I know I write a lot about the “joys” of aging, but I read somewhere that you should write what you know . . . and this is something about which I know way too much. So today I’m thinking about another aspect of life in the senior lane: letting go.

Not the big stuff, like when your children start to grow up, and — despite all your efforts to keep them close — they ultimately make the final transition from childhood to adulthood and have the audacity to begin living their own lives. Nor am I referring to letting go of material things when you finally decide to downsize once all the kids are gone.

No, this is something even more unexpected . . . more insidious. I’m talking about letting go of elemental parts of your life, and of yourself. One after another, and another, and another . . . until one day you look in the mirror and you wonder who the hell that person is who’s looking back at you.

See the man looking in the mirror there? He’s asking himself what on earth has happened to his skin? Where did those lines, wrinkles, bags and jowls come from? And his hands — are those blue things his veins he sees popping up everywhere? Then there’s the scalp. He’d noticed a while ago that his hairline was receding, but this is ridiculous. Clearly, that’s his father he sees looking back at him . . . isn’t it? “Please say it is!”

Sorry, sir . . . it’s time to let go of your memories of that nice taut complexion you used to have. If you’ll roll up your sleeves, you’ll also find that those veiny hands are attached to a pair of matching arms. And speaking of taut, have you checked out those abs lately? No? Well, pull up that sweater and let’s have a look.

“Holy shit! What’s going on here??!!!”

“What is that? I look pregnant, for God’s sake. And when did I get man boobs? How did I let myself go like this while I’ve been busy raising a family and working toward retirement?”

Well, you just answered your own question, sir: you let go. Maybe a little too soon. Oh, well . . .

And now, looking at that gut, you can understand why you’re not able to play racquetball anymore. For one thing, the waistband of your sport shorts insists on sliding a little too far south. But more important is the way you start to puff, pant and perspire after the first few minutes of play. Sorry, but it looks as though it’s time to let go of that club membership too.

So you try to cheer yourself up a bit by taking the wife out for a nice dinner at your favorite seafood restaurant, where you can get some great food without piling on too many calories. Of course, you need a good bottle of wine. Then the waiter brings the complimentary cheese rolls, specialty of the house — with that wonderful herb butter. But you’re being good, so you order a lovely piece of mahi-mahi: good protein, good for you, right? Of course it is — if you ignore the bed of rice underneath it, and the beautiful lemon-butter sauce that it’s all swimming in. But it has asparagus on the side, so that’s good. And you forgo the mud pie for dessert, and settle for a nice light creme brûlée. Good boy.

But while you’re on the way home, trying to rationalize to your spouse the three-day allotment of calories you’ve just consumed in the past two hours, you realize that you’re not feeling too well. You’ve got this strange burning sensation in your chest and throat, and you can’t hold back the repeated belching sounds emanating from your mouth. What the hell is that about?

Don’t worry — it’s probably not a heart attack. Welcome to the wonderful world of acid reflux, GERD, and perhaps even a hiatal hernia. You can no longer digest a meal like the one you just packed away, and you’ll likely never again be able to. Call your doctor tomorrow, make an appointment to be on the safe side, and then let him give you a prescription or two . . . and a good, long lecture. Then let go of the foolish idea that you still have that cast-iron stomach you used to brag about. Sorry.

Now you’re really in need of a little cheer, but you don’t want another restaurant disaster like the last one. Luckily, you’ve just learned that one of your favorite rock bands from your teen years is still alive and well, and coming to your city soon. So you score a couple of tickets, even though you know the wife won’t be interested; you can always find an old school chum to go with you. And off you and your buddy go on the big night, fighting your way through the crowd and acting like a couple of kids again. “But why doesn’t this feel like it used to? How come the lights are so bright, and the noise level so deafening? And what’s that I smell? Pot? Really, guys . . . aren’t we a little past that? Besides, it’s illegal.”

Then the band finally comes onstage and the crowd roars. “God, that’s annoying! Sit down, already . . . I can’t see through you. And shut up so I can hear the music. Which, by the way, doesn’t sound like it did 40 years ago — those guys are looking old! Seriously, what am I doing here? This sucks.”

Let it go, sir. Those days are gone; you can’t relive the past.

*. *. *

And there you have it: the progression of life. We start out as helpless infants, and spend the first couple of decades learning the basics: how to walk, talk, feed and dress ourselves, then it’s off to school for an education. After that, we have careers, relationships, travel, marriage, kids, and suddenly we’re middle-aged. And that’s when the letting-go begins, and gathers steam until we reach the golden years. Which is what all the earlier years have been preparing us for: the luxury of sitting on our asses all day, letting our kids and grandkids do all the hard work while we finally get to do the things we never had time for when we were younger — the things that don’t require much physical exertion. Time to relax.

So it’s not really that bad after all, is it? Letting go, I mean. Remember: “For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven . . .” *

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
8/6/23

* Ecclesiastes 3:1-8.

