Roaring Toward 80, Part 3: What to do about aging?

I don’t know what I’ll do. I have been asked what my plan is. Do I have a plan, as I turn 80? Who will I live with in my old(er) age? Where will I go if I get really sick? Anything can happen.

I’ve done a little research. I suppose it’s time since I’ve been in denial for years about the inevitable.

Although my grown children have both invited me to live with them, they too have asked about my future plans. So I made a few phone calls and discovered that any facility would cost around $2,000 per month (Medicare doesn’t provide a penny). Now I get daily emails from A Place for Mom.

Years ago, a 90-year-old old friend looked at me and said, “You’re a bit of a shaman, Sheila.”

“Huh,” I responded. “Why?”

“You make things happen,” she replied. Wow, I thought.

At the Southdale Mall the other day, I stopped in the Apple Store to ask a question about my new iPhone. Then I strolled into J.Crew. I never go there. At the back of the store, in the sale section, one elegant lavender long dress hung. I figured it would never fit me; it was a size extra small. That didn’t stop me. I tried it on. I loved it. It fit!

I have a few pretty dresses to wear to my Maine birthday party, I figured. Still, I asked the salesperson to hold the dress for 24 hours. After emailing the photo to a few dear friends (why?), a reply came in a minute or two.

“This dress was made for you. Tell me how much it is! Tell me, tell me, you must get it! I’ll pay for it.It’s your birthday present!”

How could I say no? I’ll happily wear the dress to my 80th birthday party, which my children have planned at the end of June. Where we all grew up — in Southwest Harbor, Maine.

Who is a typical 80 year old? I don’t know. But I don’t think I am one. I feel stronger than ever.

I read about a new lemon with turmeric morning drink that supposedly improves all that ails you. I try new exercises to ease stress on my lymphatic system. Vagus nerve stimulation sessions relax me, as do my new beta blocker meds for hypertension, my only medical issue. I want to dance more because I’ve learned that jumping around improves bone density. I attend strength training class at the Y twice a week here in Minneapolis. And I walk, walk, walk.

I take heart in following Harvard nutrition professor Walter Willett’s (he’s also an old friend’s husband) Mediterranean diet recommendations for at least forty years.

“Almonds and olive oil,” I recall him telling me, as if he were a secret detective. I follow his advice religiously.

Guess I’ll keep doing what I do, aware that I’m in my last chapter of a very rich life.

Let the wild rumpus start!

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Roaring Toward 80! Part 2: Men

On our recent trek across the English Cotswolds, with Claire, my dear friend of 40+ years, we shared how so much fresh air and walking cleared our minds.

Adventure, Men, and aging know-how popped up as essential concerns for my life’s last chapter. And of course, how to reconcile regrets.

Adventure is the easiest. It includes travel; I hope to do all I can possibly afford, but authenticity in my behavior and honesty in my writing also rank high.

Next comes men: what to do about them? They feel like a different species when they don’t talk, they don’t listen, or are simply neglectful.

Looking back, I was naive. When I got together with my only husband, in 1971, I felt everything would always be hunky-dory. He was perfect, very smart, which was my first criterion, and he had had an exciting life. So far. He was quirky, having slept in his old, dug-out Volvo for a year or so. He lived in a stilted cottage, raised up in the sand of Plum Island, a beach community outside of Newburyport, Massachusetts. A successful town of sea captains, with umpteen widows walks atop lovely established homes. Newburyport had been the first capital of Massachusetts, prior to Boston. Back in the olden days.

Back in my olden days, in the early 1970s, my husband and I were in love. I surmised we would always be happy. Twenty years and two amazing children later, that wasn’t the case. My husband got mad at me if I placed glasses for washing (his dinnertime job) on the wrong side of the sink.

He fell asleep on the floor most every night after completing his dinnertime job (his daytime job fixing boats was way beneath his privileged background and supreme intelligence as a physics nerd). He woke up to read to the kids; he was a doting father back then. He was depressed.

