But how? I knew absolutely no one in the entire county except the real estate agent who had sold me the property. I didn’t know a thing about permits, county laws or building. All I had was an intense thirst to create a nest. I collected names of carpenters from the local hardware store, made some calls and found two who were interested. We haggled about the hourly price—I had no idea how this was supposed to be done.
From my sketched house plan, I estimated the amount of wood needed. Then I held my breath until it arrived, frightened that I had bought too much or too little. I dug holes, poured concrete, sawed wood for the walls and put my new hammer to use for 11 hours straight on the first day. Blisters soon seemed a natural part of the landscape of my hand.
As the building grew to its two-and-a-half story height, my joy was mingled with dread—I had an extreme fear of heights. But when the carpenters needed me on the scaffold for roof beams, I pushed away the nausea and did the work. No one else knew what I had conquered—my fear has never returned.
At the end of five full days, we had put on the roof. Even without walls or windows, it looked like a house that could protect me from at least the rain. So in a rush of exuberance, I moved my sleeping bag in with the lumber and sawdust and sat alone with my awe, my satisfaction and my aching muscles.
Over many months, in every spare moment and with every spare dollar I could find, I completed walls and put in 27 windows, continually learning better ways to do things. Wherever I was, whatever I was doing, I obsessively plotted and planned my next moves. But what a lovely obsession.
Then I faced the big challenges of running water and electricity. Since I still couldn’t afford to hire professionals, I bought books, studying them for months before I dared tackle a new project.
My initial work passed the county inspector’s critical eye, but I knew that even he couldn’t tell if the pipes would withstand the water pressure. The moment finally came to turn the water on. If I had made any big mistakes, I would have a flood inside the house.
After turning on the outside valve, I ran indoors to listen for the dreaded tap-tap of water dripping on wood. I inched my way along every wall. All was quiet. Ecstatic, I turned on the water in every sink and laughed out loud. It was a miracle to have running water for the first time in over a year of building! And I knew every L-and T-connector in the place because I had put in all of them myself.
With writing assignments increasing, I found the cash to have the septic system and drywall installed by professionals. Three days before Easter—one year and eight months from the time I dug the first postholes—I completed installing the last of the kitchen tile. My father and stepmother came for Easter dinner, the first meal cooked in my tiny new oven, and we celebrated the all-important Certificate of Occupancy from the county inspector. As we gazed out onto the sparkling blue lake, with white dogwood petals gracing the view, my heart was so full I couldn’t speak.
My dream and I have grown together. And just as I am a work-in-progress, so too is this house. My dream of a simple shelter has become a house with a gazebo and decks, where I can write and create. I have my nest, my place of refuge and solace.
I’ve learned how to put anything together by seeing the dream in the pieces. How to appreciate the smallest advances and conveniences. How to persevere when no solution is in sight. How to build rather than to blame. This adventure will color the rest of my life, as I dream new dreams and begin the building.
Liah Kraft-Kristaine
Meeting Betty Furness
Opportunities are usually disguised by hard work, so most people don’t recognize them.
Ann Landers
It was 1964, the year the tourists shared the famed Atlantic City Boardwalk with the Democratic National Convention.
At the time, I was working as a waitress in a popular steak house, in addition to raising five children and helping my husband with our brand new enterprise—a weekly newspaper. So despite the hoopla and my overflowing tip purse, I was just plain tired and longed for it all to be over.
One evening I approached my next customer without much enthusiasm. She was thinner and daintier than I remembered from her years of opening and closing refrigerator doors on the Westinghouse television commercials in the 1950s, but the cheerful no-nonsense voice was unmistakable. The woman about to dine alone was Betty Furness.
Her warmth and friendliness overcame my awe of waiting on a celebrity. I learned that she had come to Atlantic City to cover the Democratic National Convention from a woman’s point of view for her daily radio program. By the time I brought her check, I’d mustered up the courage to ask her for an interview for our little suburban paper. She responded by inviting me to lunch.
As I neared her motel two days later, I was alternately exuberant at my good fortune and nervous at the prospect of interviewing a woman who had once received 1,300 fan letters a week.
I already knew a lot about my subject. A Powers model at 14 and a movie actress at 16, she went on to become a success on the stage. But she was best known for her brilliant career as America’s number one saleswoman. The name of Betty Furness was as much a byword of the American household as Westinghouse and its Studio One television program.
That’s why, during the interview, her attitude about it all seemed hard to believe—but it was the perfect lead for my story: “I’ll never do another television commercial again as long as I live!”
She explained to me that when she closed the final refrigerator door on her commercials in 1960, she was determined to carve yet another new career for herself— this time in the news medium. “I know the world is full of information and people wanting that information,” she told me. “I want to be part of that.”
And yet, even though she worked for CBS News, she’d been told repeatedly that technically she wasn’t a news correspondent. “It’s what I desperately want to be, but the news media and the public refuse to take my desire to do news broadcasting seriously.”