I’d like to be a polyglot . . . and not just because it’s a funny word. I actually know people who speak multiple languages fluently, and I marvel at the way they are able to keep them all straight. I’m an American, so of course English is my native language. And I’m from a generation that was required to learn to read, write, and speak it properly. We were drilled, day after day and year after year, in grammar, vocabulary, spelling . . . and even penmanship. So I am one of that rapidly vanishing breed of Americans who can tell an adjective from an adverb.

Well, good for me. But unfortunately, that’s where it stops. My generation — although we can conjugate a verb, avoid splitting an infinitive, and spell words like “supercalifragilisticexpialidocious” — unfortunately were not given the same encouragement when it came to learning other languages. It was only as an adult that I chose to study a second language on my own time and at my own expense, just for fun. And I chose Russian, of all things! Боже мой! (Translation: OMG!)

But that’s a whole other story. I’ll never be fluent in Russian, and I am astonished at the ability of today’s Russians, Czechs, Chinese, Saudis, Brazilians — in fact, the entire world — to learn English almost as though they’d been born to it. Note that I said “almost.” Because there is much about English that still baffles even those of us who actually were born here, myself included.

For example . . .

There are a bunch of two-letter words, spelled and pronounced exactly the same way: go, so, no, lo, yo!, and ho-ho-ho. Long “o” — right? Then why, I ask you, is “do” pronounced “doo”? And what about the fraternal twins: “weight” (long “a”) and “height” (long “i”)? And why do they need the “gh” in there anyway? They’re silent, for Heaven’s sake. Also, remember the old rule: “i” before “e,” except after “c,” or when pronounced like “a,” as in “neighbor” and “weigh”? Go back and look at “height” again. Shouldn’t it be pronounced “hate”?

Then we have words like “there” . . . and “their” . . . and “they’re.” Or how about the difference between “lie” and “lay” — and their past- and past-participle tenses, giving us “lie,” “lay” and “lain,” along with “lay,” “laid” and “laid.” And have you ever tried to explain to a person just learning English why “past” and “passed” are pronounced the same? Or the difference between “its” and “it’s” or “whose” and “who’s”?

I could go on like this for days, but you really don’t want me to, and you’ve already gotten the point anyway. But, lest you think I’m picking exclusively on the English language, let me point out one of my favorite peculiarities of the Russian language (and there are thousands of them). There is a word pronounced “pole” (or “poll,” if you prefer), that has two different meanings in Russian: “floor” . . . and “sex.” No joke. So be very careful if you’re looking to hire a Russian housekeeper who “does floors.”

[Note: that’s actually “sex” as in “gender,” not the act; but the first time I saw it in a Russian-English dictionary, I laughed so hard I nearly fell on the “pole.”]

There are a few words I can say in several different languages: yes, no, hello, goodbye, please, thank you, and bathroom, plus one or two curse words for the occasional bad day — all of which I found to be essential during my travels to a bunch of European countries. And even in England, where they speak English with a slew of regional accents and dialects (much as we do in the U.S.), there were differences between British English and American English that were quite pointedly made clear to me in various situations. In a London restaurant, I was told by a waiter that the “check” was actually the “bill”; and the hotel concierge corrected me when I foolishly asked for a “cab” instead of a “taxi.” Also, the subway is the “tube” or “underground”; and in some places the restroom is the more informal “loo” — though probably not at Buckingham Palace.

*. *. *

Yes, languages and their nuances are wonderfully complex things, and they’re a huge part of what defines a nation and its people as unique and separate from all others. Which, to me, seems like an altogether good thing. I’ll never understand why so many people have a hard time with that.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
8/5/23

If this sounds vaguely familiar, you’re right. We’ve taken a slight detour from “Where’s Yevgeny?” to concentrate for a bit on another disappeared Russian — though this one is not technically missing. And, unlike the infamous Yevgeny Prigozhin, this man is only a threat to the Putin regime, not to the good people of his own or any other country. But his plight deserves our full attention and support. His name is Alexei Navalny, and we know where he is: he’s rotting in a hellhole of a Russian prison, convicted of a litany of trumped-up charges designed simply to keep him out of Putin’s hair.

Navalny is already serving sentences totaling more than eleven years in a maximum security prison known as IK-6 Penal Colony at Melekhovo, Russia, located about 155 miles east of Moscow. His “crimes”? Corruption (a charge usually reserved for those who have enriched themselves through dishonest means); fraud; and — most incredibly — violation of probation. Why this last charge? Because, after being poisoned in August of 2020 by agents of the Russian government with Novichok — a series of deadly nerve agents developed by the Soviet Government beginning in 1971 — and recuperating in Germany for several months, he returned to his homeland in January of 2021, only to find that he was considered to have violated the terms of an earlier probation by being out of the country fighting for his life. His real crime at that time was to have survived the poisoning.

He was arrested immediately upon arrival at the airport in Moscow, and has spent the past two and one-half years facing charges, trials, imprisonment, and a variety of illnesses for which he has been unable to obtain proper treatment. He is, at age 47, a dying man. And today, he was sentenced — in a closed-door proceeding at the same prison in which he has been kept — to a further 19 years, for allegedly creating an extremist community, financing extremist activities, and several other related “crimes.”

