International Menopause Day!

Stunned as I listened to NPR the other day. Yes, It was International Menopause Day! Who woulda thunk it?!

Corporation heads and business people lamented missed opportunities to help their employees traverse menopause — mood swings, hot flashes, and the like.

And why hadn’t they given their employees a monthly day off to deal with menopausal issues?

Twenty years ago, such a day would have been unheard of!

Thirty years ago, we barely said the feared word. Some of us were terrified that we would go crazy, our personalities would transform, ad we would become more irritable.

When the storm came some of my friends had such horrible night sweats they had to change their sheets.

What was menopause like? My Mount Desert Island women’s group wondered back in the early 1990s.

What would happen to us? We knew very little about “the change of life” because older family members never discussed it with us.

Those women suffered in silence. Or not. We just didn’t know.

I had to know. I would sponsor a Menopause Festival at my OZ Bookstore in Southwest Harbor, Maine.

Dr. Christiane Northrup, author of “The Wisdom of Menopause” (1999), and other important women’s health books, agreed to come from Falmouth, Maine, to be the festival keynoter.

Packed with more than 200 women and a few hardy men, Northrup spoke of “the change” bringing positive opportunities to women’s lives. Go out on your own. No need to take care of kids or the house full-time. Pursue creative ventures. Live life without the monthly curse!

The good doctor suggested we eat a small piece of dark chocolate between 10 a.m. and 2 p.m. daily. The magnesium would be especially helpful to women during that chunk of time.

For the remainder of my work mornings, at 10 a.m., I opened my desk drawer where I stashed a purple pill holder filled with my morning meds.

I’ll admit it. Chocolate was enough for me to deem the festival a success.

Southwest Harbor didn’t quite become a mecca of learning about the hot subject. But some old-timers were hopeful when they heard about the upcoming festival.

“What do you suppose Sheila will do? Lead a group of naked women down Main Street?”

I wasn’t that hot.

Teaching during the late 90s, I often asked, “Is it hot in here or what?” My sly high school students replied, “It’s just you, Ms. W.” Many of their mothers were asking the same question.

We didn’t march down Main Street but we helped uncover a secret in many women’s lives. New possibilities were available to us all.

That sweet watercolor by Vera B. Williams was a gift to me for my 50th birthday. Vera pictured me contemplating my post-menopausal life.

On the NPR segment I heard the other day only one in five ob/gyns have been trained in menopause care.

I recall the first George Bush making fun of Geraldine Ferraro, Democrat Walter Mondale’s vice-presidential candidate, the first woman ever chosen for that post.

“Oh women are just too moody to be in such a high government position, so close to the presidency,” he said. Hardy, hardy, har.

Ferraro hurled the harsh criticism right back at Bush 1, when he went ballistic on national TV about some concern that I can’t remember.

And just today, Nancy Pelosi, at 82, resigned her role as the exemplary two-decade Speaker of the House. The first woman to serve as Speaker, history — or herstory — will recognize her as the best of the best.

International Menopause Day? We’ve come a long way, baby.

Posted in Baby Boomers, Fight wimpiness, For Love of History, Mount Desert Island/Maine | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

From the Ridiculous to the Sublime, Part 2

Where we stayed on our trip to Olympic National Park took us from Forks, Washington to Port Angeles, Washington in one week.

In Forks, our tiny house on wheels was strange: no tissues; no indoor rugs; no place to put our luggage; no place to hang our clothes. The tiniest sink I’ve ever seen.

The tiniest sink ever

Following four days on the west side of ONP — it’s enormous, meandering between federal and local land — we drove to the big city of Port Angeles (pop. 19,000). We had the whole floor of a modern home, known as Rick’s Place (which we would highly recommend). A towering, talkative retired photojournalist, Rick washed our dishes and even did our laundry!

Rick’s Place

Another weird sink story: a deep kitchen sink was in Rick’s bathroom but there was no sink in the kitchen. Huh?

Consider this a public service announcement if you’re planning a trip to the magnificent ONP.

And I recommend that you consider the exotic, lushest green national park of all for your domestic vacation.

Expect the unexpected. Not just leaping up when a western jay snatched an almond from my hand.

Relaxing by the peaceful Lake Crescent with its Teddy Roosevelt leather furniture. Munching on the best non-greasy fried halibut at Calvin’s Crab Shack in Neah Bay, while gazing at the surprisingly long Vancouver Island. And visiting Cape Flattery, which we were told was the most northwestern part of the lower 48, jutting out into the Pacific (but it wasn’t).