Something about her story connected in my gut. Everyone saw me as “just a waitress,” not a writer at all. “A writer is a person who writes,” they said. But when would I ever have the money, time, strength and enough perseverance to make myself who I wanted to be—someone like this woman with four careers behind her that most women would kill for, now seeking yet another for her true fulfillment.
But the real measure of her character, the “dimensions” of this woman’s world, emerged in Betty’s parting statement. “All my life I’ve been governed by one philosophy: Do any job you’re doing well, and you’ll stumble over the right opportunities to do what you truly desire.”
In the years that followed that wonderful meeting with Betty, I watched her put her wisdom in action. In only a short time after the convention, her sheer strength of will and positive outlook catapulted her into a new and challenging career as Lyndon Johnson’s special assistant for consumer affairs. She went on to become the head of New York State’s Consumer Protection Board and the city’s Commissioner of Consumer Affairs. When I heard the news, I remembered her philosophy and wished her well.
In later years, I watched her as the first-ever network consumer affairs reporter every night on New York’s Channel 5. I laughed in recognition when she discussed manufacturers whose contour sheets didn’t fit mattresses. I was glad when she told me what some over-the-counter health remedies really contained. And typical of the reports was one of her last: how to protect yourself from hospitals—all this while she herself was in and out of hospitals for cancer treatments.
Through the years I continued to study her words, which I’d taped across her autographed picture. Amazing things happened in my life as I endeavored to apply those words—ones later reinforced by mythologist Joseph Campbell, who wrote: “Follow your bliss, and doors will open where there were no doors before.”
Jobs I’d never anticipated or wanted turned into jobs I loved; unexpected paths took me places I’d never dreamed of. Eventually, stumble by stumble, I believed, b
egan, and went from waitress to dining room manager to hospital public relations director; from newspaper reporter to associate editor of several magazines; from writing consultant to international trainer—and finally, to my dream of professional writer.
The day I saw Betty’s obituary, I read that at 76 she’d earned the title of “oldest reporter working on television.” As I sat reading about her life and accomplishments, I
8
ON AGING
Grow old along with me!
The best is yet to be...
Robert Browning
Keeping Up with Granny . . .
and the “Old Guys”
I have always dreaded old age.
I cannot imagine anything worse than being old, maybe infirm, perhaps alone. How awful it must be to have nothing to do all day long but stare at the walls or watch TV.
So last week, when the mayor suggested we all celebrate Senior Citizen Week by cheering up a senior citizen, I was determined to do just that. I would call on my new neighbor, an elderly retired gentleman, recently widowed, who, I presumed, had moved in with his married daughter because he was too old to take care of himself.
I baked a batch of brownies and, without bothering to call (some old people cannot hear the phone), I went off to brighten this old guy’s day.
When I rang the doorbell, the “old guy” came to the door dressed in tennis shorts and a polo shirt, looking about as ancient and decrepit as Donny Osmond.
“I’m sorry I can’t invite you in,” he said when I introduced myself, “but I’m due at the Racquet Club at two. I’m playing in the semifinals today.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” I said. “I baked you some brownies...”
“Great!” he interrupted, snatching the box. “Just what I need for bridge club tomorrow! Thanks so much!”
“...and just thought we’d visit awhile. But that’s okay! I’ll just trot across the street and call on Granny Grady.” (Now, Granny Grady is not really my grandmother; she is just an old lady who has lived in our neighborhood forever, and everybody calls her “Granny.”)
“Don’t bother,” he said. “Gran’s not home: I know, I just called to remind her of our date to go dancing tonight. She may be at the beauty shop. She mentioned at breakfast that she had an appointment for a tint job.”
I wished him luck with his tennis game (though I was much more interested in his game with Granny) and bade him good-day.
But I am not easily discouraged. I had set aside that afternoon to call on somebody old, and by golly, I was going to find somebody old to call on!
I called my mother’s cousin (age 83); she was in the hospital... working in the gift shop.
I called my aunt (age 74); she was on vacation in China. I called my husband’s uncle (age 79). I forgot he was on his honeymoon.
And then I remembered old Sister Margaret, a nun who had been my teacher in grade school. She lived in a retirement home for nuns, and it had been several years since I had seen her. I wondered if the old dear was too senile to remember me.
The old dear wasn’t there.
“Whom did you want?” the receptionist had asked when I had inquired if it would be convenient for me to visit.
“Sister Margaret,” I had repeated.
“Sister Margaret...” mused the receptionist. “Oh! You mean Mercedes! She’s away on tour this week.”
“Mercedes?” I asked. “On tour?”
“Mercedes is Sister Margaret’s stage name,” said the receptionist. “When she became an actress, she took the name Mercedes because she had always admired Mercedes McCambridge and because she thought Mercedes sounded more seductive than Margaret.”
“She...uh... became an actress?” I asked, too stunned to wonder when Sister had learned the meaning of the word “seductive.”