I was bored. Suffice it to say, although I adored my children and was lucky to own and operate the then oldest children’s bookstore in Maine. I was in my early 40s. With no previous experiences of adventure, travel, or adolescence, I looked for love — and excitement! — in all the wrong places.

The men I chose after I left my husband: from a liar and crook; to a bisexual weirdo; to a Boston bearded religious Jew; to addicts, from drugs to video games; to a former academic drunken poet; to an allergic-to-everything journalist. None of whom became second or third or fourth husbands. I want them to rest in the shadows. But they don’t and never will.

So I take off on my own adventures, alone or with dear women friends.

But this year is greater than the men I’ve somehow connected with: it’s about me and my last chapter, navigating my 80s; my pride in my daughter’s latest book, “A God-Shaped Nation” (pub date June 9, Grove Atlantic), and my son’s upcoming Father’s Day of two amazing children; planning more travel adventures; and preparing myself for old(er) age.

I have regrets. One is that I wasn’t able to work out a fifty-year marriage history with my one husband, for my children and for a longer life story with my early love. I could have but I didn’t know how in the early 1990s.

So here I am.

This elegant dress appeals to me for my upcoming Southwest Harbor birthday party that my kids are throwing for me in late June. But nah, I’ll save my money for more adventures. UPDATE: Another dear friend saw this photo, and said, “This dress was made for you!” And she bought it for me!

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Roaring Toward 80!

I’ll be 80 on June 11. I can’t stop it. But I can meet this enormous milestone head-on. One step — no, 175,000 steps — launched the penultimate excursion of this important year. With my old friend, Claire, I took off to England in early May on a Cotswolds walking trip.

Claire and I had talked about viewing British gardens for at least a decade. It was time. We trekked from village to village in the very green countryside, among sheep, cattle, horses. Peace and quiet. Lilacs and flowers we didn’t recognize. Or climbing over stiles in the wooly-wogs.

Climbing over a stile out in the wooly-wog

A gift to ourselves like no other…

We had no responsibility but donning our hiking boots after a full English breakfast every morning like in Winchcomb’s Lion Inn, the pub part built in 1577. For five days we nabbed our walking sticks, our backpacks with water bottles, and cleared our minds for six to eight hours outdoors.

Along the way, I came up with three issues to tackle during my last chapter of this miraculous life: Adventure; Men; and Aging.

Adventure didn’t exist for me during adolescence, when you’re supposed to do wild things and test reality.

“You believe in magical realism,” Claire told me. She’s right, and magical realism, optimism, or whatever you call it, pushes me ahead, gives me hope. So perhaps I’ll get a job at Blackwell Books in Oxford, England next year, sometime after my Southwest Harbor birthday party, or celebrating the great honor of my daughter, Brook Wilensky-Lanford’s June 9th publication of A God-Shaped Nation. Five Hundred Years of Religion in America (Grove-Atlantic Press, dedicated to me!!).https://Brookwilensky-lanford.

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“How did they let it happen?” asks the history books

Now we know.

Here’s my rant. It’s no different than the outrage billowing out of millions of other human mouths. It feels necessary today.

How do we allow an adorable five-year-old Latino boy, https://www.startribune.com/preschooler-and-three-other-students-detained-by-ice-school-district-leader-says/601568045 whose father was here legally, to be whisked off to a Texas detention center?

How does a poorly trained U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) agent shoot at least three times at a 37-year-old mother — who first smiled and said to him “I’m not mad at you, dude.”

His smoking gun in his hand when these disgusting words rang out of his mouth, “F**cking bitch!”

How did 70 million Americans vote for an evil wanna-be dictator in 2020?

Now we know.

“He would be better for the economy, for immigration, and other top issues,” voters said in 2024, yeah when a Black woman was running against him.

The racist, hateful dictator doesn’t like Somali-Americans, or any other people of color. Following in the footprints of his German immigrant father, Fred, who refused to rent to Blacks in New York City during the days of old. He who piled mountains of dollars on his repulsive son.