What we did see was the six-mile Dungeness spit, which juts out and curves into the Strait of Juan de Fuca, named after a 1592 Spanish explorer, separating Washington’s Olympic Peninsula and British Columbia’s Vancouver Island.

The six-mile Dungeness spit

Visiting friends in Port Townsend for a night was a pleasure. Sitting on their porch felt like being at a camp cabin. Except the Pacific loomed down the road.

The next morning we rose in the dark to make the ferry from Bainbridge Island to Seatac airport. Being on the water always thrills me — whether it’s scary or sublime.

Don’t we require both to make a life (the thought just popped into my coffeed-up mind)?

Bainbridge Island ferry to Seattle

As I wrote in Part 1, there was way more “sublime” than “ridiculous” on this trip. We’re lucky. I hope we’re fortunate enough to someday visit Vancouver Island.

And that we have more sublime surprises to look forward to.

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From the Ridiculous to the Sublime, Part 1

“In every walk with nature one receives far more than s/he seeks.” John Muir

So it is in nature, and sometimes in everyday life. So it was with our week in Olympic National Park.

Not all of the week. What of the horrendous attack of the termites, dive bombing into our windshield, causing as much distress as a Minneapolis blizzard.

Luckily, we were close to arriving at our tiny cabin on wheels six miles outside of Forks, Washington. In the middle of nowhere.

Downtown Forks intrigued us, laden with gobs of Twilight book and movie paraphernalia. I knew of the teen vampire book written by Phoenix author Stephanie Meyer. I didn’t know that she chose Forks as a dreary place to set her super-popular tale, although she had never been there.

The Main Street Sasquatch shop harbored a lot of weird stuff, from towels to toys, to books with photos of old bearded guys on the covers.

We became regulars due to the mixed berry crumble pastries delivered each morning by a talented local baker.

And there, the sublime began, along with daily surprises.

Who knew we would run straight into “Where the Wild Things Are” on our way to the ONP Hoh Rain Forest visitor center? (They sold Sasquatch socks.) One of us bought a pair for a grandson. We drove on.

The Hall of Mosses trail provided a taste of our first rain forest experience. Like Tucson’s saguaros, each overladen bigleaf maple, western hemlock, or Sitka spruce — from 200 to 1,000 years old — conveyed their own personalities, just like humans.

I recalled a Tucson student in my government class, who announced when he heard I was from Maine: “The trees are so tall there. Driving down the highway they look so spooky.”

Hoh Rain Forest trees were so spooky, otherworldly, and bizarre. I expected to see exotic creatures crawling from moss drapes everywhere. At least snakes (which scare me). None appeared.

Today I’ve decided that this photo I took — of one of these giant embodiments of nature — would suffice.

I’ve never seen anything like it.

What do you see? I see a woman’s breast and a gargoyle eye.

I’ve read that trees communicate with each other through complicated root systems. Also, I learned that 130 different epiphytes (mosses and ferns) live on varied Hoh Rain Forest trees. Not as parasites, but as beneficiaries of nutrients and locales. A caring community of sorts.

Yesterday was Yom Kippur, the most sacred Jewish holiday. I hardly subscribe to my ancient religion. Still, every year I do my bit. I dip apple slices in honey, wishing all my loved ones a “Sweet New Year.”

“In the coming year, may we all be inscribed in the Book of Life,” I say, extending my hope from family and friends to magnificent trees everywhere.

Nature’s mysteries speak to me more than any religion.

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People Who Need People

The Buddhist teacher Pema Chodron advises us to cultivate curiosity, to promote loving kindness in ourselves so that we extend it to others. Even to strangers, which is why I smile or say hello to the most disheveled people walking my way.

All my life I’ve tried to find common ground with those I disagree with. I’m getting better at it. Finally. We all have our stereotypes. I used to really dislike Southerners.

Walking in our hood…the homeowner and sculptress chatted with us and gave us the cucumber she had just harvested. Such nice people live in Linden Hills!

Moving from my urban apartment to Marc’s house in lovely Linden Hills, selling most of my furniture, has been instructive. I didn’t know who would show up. People fascinate me.

In comes young, friendly Architect Guy to buy my orange chair for his modern living room. We get talking, like I always do.

He’s a Minnesota native. “I used to believe in all that good humanitarian stuff but LA did me in. I lived in MacArthur Park,” he tells me. “I had a gun put to my head. There were gangs all around.”

Happy with the orange chair, he cheerfully asks, “Got anything else to sell?”

Carrying an old wooden desk out to his car together, we get deeper into conversation. “I used to be a Democrat. Now I’m a Republican.”