It would take too long to reiterate the entire history of this man, whose only continuing crime has been to speak out against the Putin regime’s crackdown on all forms of democratic society and the increasingly onerous sentences for those who dare to oppose Russia’s creeping return to Stalinism. In any event, his story is well documented in news reports, books, and the 2022 Academy Award-winning documentary, “Navalny.” But to give you a sense of the measure of the man, I will simply quote his response to today’s sentence:

“19 years in a maximum security penal colony. The number of years does not matter. I perfectly understand that, like many political prisoners, I am sitting on a life sentence. Where life is measured by the term of my life or the term of life of this regime.

“The sentencing figure is not for me. It is for you. You, not me, are being frightened and deprived of the will to resist. You are being forced to surrender your country of Russia without a fight to the gang of traitors, thieves, and scoundrels who have seized power. Putin must not achieve his goal. Do not lose the will to resist.”

This is his real crime: courage. The courage to recognize the rot that infests the Putin government . . . to speak out against it . . . and to remain firm in his convictions, despite being consigned to a slow, agonizing death in the most abominable circumstances imaginable.

The entire free world has spoken out — loudly and clearly — against the treatment of this brave man; but all of the protests fall on deaf ears. And he is not alone; there are others, perhaps not as well-known but equally honorable and courageous individuals receiving the same treatment: the Russian-British journalist Vladimir Kara-Murza comes immediately to mind. And reviewing their stories, I have to ask the gut-wrenching question: Can the return of the Soviet GULAGs be far behind?

Brendochka
8/4/23

Okay, this is no longer funny. What started out looking like a Keystone Kops movie is now beginning to reveal itself as a frightening scenario involving multiple countries in Eastern Europe, Western Europe . . . and even in Africa. Yevgeny Prigozhin is not Charlie Chaplin’s lovable “Little Tramp.” He is amoral and unpredictable. So what’s next? How thinly will his Wagner Group spread themselves, and why? Who’s really behind it all? What’s real and what’s a diversionary tactic? What is their game, and how do we counter it?

Once again, I’m loaded with questions, but short of answers. So let’s just look at some of the possible scenarios.

Let’s see, now . . . When last reported, barely a week ago, the elusive Mr. Prigozhin had popped up in St. Petersburg on the margins of the Russia-Africa Summit meeting. And today? Well, that’s anybody’s guess. Still in Russia? Back to Belarus? Maybe up to mischief in Niger? Surely, someone must know.

But some of his Wagner Group troublemakers, supposedly “exiled” to Belarus, have been spotted training Belarusian military troops in the art of war. Oooh . . . this cannot be good. And this obviously troublesome turn of events in itself raises further possibilities. The first — in line with an analysis by the Institute for the Study of War (ISW), a Washington think tank — suggests that this may indicate a move on the part of Belarusian President Lukashenko away from Putin’s sphere of control and toward a greater level of independence, military and otherwise. And that may be absolutely correct. But my tendency to question everything about this situation leads me to wonder whether Lukashenko is that bold and that foolish? Even with the support of a few hundred (or more) Wagner mercenaries, is he really in a position to oppose Putin, either politically or militarily? And if this is his purpose, is it his own idea, or is he being manipulated by Prigozhin — who is still smarting from the failure of his own attempted revolt against Russia’s military — into believing that together they can succeed?

So what else might we be seeing? I’m thinking: exactly the opposite. What if the “Wagnerians” are not truly in exile, but have been relocated to Belarus by Putin specifically for the purpose of building up the local army in preparation for a further Russian invasion of Ukraine from the north? Or even — in the worst-case scenario — is it all the better to position Russia in Belarus for a foray into Poland, through the Suwalki Gap to Russia’s strategically-located territory at Kaliningrad, and possibly even from there into neighboring Lithuania? Could this whole thing be the first of a series of far-reaching chess moves on the part of Russia itself?

And then there’s Africa: Niger, Mali, Burkina Faso, and the Central African Republic, where Prigozhin’s presence has already been felt. How many trained people does Wagner have? And how many places can they cover at one time? Is one of these moves a red herring — or as they say in Russian, a “distracting maneuver” — to draw NATO’s attention away from the other? In other words: What the hell is really going on?

Please note that I have yet again ended with a question. I stress that I am not an historian, not a political or military pundit, not even an investigative journalist. I am merely an observer with a keen interest in international affairs, and specifically — especially these days — Russian affairs. A keen interest, and a whole lot of questions. Let’s hope we get the right answers, and soon.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
8/4/23

If that is so, then these days I would be a half cup of Haagen-Dazs coffee ice cream — my daily guilty pleasure. But I didn’t start out that way.