A New York friend whose husband worked at Goldman-Sachs once told me: Whenever the evil dictator called their office, the various financiers would hand the phone to someone else. No one wanted to deal with the then New York crook, liar, mafioso, pedophile.

Now we know.

Due to a swindle engaged in by some of those Minneapolis Black folk, the evil dictator and his minions, including the very sick grandson of Holocaust survivors, Stephen Miller, regarded it as worthy to throw Somalis out of the country. (I’ve been called one, but Miller IS a self-hating Jew!)

We’re the ones now living in a “shithole country.” But we and my ilk are still the lucky ones. We eat, we travel, we take courses, we hike in the Sonoran Desert, we read fascinating and entertaining books, and damn, we look at the Loft Cinema website to decide what movie to go see next.

There’s so much more privilege I harbor, and I’m not even a billionaire.

It all makes me sick. And I’m lucky. But I’m old. I’m glad my two grandchildren are experiencing the most amazing childhood. That’s what I tell their parents.

Can we make it out of this mire of disintegration for our children, our grandchildren, and all the good people on the front lines? Or will the future rubble of the White House East Wing remain, another negotiation gone bad between an honest working-person and the Voldemort slithering around inside our history place, built by African slaves.

What did Anne Frank say? “I still believe that most people are good.” A lovely thing to contemplate.

Or “will we giggle all the way to our ruin,” as a writer friend remarked last night in a reading for “Dollartorium,” his forthcoming post-capitalism satire.

So I keep writing. Although not two Congressional Republicans listen, disgusting cowards who could stop this disintegration of the United States of America in a day.

I’ve always considered civilization to be at a low level of evolution. Although neuroscience says our brains are wired for cooperation, that’s not the American way. I’m often told, “that’s not human nature.” I don’t want to believe that.

Gimme, gimme, gimme is too often the American way. Revenge. Greed. Mean-spiritedness. Isn’t that what the evil dictator has modeled?

For the most part, not what I’ve seen recently in Minneapolis, where Prince apparently said, “Minneapolis is where the revolution will begin.”

I’m proud of the city where I have lived for nearly five years. I know of people out there blowing whistles in the faces of ICE agents. I’ve heard of an 83-year-old friend who’s battling them with words on the streets.

It’s a scary thing to do. And who ever thought we would have to? I believe I’d take to the streets if I were back in Minneapolis for tomorrow’s STRIKE.

And today the bastard ICE agents landed in Portland, Maine (the state that will always feel like home). Apparently, they have 1,450 targets to haul off. Somali-Americans who live in Lewiston-Auburn, Maine. And they’re not swindlers.

Now we know.

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Fly Like An Eagle

Driving alongside the Mighty Mississippi to the National Eagle Center in Wabasha, Minnesota, was worth the trip. Time to spend with my darling nearly nine-year-old grandson on a late Autumn day, with its Midwestern array of gold, red, and orange foliage flashing by.

At the Eagle Center we attended a captivating program with Connor, the lively eagle handler. Latsch, the less lively but regal eagle, whistled for Connor to feed him more pieces of rat, his favorite delicacy.

Yes, we learned that one eagle claw, with its 400 lbs. of pressure, could break a human’s femur. And if Latsch pooped it was possible for it hurl up to 12 ft. into the audience.

“Change your seats now if you’re concerned,” he told us. Nobody did.

A wide range of humans sat with us, most of whom I wouldn’t have encountered in everyday life.

Connor had just explained that eagles can only carry away creatures about one-third of their weight (around 8-18 lbs.)

A hefty Iowa farmer with a big white beard, lounging on his folding chair, piped up, “I read that a big one carried away a full-grown mountain lion.”

“That’s not possible,” said Connor.

“But I read it somewhere,” mumbled the Iowa farmer.

So that’s how conspiracy theories begin…

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No One is Talking About This

I want to tell you about two very different writers. Both are worth reading. Their writing resonates with me for very different reasons.

