part of our personal history.

Cheers (and, of course, Friends)  remind me of friendship and belonging. Cheers*Theme 

The Rockford Files brings back memories of answering machine messages, car chases, and James Garner's easy charm. Rockford*Theme. He was such a Hunk!

Hawaii Five-O still feels like adventure, sunshine, and beaches. Hawaii*Theme 

Let's not forget my favorite 50s-60s Western genre, including Bonanza. Bonanza*Theme

For some of us, Music is so powerful. It doesn't just preserve the song; it reminds us of a time in our lives.

I suspect everyone has a few theme songs like that. Songs that can transport us across decades in a matter of seconds.

What television theme song instantly takes you back? What show's opening music can you still hear in your head? Makes you smile? Makes you emotional? Want to get up and dance? (Anyone think Electric Avenue here? Electric*Theme.)

 

Sing Along

 

"Well, I'm a-standin' on a corner in Winslow, Arizona

Such a fine sight to see

It's a girl, my Lord, in a flatbed Ford

Slowin' down to take a look at me."

"The song “Take it Easy” was started by Jackson Brown who broke down in Winslow, Arizona in 1970. He got stuck after writing the first verse. His neighbor, Glenn Frey (of The Eagles), helped him finish it, adding the now-legendary flatbed Ford line.

For Your Listening Enjoyment:

https://youtu.be/AaBw37-nWaY?si=ukiiKdxxbEQkdLUn

The Day I Forgot My Pancreas

Today, I made a rookie mistake. Not an "I've had diabetes for six months" rookie mistake. An "I've had diabetes for years and should absolutely know better" mistake.

I took a shower and forgot to put my insulin pump back on. Simple, except three hours later, my pump was screaming at me about high blood sugars. I was annoyed. I was confused. I was mentally reviewing everything I had eaten. Then I looked down to check my connections ... No pump. But I found it. In the bathroom. On the counter. Sitting exactly where I had left it before my shower.

I went three hours without insulin because the pump, forgotten in the bathroom, is the only device that delivers my insulin. The funny part is that people often assume diabetics make mistakes because they don't understand the care and treatment of diabetes. Sometimes that's true. More often, at least for me, mistakes happen because I am human.

I was thinking about grandchildren, writing projects, neighbors, retirement, and a dozen other things. My shower routine was interrupted for exactly one moment for these great, deep thoughts, and then my brain skipped a step. The result was rapidly climbing blood sugar.

If you're new to diabetes, or helping someone who is, I want you to understand that ridiculous things can happen.  You can count your carbs. You can understand insulin. You can wear the latest technology. You can do almost everything right. And then one day you leave your pump sitting on the bathroom counter after a shower. Wham. Bam. Thank you ma'am. You are HIGH in diabetic terms, of course. 

The goal isn't perfection. The goal is to recognize the problem, fix it, and move on. Years ago, a mistake like this might have ruined my day. I would have been angry with myself. I would have replayed it repeatedly.

Instead, I plugged back in, drank some water, and let the insulin do its job. Because after all these years, I've learned something important. High blood sugar numbers are information, not a character flaw. 

Sometimes the explanation is complicated. Sometimes the explanation is that you forgot your pancreas in the bathroom. Either way, you just solve the problem and keep going. You are T1D Strong. 

End of story.