My sister and I were not breast-fed babies; we began life on a home-prepared, physician-recommended formula of — brace yourselves — Carnation Evaporated Milk and Karo Syrup. And we were healthy in spite of it. I don’t know exactly what we were fed when we were ready for solid foods — probably Gerber’s baby foods; but my earliest memories are of regular grown-up food. And lots of it.

I was raised in the midst of parents, old-world grandparents, and lots of aunts and uncles. And food seemed to be the center of our universe. Really, really good food. So if we are indeed what we eat, here is an idea of what I am made of:

For some reason, the first thing that always comes to mind is pot roast, usually made with beef brisket or chuck roast, onions, potatoes and carrots, all in one pot, braised on top of the stove and then nicely browned in the oven. Can you smell it? I can. And sometimes there would be a stack of Bubbe’s incredible potato latkes to go with it.

We ate a lot of chicken, too — my grandparents had a chicken coop in the back yard, so those birds were really fresh when they hit the pot for roasting or braising or stewing. And there were occasional veal chops, dipped in an egg wash and flour and fried — not sauteed — in plenty of solid Crisco, with onions, of course. Or roast beef tongue, cooked slowly in the oven to tender perfection. And frequently — again fried — beef liver with onions.

Right now I sense that some of you are gagging on those last two items — I realize that not everyone is into organ meats. But I loved them then, and still do. Which, I suppose, is why my entire family has been on cholesterol-lowering medication for years. But it was worth it.

The best recipes, though, were the ones my Bubbe (grandmother) brought with her from the old country: the knishes, the kasha with bowtie pasta, the matzo balls swimming in rich chicken soup, and — best of all — the cabbage rolls made with ground beef and a thick tomato sauce. In Russian, they’re called golubtsy.

Okay, that’s enough food — I’m drooling now. But you get the idea.

My diet today is much lighter and healthier, but not nearly as satisfying. I do, however, allow myself that one nightly half-cup of Haagen-Dazs coffee ice cream. At my age, I’m entitled.

So there you have it. Based on the above, it would seem that I am comprised of 1/4 part animal protein, 1/4 good carbs, 1/4 bad carbs, 1/4 trans-fatty acids, not nearly enough fiber except for that cabbage, and lots and lots of the love that went into the making of every single dish. All of which explains these hips.

I don’t recommend the diet of my early years for everyone. But remembering the taste of the food, the warmth of the kitchen, and the constant presence of all those relatives . . . well, I wouldn’t trade my childhood for the world.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
8/3/23

Apparently, a lot. And I’m not referring to the sweet smell of a rose by any other name. I’m talking about the value of name recognition.

Last week’s news included blurbs on such diverse subjects as King Henry VIII’s doodles, King Charles III’s childhood drawings, a very pricey pair of sneakers, and tattoos of the works of Rembrandt. Fascinating stuff.

Let’s start with the imposing figure below:

Henry VIII was not the 16th Century’s Mr. Congeniality. He treated his wives, his servants, and his British subjects with equal ferocity — though from all appearances, he spared himself no luxury . . . or food. He is said to have suffered numerous illnesses, however, and seems to have agonized greatly over those. His thoughts on that subject now appear in annotations, or doodles, recently discovered in the margins of his copy of a prayer book titled Psalms or Prayers.

It was apparently not the same book, but in 2016, another prayer book belonging to old Hank the Horrible — presumably without doodles — was expected to sell at auction for around 2.5 million British pounds. So if you’re famous as a mass murderer, and Herman’s Hermits have recorded a song about you (remember “I’m Henry the Eighth, I Am”?) — well, then, apparently your scribbles can really bring in the big bucks.

If there’s a lesson to be learned here, I guess it would be that those adults were wrong who told us never to write in books, and that we should start scribbling away now . . . just in case we ever become famous. But hopefully not by killing off our wives/husbands for the notoriety — or any other reason.

*. *. *

The decked-out lady above is the late Queen Elizabeth II . . . as seen through the eyes, and the crayons, of her son, the present King Charles III, when he was just five- or six-year-old Prince Charles. Happily, his skills as an artist seem to have improved greatly since that time. But this sweet little work, along with another pencil drawing of “Papa,” will soon be put up for auction, expected to fetch between $6,500 and $12,700 apiece. (It appears that they were only of sentimental value to “Mummy” and “Papa,” and not to the artist himself; but hopefully, the proceeds will go to one of Charles’ many charities.)

Damn! Why didn’t I save all those little drawings that graced my refrigerator when my kids were small? Oh, right — we’re not royalty. Double damn.

*. *. *

Did you know that in the mid-1990s, Apple (yes, that Apple) briefly veered from its exclusive focus on technology and commissioned a custom-produced, one-time-only line of white trainers, complete with the rainbow Apple logo on the tongue and side, to be given away to their employees at a national sales conference? Or that one pair — the one shown above — slipped through the cracks and was never distributed, or worn?

Well, it’s true. And that pair — size 10.5, for anyone with big feet and some extra cash hanging around — is being sold by Sotheby’s for the bargain price of $50,000. “Why so much?” — you may ask. I’m sorry, but I have no answer for that. It’s even more of a mystery than King Charles’ childhood art.