Patricia Lockwood is a quirky, “let ‘er fly” poet, novelist, and essayist. She disdains genres. Her novels and her memoir Priestdaddy (her father is a priest) defy explanation.

And I can’t stop thinking about her. A few nights ago a few friends and I heard her speak, perform, gesticulate, and surprise us at Talking Volumes, presented by MPR News and the Minne Star Tribune.

Luckily, my psychologist friend drove us because I immensely dislike heading into the Twin Cities of Minneapolis or St. Paul, where we convened in the old Fitzgerald Theater. I’m so glad I went! (And we discovered an old convent-bar for wine and snacks afterward!)

I’m reading No One Is Talking About This, Lockwood’s first novel. She partly is the protagonist. The book written in fragments. I don’t get most of it. I think I get this one:

Back in 1999, she had watched five episodes of The Sopranos and immediately wanted to be involved in organized crime. Not the shooting part, the part that they all sat around in restaurants.

Seems pretty straightforward, right?

I like that she puts bits out there. I do that sometimes (I’m becoming more confident about my writing, believing that all my little notebook notes belong somewhere).

Lockwood forgets stuff (and she’s only 43). She doesn’t know what’s going on at times, like when she had long covid, but she digs into that. She asks herself big questions, Are you not a person?

And she’s funny as hell.

“If she had stayed in Ohio,” she writes, “she would have disappeared into the Internet.”

She’s brilliant. She’s a thinker par excellence.

Turn, turn, turn, and you will find Jill Lepore, the brilliant Harvard history prof who also started teaching at Harvard Law School last year. As she started delving into more Constitutional Law, Lepore collaborated with data scientists, political scientists, and a team of Harvard undergraduates, to create “publicly searchable full-text archives of more than 11,000 amendments proposed in Congress between 1789 and 2022.” That never made it into law. First of all, it takes too long — seven years of state legislative approval

What does this mean? The US Constitution was made to be amended. We need to change the process, outlined in her new book WE The People. A History of the U.S. Constitution.

In addition to Howard Zinn, I often go to Lepore for my history, although she’s mostly a fan of the enthusiasm Zinn forged in previously bored high school history students. Not so much his historical views.

I’ll add that Lepore’s “The Lost Archive” is the only podcast I’ve ever listened to, because it’s so damn entertaining: https://www.thelastarchive.com/season-4-

It’s time to write. And it’s time for history to get it right.

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I didn’t know it yet…

As I returned from this morning’s three-mile walk around Lake Harriet, I passed Wild Rumpus Children’s Bookstore. As I often do. A mom and dad and a skinny young boy made their way from their small car (with a Quebec license plate) to the purple front door.

I smiled. I imagined how excited they were to finally make it to this top-notch children’s bookstore. With its resident two cats named after authors but I can’t remember who, its mourning dove and other birds providing indoor chirps. No longer with its underground rat visible under the floor boards.

Wild Rumpus is now part of my Linden Hills neighborhood, still in the same century-old brick building where it opened in 1992. But I didn’t know it yet, as the then owner of OZ Children’s Bookstore in Southwest Harbor, Maine, and a board member of the American Association of Children’s Booksellers. I and my nine colleagues were on a mission.

We flew from various spots around the country to see the new store. Plus, we were worried B.Dalton Booksellers opening a chain of children’s specialty stores such as ours. The first one, we heard, would be located in the humungous Mall of America. The largest mall in the world, I think? But who cares.

That was my first tine in Minneapolis. (I never returned to the Mall of America!)

I didn’t know it yet, but I never imagined that I would someday live up the street from Wild Rumpus. Or that I would live ten minutes in the other direction from my two magnificent grandchildren. They benefit from my long-established personal rule: A book must be purchased whenever I enter an independent bookstore.

I didn’t know it yet. But Wild Rumpus may have been our destination in the above recent photo. “I wish we could have seen your OZ bookstore, SheShe (my grandmother name),” said my nearly six-year-old granddaughter.