“Oh no, you can’t be a Trumper!” I retort.

“I’m a Republican, I said. Yeah, he’s loony but I care about inflation now. And the price of gas.”

First I try to make sense to him, calling out the mafioso, truly insane crook that Trump is.

As I help Architect Guy lift the desk into his car I realize, He’s made his decision. There’s no use trying to convince him otherwise. Let him be, Sheila.

He hands me a $100 bill from his glove compartment.

At first, Architect guy doesn’t think the desk will fit into his car. I’m optimistic. I take pride in knowing that I’m right. I keep that to myself.

I think of him when a young Hispanic couple comes to pick up my free futon. The woman, who was bigger than her scrawny guy, is wearing blue scrubs.

“Are you a doctor?” I ask. “No, I’m a med tech,” she replies. I imagine my question making her feel good. She takes charge of unscrewing the futon parts, directing Scrawny Guy’s use of his Allen wrench, and the futon’s welcome removal from my apartment. Her guy’s humongous shiny shorts, nearly falling down to expose his ass, reminded me of my stereotype of those LA gang members Architect Guy abhors.

Scrawny Guy is also wearing a backwards baseball cap, a sure sign that he was a drug dealer (what my U.S. History teacher replacement at Mt.Desert Island High School told the kids back in 1990).

“Now we’ll have a place for Teresa and Matt to sleep when they visit this weekend,” says the woman excitedly.

“Yeah, let’s put it in the living room. It’s so nice,” responds Scrawny Guy. “Thank you so much!” he turns away from his girlfriend, hurling a big smile my way.

And, there you have it.

Posted in America WTF?, Fight wimpiness, Managing Minneapolis, politics, The Rest of the World | Tagged , , , , , | 9 Comments

Kansas, Oh Kansas!

We’re steeped in Doublespeak. In the late 1970s I gave a talk at the Southwest Harbor Library on George Orwell’s “1984,” a prescient masterpiece that I’ve taught to high school students.

Did I ever imagine that historical lies would become the norm more than fifty years later?

There I was in my red flower-printed corduroy Laura Ashley dress, sitting pretty on a stool, my dark shoulder-length hair shining. Ready to expound. I was sharp back then and was able to think on my feet (or sitting on a stool).

No longer am I that sharp. But I still can’t stomach historical lies. And they abound.

Where do I go for history I can trust? If you don’t yet subscribe to Heather Cox Richardson’s Letters from an American, do it now. She’s a Mainer, an historian who teaches at Boston College. Impeccable in her research, I pick up my phone to read her as soon as I awake.

The Kansas referendum vote to uphold abortion rights in their State Constitution surprised journalists and pundits. Loony Repugnicans will spin some sort of Doublespeak on that vote.

Oh, maybe hundreds of minority mothers stormed a voting place…

Some happily pregnant women have understandably been terrified by the onslaught of abortion restrictions:

“What if something goes wrong with my pregnancy? Will [the state] just let me die?”

Kansas, oh Kansas! You’ve given us hope! Down With Doublespeak!

Posted in America WTF?, Fight wimpiness, For Love of History, politics, Read, Read, Read | Tagged , , , , , , | 4 Comments

Missing Ashley

At Ashley’s Islesford home

Forget about Amazon.com! All book lovers, please purchase your books from bookshop.org! Not only will you be helping independent bookstores like my former Oz Books, but I’ll be suggesting book lists for anyone who’s interested.

My first list is, of course, focuses on my dear friend Ashley Bryan’s books about his life. His most powerful fiction/slave history book, Freedom Over Me, belongs in every social studies classroom and home library.

“Missing Ashley” is my first list of suggested autobiographical Ashely titles. All of his lively children’s books are available on Bookshop.org.

Ashley will be on my mind forever. Today I want to highlight his life, how his reliance on beauty and love can help to carry each of us through this tumultuous, dangerous time in our country’s history.

Will the United States continue as any semblance of a democracy?

Ok, I can’t totally neglect the January 6 committee’s hearings, well done as they are. I simply can’t watch these previous liars, like former attorney general William Barr, now telling the truth. Now he talks about the “insanity” of Trump’s post-election lies. Where was he in November 2020?

The only hearing I’ve been able to watch without flying into a rage was the one with the Arizona state senator and the two Georgia election officials who have told the truth since the presidential election.

Back to Ashley, the extreme opposite of he-who-must-not-be-named, and his administrations’s despicable excuses for humans.

Read, read, read. Learn, learn, learn. That’s all that will save us. Speak out when necessary. Believe in beauty and love.