*. *. *

But do not despair if you can’t afford the sneakers. For you may instead own a priceless masterpiece, and for as little as $109. At the Rembrandt House Museum in Amsterdam, there is a pop-up tattoo parlor, where tattoo artists will ink replicas of Rembrandt’s work on visitors. So if you’d like to prove to your friends that you are a true art lover, and that you actually own one of his masterpieces, just roll up your sleeve or pants leg and sit a while. But first remember to scrape together the cost of a trip to The Netherlands, which I understand is magnificent in the spring. I think this one might actually be worth the price.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
8/2/23

Spoiled rotten! That’s what we 21st Century Americans are: spoiled rotten. Myself included.

When I lived overseas twice in the early 1990s — once in Prague, and once in Moscow — I learned to do without a few things I had until then considered essential to the maintenance of everyday life. Oh, not the basics of food and shelter. But the other stuff without which my friends said I would never be able to survive. Like my hairdresser. Or a full-service supermarket. Or my car.

Well, I showed them. I did very nicely, thank you. I did my own hair, rode on subways and buses, and walked all over town with my cloth bags, going from the produce market to the butcher to the bakery to the apteka (pharmacy), and did it all over again a few days later. The exercise was good for me. And in Prague, I even lived without air-conditioning — both at home and at work — throughout the summer months.

But I’ve been thinking about those days, and about how quickly I reverted to my old, spoiled ways when I returned from overseas. And in the past 30 years, it’s only gotten worse because there are things we “need” now that weren’t around back then. So I asked myself recently what “necessities” I thought I could live without, and my answer was: practically none. Damn! I don’t especially like what that says about me, but I’m going to share it with you anyway so that maybe you can feel bad about yourselves too. Misery does love company.

Okay, let’s start with the obvious: our precious electronics.

I was born at least one generation too early to be a real techie. But compared to some of my older friends, I do quite well. I knew one woman who couldn’t set the clock on her VCR (remember those?); another who never learned to drive; and yet another who never progressed beyond a dial phone. Not even a push-button Princess phone! I fully expected her to lift the receiver and ask a non-existent operator to place a number for her. So I’m pretty proud of myself. I have a smart phone, a smart TV, an iPad, a laptop, and I know how to use my kitchen appliances. And that’s more than enough, thank you.

Could I do without any of them? Well, I did . . . for a lot more years than I’ve had them. Of course, they didn’t exist then. But now? How do you leave the house without a phone to call for help, or for someone to reach you in an emergency? There used to be pay phones everywhere, and you always carried change with you; but not anymore. And how do you communicate with your friends all around the world? By snail mail? I don’t think so. Say something really cool happened today — gotta tell everyone, right now, before it becomes old news. Email? Text? Facebook? Take your pick — they’re all absolute necessities.

I do draw the line, for myself, at walking around all day with earbuds or headphones stuck to my head, destroying what’s left of my hearing with the constant blasting of music. And I’m not into gaming. But I know a lot of people who are as attached to those as I am to the iPad sitting on my lap at this moment.

*. *. *

On the more basic side, think about air-conditioning. I grew up without it, but that was in New England, so it wasn’t often a problem. But even when we moved to Washington, D.C. when I was 13, our first two apartments were not air-conditioned. It wasn’t comfortable, but we survived. And we went to a lot of movies, just to cool off, and ate a lot of popsicles. Would I want to give it up now? Hell, no. Would it kill me? Probably not . . . but I might start wishing it would.

Of course, people survived for eons without some of the things we consider basic: electricity, indoor plumbing, and central heating. But what I find more interesting are the teeny-tiny things. When I arrived in Moscow in 1993, I brought with me a load of supplies and small equipment for our office. The Russian women who worked with me were educated, spoke fluent English, and knew what was going on in the rest of the world. They were familiar with fax machines and copiers. But when I picked up a staple remover to separate some pages, they were floored. There was no such thing in Russia at the time, and it was a wondrous sight to them. They rejoiced at the thought of finally being able to keep their fingernails manicured.

A few years earlier, in a market in Tbilisi, Georgia (the country), I had drawn a crowd of onlookers when I withdrew a pocket pack of Kleenex from my purse and proceeded to blow my nose and throw the used tissue into a trash bin.

In Prague, ice cubes were at a premium, and I became a favorite customer in one restaurant when I very politely asked for ice for my Coke, and then laughed with the waiter at the peculiarities of Americans.

And think about not being able to get aspirin and other pain-relievers, toothbrushes, or toilet paper. There are, even now, many parts of the world where those do not exist.

So yes, we are spoiled . . . and I, for one, am shamelessly glad of it. Could I survive again in a world without staple removers and ice cubes? Sure. But would I want to? Would you?

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
8/1/23

Pssst! Hey, you! Yes, you . . . the senior citizen over there. We need to talk.