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To The Editor

I’m proud that the Minnesota Star Tribune printed my letter to the editor this week. I’m two for two getting my writing into one of the country’s top newspapers.

The first was “Misogyny Amplified,” a column that appeared following the 2024 presidential election.

What could I do about the horrendous political chaos sickening so many of us? I’m not going to knock on doors, send money, or make phone calls for the Democratic Party. None of it does any good in kicking old white men off their political pedestals.

I don’t know if my writing does any good. I don’t know that it doesn’t.

So I’ll keep at it. Here’s my letter:

0728TO THE EDITOR:

In this time of political tumult and reduced funding, education will suffer more than it has in recent years. 

What the world needs is reliance on humanity. Respectful interactions between people of all ages who hold different points of view. That’s why I concur with “Teaching: Oh, the humanity, part 2” by retired teacher Dick Schwartz (MN Star Tribune, July 27, 2025).

As a former high school teacher, it’s not so much that students met “famous” people, it’s that someone such as former Strib opinion columnist Katherine Kersten listened to them. That she recognized their ability to think for themselves, and I would add, to ask smart questions.

In the 1990s, I taught at Mt. Desert Island High School in Maine. I took students for an annual “Intellectually Challenging Weekend” to Boston. Lucky me, my mentor was the late BU historian, Howard Zinn (author of “A People’s History of the United States”). He met with us at a private seminar at the Holiday Inn near his home. 

One year a student asked, “Is it really you?” 

Zinn replied, “Oh comon, I’m just an old Jewish grandfather.” They jumped in, framing astute questions for the “famous” professor, a caring human being. Twenty teenagers hugged Zinn when we left.

This summer, I bumped into a former student in Maine. “I’ll never forget our seminar with Howard Zinn,” he said. “That was a life-changing experience.”

What did our current incurious president say after winning the 2016 Nevada primary? 

“I prefer the uneducated.”

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A Most Remarkable Man

I’m proud to share my tribute to Ashley Bryan, which was just published in the Horn Book Magazine.

It would have been Ashely’s 102 birthday on Sunday, July 13. 

We need more humans like Ashley in this tumultuous world!

https://www.hbook.com/story/a-most-remarkable-maine-man-a-tribute-to-ashley-bryan

Posted in children's books, For Love of History, Mount Desert Island/Maine, Old friends, Read, Read, Read | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Unscathed and Unbit

Ship Harbor is my favorite one-mile stroll along the Atlantic. No climbing any of the thirty peaks on Mt. Desert Island.

From that rocky coast of Maine, view the Duck Islands in the distance, a lobster boat crossing by. There Fritz Perls, the father of Gestalt therapy, offered workshop weekends. Wish I participated back in the early 1970s. I missed that experience. Somebody I know did.

Perls wrote the then-famous “In and Out of the Garbage Pail.” The psychologist with the long white beard, like god sitting on pouffy clouds, warned about “unfinished business.” The scientific community criticized him for not being scientific enough.

Unfinished business permeates old folks like me. Nearly nothing matters at this age except for the good health of family and friends.

Me, I want to take care of unfinished business before my time is up. Recently, I read in the Harvard Gazette that joy equals genes for establishing longevity. I hope so.

Outside of Southwest Harbor’s Liquor Locker this morning, I came upon the former owners of Holiday House children’s publishers. We were happy to see each other. Kate is now 87 and John is 90. I recall being angry at them once, years ago. I don’t remember why. No longer do I care about the reason.

Me, letting anger roll off my back? How wonderful. While my darling daughter and daughter-in-law tap out their work emails, or chill as my son takes his highly energetic kids for a swim at Echo Lake Sand beach. I repeatedly utter, “Okay,” also “yep” or even an occasional “whatever.”

Me, I love them so completely. And wonder how they will remember these days, these visits back to our life-framing Mt. Desert Island. When they are old and gray. Long after I’m gone.

Me, I’m happy that mosquitoes left me alone this morning as we treaded along Ship Harbor.

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