“Actually, she’s more of a producer-director,” the receptionist explained. “A couple of years ago she organized a senior citizens’ drama club, and eventually it evolved into a caravan theater. They go all over the state putting on plays. She’ll be back Thursday, but she leaves again that evening for Washington, D.C. She’s on the White House Commission on Aging, you know.”
No, I didn’t know, and I can’t imagine how she got on such a commission, since she obviously knows nothing about aging!
And I don’t want to know about it, either!
I still dread old age, now more than ever. I just don’t think I’m up to it.
Teresa Bloomingdale
The older generation fights back.
CLOSE TO HOME. ©John McPherson. Reprinted with permission of Universal Press Syndicate.
The Dancin’ Grannies
As soon as you feel too old to do a thing, do it!
Margaret Deland
Twelve years ago, when I was 50, I thought, What will 60 be like? Or 70? I looked around and saw only one style of being. It’s not fair, I thought. Young people have so many styles to choose from—they can be yuppies or hippies or what I call regular folks—but older people have just one option, and it doesn’t look like much fun. No one seemed to be enjoying themselves. Many people (including me) generally disliked their aging selves. I certainly wasn’t happy with the way I looked, and I didn’t feel sharp enough to handle everything coming my way. I felt like an insecure teenager all over again!
I decided to do something about it, something practical. I worked on my fitness by joining exercise classes in town. A few years later, my husband and I moved to a retirement community, and I wanted to teach aerobic classes. The community center wouldn’t give me a room to teach in, so I had to sneak around and find any available empty room.
One day, the community center staff came to me and asked if I would help with the entertainment for a Hawaiian luau they were putting on. I said yes. (I’m a yes person—I say yes first and think later!) Then I talked five other ladies into dancing with me. How hard could it be? I thought. The hula? Just wiggle your hips!We performed the hula and a war chant and brought the house down. Someone had a camera and took pictures, then sent them on to our local paper. We got requests for more engagements, which in turn led to more publicity and yet more engagements. Soon we had invitations from all over the country. The Dancin’ Grannies were born!
The sad thing was that we met the most resistance from our families and our peers. Older women were disgusted when we performed in leotards and often echoed our children’s advice, telling us to “act your age.” What did that mean? Being humpy, lumpy and grumpy? No thanks! (Of course, after we were asked to perform at the White House for President and Mrs. Bush and visiting dignitaries, our families changed their tune.)
We often ran into age prejudice. The young in particular assume things about older people that aren’t always true. One weekend we were invited to perform at a university in Wisconsin, and it was arranged that we would sleep in the dorms. Well, the students dismantled their bunk beds for us grannies! They must have thought that either we wouldn’t be able to get up to the top bunk, or that if we made it up there, we might fall out.
Our performances haven’t all been smooth sailing, either. Our first parade was a disaster! I had choreographed a dance number where we started out as old grannies, with hair nets and robes, and then changed into hot grannies—putting on hats and gloves and taking off the robes. Bad Idea! Have you ever tried to change clothes and dance while you’re moving with a parade? Plus, as we traveled down the road, the groups who saw the old grannies were not the same people who saw the hot grannies, so the whole point of the dance was lost anyway. Finally, we ended up just changing clothes and then running to catch up. And the audience loved it!
People are amazed at how physically demanding our routines are. We do splits, cartwheels, one-armed pushups, somersaults and high kicks. Our best cartwheeler is 72 years old.
But I think the real secret of the Dancin’ Grannies is our attitude. I was raised extremely poor—no-food poor. If we wanted toys we had to make things up to play with, so I learned early to be v
ery creative. And you know, I think being poor was one of the best things that ever happened to me because I learned to look for treasures.
That’s what I’m still doing today—looking for the treasure in growing old. I’m getting better and better. I haven’t heard one young person yet say, “I’m just dying to get old—that looks like so much fun!” But it can be. We are pushing the edge of the envelope, living longer in a totally different world. When I was little and visited my grandmother, it was always “Watch out for granny’s knickknacks. Don’t touch anything. Be quiet.” When my grandchildren visit, they like to try and test me, and I say to myself, “I’m not going to let those little twerps beat me!” And oh, we do have fun!
It’s true that antiques have to be treated a bit differently, with a little care, but they still have a beauty all their own.
Beverly Gemigniani with Carol Kline
A Romance of the ’90s for
Those in Their 70s
Age does not protect you from love.
But love, to some extent, protects you from age.
Jeanne Moreau
There he stood, tall and handsome and 71 years old. There I stood, going on 70, and his face went straight to my heart.
We were waiting to see the same doctor at a small Iowa hospital. I sat down right next to him as we both looked at magazines, but I don’t think I absorbed a single word I read that day. An hour later, at the local market, I was amazed to find him waiting at the prescription counter as I went up to talk to the pharmacist. I said, “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.” He responded courteously, but I found out later that he hadn’t even noticed me the first time!
His name was Bill. As we chatted, I was surprised to discover that this attractive stranger was the father of my granddaughter’s kindergarten teacher. His own grandson was also in the class, and the two children had been mysteriously drawn to each other.