Remember when you thought “fixed income” meant that you worked for a regular salary, and not on commission? Or when you thought life would be less expensive when you were retired and no longer needed a business wardrobe or that overpriced downtown garage parking? Or — my personal favorite — when you assumed that the Social Security you’d been paying into for your entire working life would take care of you when you could no longer work?

Well, I remember those days. And now, it’s time for a little reality check. (This, of course, does not apply to those titans of industry, movie stars, or others with unlimited supplies of cash. Those people probably aren’t reading this in any case. No, it’s just for us ordinary working folks.)

Actually, there are a lot of things you may no longer need after retirement, or can manage to do without. (No, not food.) First, you can consider downsizing. I know a number of people who finally came to realize that they didn’t need the big house they’d raised their children in — you know, the one with all the stairs — or a large percentage of the stuff in it. So they bit the bullet and sold the old family homestead, using the proceeds to move into a beautiful, fully-equipped, modern condo. And there they live, maintenance-free, stair-free, and care-free.

Second, depending on where you live, you may be able to sell one or both of your cars, thus saving a considerable amount of the money you previously spent on fuel, maintenance, auto insurance, and personal property tax, in addition to those pesky parking fees. Good move.

And third . . . well, actually, no; that’s about it. Because the rest of life, with its attendant expenses, goes on — and without the nice salary and perks you previously enjoyed.

Now, we could talk about inflation, which has hit everyone like the proverbial ton of bricks in the last couple of years. But that’s not specific to us seniors. So let’s just look at those things that make us special:

– Medical Insurance. You did know you were going to lose that all-encompassing group medical coverage when you retired, didn’t you? Don’t be deluded into thinking Medicare is going to be enough to replace it. For the nearly $200 deducted from my Social Security check each month, I receive coverage that pays only a small fraction of my medical costs. So I have to have supplemental coverage, which (mercifully) does take care of virtually all of the rest — at the bargain price of only $460 a month! Yes, that’s right: $460 per month. That’s $5,520 a year. There are cheaper plans available, but considering the ever-increasing cost of medical care, and the fact that the older you are, the more medical care you’re likely to need . . . well, how do you get along without really good coverage? One stay in the hospital could completely wipe you out financially. And I haven’t even mentioned dental, which is an additional amount each month and doesn’t pay for everything. Ka-ching!

Are you with me so far?

– Life Insurance. Oh-oh — that nice employer-paid coverage has gone bye-bye, too, unless you’ve arranged to keep it at your own expense. And because you’re now however-many-years old, be prepared for a shock when you find out what that’s going to cost you. Way more than you’ll be saving on car expenses, I promise you. Ka-ching!

– Prescriptions. As with visits to the doctor, you’re likely to be taking more medications as you age. Yes, I have prescription coverage, and five of my six prescriptions are reasonably priced. But there’s one that comes in at a whopping $388 out of my pocket every 90 days — and that’s only about one-fourth of the total retail cost. And don’t forget the annual deductible that hits you right after Christmas. But I’m actually one of the lucky ones; I know people who take life-saving medications that cost them, out-of-pocket, more than $1,000 at a time. Ka-ching! (Hey, Congress — if you’re looking for a project you can really sink you’re teeth into, I’ve got one for you! )

– Activities. Now we come to the fun stuff. Let’s say you’re lucky and have aged well, with minimal physical difficulties. So you’re ready to live the active retired life — you finally have time for golf, or tennis, or swimming at that nice club just a few miles from home. But have you checked out their membership brochure yet — I mean, really checked it out, small print and all? Especially the part about the fees? Maybe you did, a couple of years ago when you were still pulling in a nice income. Didn’t seem so expensive then, did it? And all that travel you’ve been looking forward to? Good luck with that, too.

– Other. So what’s left to factor into your new, reduced budget? Well, if you’ve been less fortunate and maybe haven’t aged so well, you’ll be looking at keeping the local pharmacy and/or the good folks at Amazon in business for many more years. Think about such possibilities as eye drops, nose drops, ear drops, antibiotic creams, gauze pads, cotton balls, Kleenex, Preparation-H, incontinence pads, vitamins, denture cream, hearing aids, a blood pressure monitor, a good foot soak, a cane, a walker, a wheelchair, special chair pads, and don’t forget to install hand rails in your shower. (No, those are not all on my personal shopping list, thank Heaven!) And that’s just for starters. You know those catalogs from home health supply companies? Unless you’re looking to jump-start a heart attack, do not open them! Those go directly into the recycle bin or the trash, whichever is closer.

– Entertainment. This is the item that always ends up at the end of everyone’s list, and for good reason. I mean, you need food, shelter and medical care first, if you’re going to be able to have any fun at all, right? So let’s say you’ve managed to find room in the budget for a couple of evenings out each month. My personal first choice is a live theater production or concert. I used to think nothing of paying $100 or more for orchestra seats at the Kennedy Center on a Saturday night. Those same seats, for this Saturday evening’s performance of The Lion King, range from $219 to $459, per seat. Pass. Just a movie, with popcorn and a soft drink, will cost you around $20 per person . . . even at senior rates. And dinner for two at a nice restaurant that doesn’t have a drive-thru or coupons? Ka-ching! Ka-ching!