And, watch for my future book lists — both quirky and informational — on bookshop.org.

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Almost in Maine

Beating my man three straight times at Bananagrams was a good sign. Unheard of! I taught him how to play and he took off, beating me all the time. Training for game nights on our upcoming week with my kids in Southwest Harbor worked.

Meanwhile, here in the big city, walking in my man’s Linden Hills neighborhood, delights me with myriad gardens and even some art.

Spoke to the creator of this woman beckoning the other night…

Gorgeous purple irises. But I’m ready for the wild ones by the ocean while walking along Ship Harbor.

Linden Hills irises

I’m ready for Maine.

Meanwhile, I’ve been enjoying more of Minnesota, venturing out of Minneapolis to learn about the rest of one the two GOOD M STATES.

Driving down Highway 61, the mighty Mississippi on our left, I marveled at plateaus in the distance. Like I haven’t seen since leaving the Southwest. Except these were so green. From far away they could have been covered with trees or moss. They could have been velvet.

On our way to the Minnesota Marine Museum in Winona [“Don’t Forget Winona;” what song is that from? I can’t remember. OK, I’ll turn 76 soon].

The Mighty Mississippi

I had no idea that two hours from the Twin Cities an art museum of such caliber existed. I was already in love with the Minneapolis Institute of Art.

So much beauty connected to water: a Jamie Wyeth ocean landscape with a giant seagull screeching in our faces; a Mary Cassatt portrait of a girly girl reading, a brook flowing out the window behind her; even a vibrant Marc Chagall love painting, with some body of water I couldn’t identify.

Impressions of Water: Prints by Clara Ueland not to be missed — depicting the Boundary Waters, so Zen, so lovely. All the steps going into her work were astounding. Such patience.

Still, I need more nature: Wonder Land, Cedar Spring Mountain, low tide islands in Southwest Harbor. And it’s June, my favorite month!

Ship Harbor

Twelve more days. My dear friend Claire, who will pick me up at the Portland Airport on June 12, says the green “is so nice and soft and inspiring in June.” By the end of summer, “the green is just too much!”

With the exploding green, I’m wondering what to expect this year on Mt. Desert Island: new restaurants, visits with dear friends, a women’s group meeting?

MDI pals: Anyone know of a sailboat we can rent for an afternoon? Two of my big kids are expert sailors, or perhaps a sailboat with a captain? Please let me know…

I’m trying to schedule a few activities for big kids, little kids, my man and me, for our week in an old friend’s magnificent home by the harbor. Hiking, sailing, enjoying delicious seafood dinners and one Thurston’s lobster feast, even perhaps winning at Bananagrams once or twice.

I can’t wait.

Posted in Baby Boomers, Family Matters, Food/happy hours, Managing Minneapolis, Mount Desert Island/Maine, Nature Girl, Old friends | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Heartsick: Get rid of the f**ing guns!

When Congressional greedy wimps didn’t do anything after Sandy Hook, I gave up on gun law restrictions. I couldn’t stand it. I’m old and couldn’t be sick to my stomach forever. This morning I heard a psychologist on NPR discuss ongoing physical trauma that pop up again and again in this country following every mass shooting by angry, isolated, racist, mostly white men.

I can’t take it anymore. I must do something. I’m a mother, grandmother, and former teacher. How can it be dangerous to attend elementary school, or go grocery shopping, or go to a movie?

But innocent children???? Today I donated $10 to Sandy Hook Promise, a great cause started by the mom of little Daniel, one of the murdered Sandy Hook kids.

“Best part of my day is picking my kid up from school, it should be the most basic guaranteed joy. I cannot fathom the grief and rage, this country is so cruel and lost”…Lucas Mann, retweeted by my daughter-in-law

If you read nothing else today, please take a look at Nicolas Kristof’s “How to Reduce Shootings” in yesterday’s NYTimes (May 24, first published in 2017, gives real solutions and real statistics, not “thoughts and prayers.” PLEASE READ!)

What would prioritize returning guns to reduce the outrageous statistic of 120 guns owned in the United States for every 100 people??

The U.S. Money God.

Perhaps, instead of going to outer space, the wealthiest among us — who care about the slaughter of innocent children — would offer dollars for guns returned. Especially AK-47s, which have no other purpose but to kill people. Children. Ten-year-olds. WTF?

WE’RE NOT TALKING ABOUT FREEDOM. WE’RE TALKING ABOUT THE SLAUGHTER OF INNOCENT YOUNG LIVES!!