*. *. *

But don’t start thinking it might be better for your heirs if you didn’t live to 100 so as to save some money for them. Because you — or they — are in for one more shock: the high cost of dying, which, like everything else, goes up every year. So here’s what I suggest. Enjoy the years allotted to you, doing all the things you physically and financially can do. But first, take out one of those “burial insurance” policies — the biggest you can afford — and sleep well tonight. Tomorrow . . . “God willin’ and the creek don’t rise” . . . is another day.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
7/31/23

NOTE: Once again, I find myself ahead of the game. This post was intended to be published a few days from now, but I’ve moved it up in line because of an article in the New York Times yesterday on the very same subject — not about RBG, but about the aging of our country’s political leaders. (No, I’m not psychic — just in sync with events.) Here’s the link, in case you’re interested.

https://www.nytimes.com/2023/07/29/us/politics/mcconnell-feinstein-biden-age.html?referringSource=articleShare

*. *. *

Shame, shame, shame! How could I have overlooked her when I wrote about the ten people I most want to meet in Heaven? She was, and is, my hero. She was, and always will be, the redoubtable Ruth Bader Ginsburg, more familiarly known as RBG; and I would — quite literally — give my life to meet her. After all, I would have to be dead, wouldn’t I? And since there’s no one I feel I can cut from my original list, I’ll just be greedy and make it eleven.

RBG’s life story is well documented: her early struggles to be taken seriously as a lawyer; her happy marriage to her soulmate, Martin Ginsburg; her rise to a seat on the United States Supreme Court; her often surprising wit; her undeniable wisdom; and her absolute integrity, both as a jurist and as a human being. Her death in 2020, at the age of 87, left a huge hole in America’s highest court . . . and in America’s heart.

But the illnesses and injuries of her last years also raised questions as to the propriety of public officials continuing to serve in an impaired condition — although she quelled any and all concerns by exhibiting a nearly superhuman strength of will and a remarkable mental acuity. But those questions continue to be raised today, in light of the aging of many of our elected officials: Mitch McConnell, Dianne Feinstein, Nancy Pelosi, and President Biden himself, among others.

So when is it time to say “Enough”? Do we just set an arbitrary maximum age limit for officeholders? Do we consider physical impairment, or only mental capacity? Or both? And who is to make the judgment call? Franklin D. Roosevelt occupied the Oval Office in a wheelchair, the victim of polio; would that be possible today? There were questions — fair or unfair — about Ronald Reagan’s mental state toward the end of his term. It is a dilemma of supreme importance to the future of our country.

I am, in terms of age, a contemporary of President Biden and a number of Senators and Congresspersons serving today; and I can speak from firsthand experience as to the “normal” effects of aging — not the ravages of serious illnesses like Alzheimer’s or dementia, or the debilitating aches and pains of arthritis, but the smaller things that creep up on you and remind you that you’re not a kid any longer. Like putting the sugar into the refrigerator and the butter into the cupboard. Or searching everywhere for your reading glasses and finding them on top of your head. Or walking into the next room and forgetting what you came in for. We laugh at those . . . and, to my way of thinking, we should. They happen to everyone, even younger people, and there’s no benefit to letting them upset you.

I find myself more and more frequently groping for a familiar name, or a simple word; so do my younger friends. It’s frustrating as hell. But I can remember every detail of a meeting I had 30 years ago, including what I was wearing and who sat where. Short-term memory, they say, is the first to be affected by age. But does that mean we’re senile? No, it does not! As with most human issues, every person is unique, and trying to generalize is futile and dangerous.

Tell me, with a straight face, that you’ve never gotten to work and discovered that you’re wearing two mismatched shoes. Or that you’ve never found that your child’s homework is in your briefcase and your report for this morning’s staff meeting is probably on his teacher’s desk. Or that you’ve never promised your family Chinese takeout for dinner and then driven straight home without stopping at the China Dragon. Am I right?

But the issues our elected officials deal with on a daily basis are far more complex and vital to the survival of mankind than Chinese food, and those folks must be held to a higher standard. But where to draw the line? I can only say that I’m glad it’s not up to me to make that call. But it’s a serious question, and one that needs to be dealt with.

Obviously, we can’t all be Ruth Bader Ginsburg. But I really look forward to meeting her one day and asking her how she did it.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
7/30/23

I just read a news item that was published back in June, that I somehow missed at the time, concerning a Sotheby’s auction of about 300 personal items belonging to the late Paul Newman and his wife, Joanne Woodward, now 93 and sadly in the final stages of Alzheimer’s disease. They were one of Hollywood’s great power couples in a time before that descriptor had even been imagined. I’m not at all sure why their daughters chose to do this while their mother is still alive; it may have been Ms. Woodward’s wish. But they said that the hardest items to part with were not the most valuable in terms of price, but the oddball collection of fun, quirky things with the greatest sentimental value, like a photocopy of former President Nixon’s enemies list featuring Mr. Newman, and a long tin bench shaped like a pig wearing aviator goggles.