Let these wealthy folks do something decent: Give $1000 to anyone who delivers a gun to their local police department, or food shelter director, minister, rabbi, or imam. Whomever they trust to get rid of these weapons of mass murder.

I’m not saying to deliver these killing machines to the Minneapolis Police Department, today marking the police murder of George Floyd, here in Minneapolis where I now live.

This is a sick society. Unfortunately, money may be the only thing that can cure this insanity.

Addendum: While looking for an appropriate photo to accompany this post, “Nagging questions about gun control,” popped up on my laptop screen, the only editorial that ever appeared in the Arizona Jewish Post. I insisted on writing it for the Jan. 11, 2011 issue, three days after former U.S. Rep. Gabby Giffords was shot, along with the wounding of twelve others, and the murder of six, including nine-year-old Christina-Taylor Green who was holding my friend Suzi Hileman’s hand. To its credit, the AJP reprinted that editorial today.

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A North Country Spring

Bees buzzing ferociously. Birds chirping, alighting from tree to tree. Buds popping up out of nowhere. Mosquitoes and black flies torment us later. We’re safe.

I forgot how early spring surprised us in Maine. I left for Tucson in 2002, never to return to winter (ha ha). I forgot how much I loved lilacs, both lavender and white versions, their branches nearly clinging to the side of my Seawall Road garage. Waking me from winter darkness.

In 2017, before putting my Maine house on the market, I ferociously cut back a giant forsythia bush for a better view of the harbor. The last summer in my home. Lilacs had their day before my arrival from Tucson. I had forgotten about their quick coming and going.

This week, purple life arrived in the north country of Minneapolis. I want lilacs near me wherever I go — in my car, by my laptop, next to the bed.

They intoxicate me. In a good way.

I had forgotten that ice-covered sidewalks were the norm just a few weeks ago.

Lilacs took over as I walked to Lake of the Isles today.

When I decided to move from Tucson to Minneapolis last July I wanted to participate more in my grandkids’ lives. Winter couldn’t be that bad. I deluded myself.

But how on Earth did I ever forget lilacs? What else have I forgotten over the past twenty years?

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Time is Weird…

   When you get to be our age. “You look back and you never know,”says a gray-haired man across the way at Isles Bun and Coffee saying. Sounds like an older guy on his best behavior, talking on a first-time online dating meet-up. 

She’s happy he’s talking. But he needs to shut up, let her speak too. Perhaps it’s all he’ll ever say.  

   At our age, I’m so glad I no longer need to do that. I wouldn’t. I came to Minneapolis to participate more in my grandkids’ life during this this last part of my life. Figured I would hold the fort on my couch during blizzards, reading and writing and doing my own thing.

   But here I am. Writing with my new man. A good one: a writer;  photographer; retired teacher; a traveler like me; a person who loves learning and tai chi and music and dancing and meditation.

The world is a messy, crazy place. I’m happy today. I’m lucky. Waiting for my dear son to return from one of the most exotic, dangerous parts of the world. My dear little granddaughter feels better, is back to her lively, talking self. I’m still coughing and sneezing but the sun is shining.

Lake of the Isles: ready for spring to take hold, the next season takes its time arriving in Minneapolis!

I ate some yummy quiche for breakfast. I have no idea what comes next. As my son says, I’m “forever curious.

At my age, one question is about the passage of time: My friend Carol sent a photo of herself sitting among the black rocks on the beaches of Normandy, France. Her photos bring to mind my beach photos, sitting among the strange orange rocks of Santa Barbara or the pink granite rocks of Mt. Desert Island.

At my age, does my mind take in these photos as one memory, being among these various rocks? I’m not sure.

I’m still at Isles Bun and Coffee when I hear a woman behind me say, “Everybody’s growing older and moving where they should be.” Was this comment meant for me? I wonder, knowing full well it would be pretty nutty if it was. Serendipity grabs my attention like a song.

There’s a lot on my mind. It’s been an intense time. Time is everything.

At my age, it will be the first time our entire small Wilensky family will gather together to mourn and celebrate one of our own: Sandra Borg Wilensky.

We will all arrive on Friday in Sudbury, Massachusetts, at my brother’s home for a memorial service the following day. Flying in from Istanbul, Minneapolis, Raleigh, San Francisco. Young grandchildren and cousins meeting for the first time, plus my brother meeting his great nephew and niece for the first time.

My two grown nieces, his two daughters, are doing all the work. Including taking care of their dad. They are both doing their mom proud. With both health challenges and lots of love, we will be there together to honor my late sister-in-law.

At my age, time is a conundrum. Time is at a premium. I’m lucky to have this time.

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