And I started thinking of what an auction of my most prized possessions would look like. Obviously, a prestigious firm such as Sotheby’s wouldn’t be interested — I’m not famous enough to warrant the attention that a pair of beloved actors would draw, wealthy enough to have acquired the sorts of things that would bring in the big bucks, or imaginative enough to own a tin pig. But on the premise that one person’s trash is another person’s treasure, it might be worth thinking about finding some local auctioneer to take a look at my lifetime of accumulated stuff. Let’s see now — we’ve got . . .

– A few items that, if my children aren’t interested in keeping, might actually bring in a bit of cash: an RC Gorman lithograph of “La Rosa”; a Lalique crystal “Leaf Bowl”; a gold watch; a full set of Faberge china; and some antique crystal pieces from Hungary and Czechoslovakia, etc. But on the fun side . . .

– A half dozen or so “Matryoshka” dolls from Russia — those cute nesting dolls that open up to reveal ever smaller ones until you wonder how they even managed to paint the littlest one. I have seen some magnificent hand-made ones that sell for hundreds, even thousands, of dollars. These aren’t those, but they’re fun — one is of Mikhail Gorbachev and his predecessors; and the biggest one is of Boris Yeltsin (and pretty much the same predecessors), but this one wearing a big furry Russian military hat.

– Two sweatshirts received as Christmas gifts from family members who obviously know me well: one reading, “It’s what I do, I read, and I know things”; and the other, “I am silently correcting your grammar.” (Don’t laugh; I read that a few years ago Russell Crowe’s leather jock strap sold for $7,000. Surely my sweats are worth something.)

– My elementary school (8th grade) yearbook. A true classic — you should see the hair styles!

– A tall, cylindrical drinking glass (with straw) depicting TV’s Golden Girls: Sophia, Dorothy, Rose and Blanche, all deceased now. It was my favorite TV sitcom; I see myself as Sophia, the smart-mouthed matriarch.

– A copper statuette of Kokopelli, the mischievous Native American fertility deity. You may want to pass that one up if you’re not planning on enlarging your family.

– A telogreika — an amazingly warm jacket made of cotton, beautifully quilted, embroidered, and hand-sewn by little old Russian ladies, mostly worn (in the old days, at least) by the women who were employed to sweep the snow from the sidewalks of Moscow.

– A few personally autographed books from a variety of individuals: the late Secretary of Defense Elliot Richardson; the late Professor Viktor Mozolin of the USSR Academy of Sciences; and the late Ion Pacepa, former two-star general in the Securitate, the secret police of the Socialist Republic of Romania, under then-dictator Nicolae Ceausescu. Are you sensing a pattern here? All deceased. They should be worth something.

– Every book ever written about Aldrich Ames, the CIA officer who spied for the Soviet/Russian government for nine years, from 1985 to 1994. An incredible story, and one that figures marginally in some of my earlier blog posts. They were research.

– In fact, a whole bunch of Russian stuff — more books (lots more), pictures, artifacts, and even a few old rubles that weren’t supposed to have left the country but somehow got jammed into the pocket of my jeans back in 1988. Hmm . . . I wonder how that happened.

– Several three-ring binders containing print-outs of my blog postings, that I hope will go to someone who read them online and liked them.

– A nearly complete set of leather-bound, gold-embossed “Great Books of the Western World.” I bought them more than 50 years ago when they were trendy, and never got around to reading them, so they are in brand-new condition. I assume the purchaser won’t be reading them either, but they’ll look impressive on their book shelves, as they do on mine.

– Not for sale, but available for your viewing appreciation, a large, extremely heavy urn of pink Himalayan salt. Be careful, though, as it contains the ashes of my late sister . . . thoughtfully enclosed in a Ziploc baggie by a mortician with a strong preference for tidiness. It’s been six years, and I’m still having a hard time letting her go.

– And finally, my pride and joy: the Soviet government-issue portrait of old Vladimir Lenin himself, illegally sold to me by a Russian government official, and (also illegally) smuggled out of Moscow in my suitcase in 1993. Although actually, that’s promised to a dear friend who loves the story behind it; I just wanted to include it here because I enjoy telling people about it. Sorry about that.

*. *. *

Now that I look at the list, my “treasures” are all things that are meaningful to me, like the albums bursting with photographs of family, friends, and places I’ve traveled — but hardly of value to anyone else. I guess only the heirs of the rich and famous actually get to have auctions.

But here’s a thought: Since I plan eventually to be cremated (but please make sure I’m dead first), maybe some of the more flammable items could go in with me. I’ll have to check to see whether that’s legal. As for the rest, I leave it to my children to deal with all of it. I had to do it for my mother, and later for my sister. My kids are next.

And on that cheery note, I am, at least for the time being . . .

Brendochka
7/29/23

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