Day: February 21, 2017

The other day I wrote about the things I missed about Maria when she was away, and I paused briefly at the thought that I missed touching her breasts – I like to touch her breasts and I miss them – so I put it in the piece. It was one line in a long piece, but I did wonder briefly how people would take it.

Older people are not supposed to have sex, and are certainly not supposed to talk about sex or love. Or breasts. It is almost a heresy.

As a general rule, I don’t worry much about what people think when I write, that would shut me down in our world. Too many people on social media who think I want their approval. If Thoreau had Facebook on Walden Pond, I am sure he would have thrown himself into the water and drowned.

I am fond of Maria’s breasts, among many other things such as her humor, smile, intelligence and creativity, it was actually far down the list, and this morning, first thing, this being America in the age of Facebook,  there was a message from a complete stranger named Arleen.

Many of you probably know that it almost never turns out well when somebody tells me what to write, and it’s even worse when people patronize me.

“I am no prude by any means,” wrote Arlene, “but do you have to talk about being lovers in every post? More power to you for still doing that. And the breast touching thing?”

Well, of course I had to write about this, partially to explain and partially to speak up against ageism, perhaps the last acceptable social and cultural bigotry in America.

First off, Arleen, I’m afraid you are a prude, you would do well to accept that. According to the dictionary, a prude is a person excessively concerned about propriety and decorum. That is you.

Your message, cheerful as it pretended to be, was both inappropriate and offensive. I don’t know you, and I’m not sure what gives you the right to send me a message like that on Facebook, as if you are my friend. And if you were my friend, of course, you wouldn’t dream of sending me a message like that. My friends are very happy that I am have someone to love in my life, even my young friends.

Then, there’s this: I rarely talk about being lovers, I do not mention it nearly as much as I should because I imagine there are a lot of people like you out there getting queasy about it. Stuff gets into your head like that in America, no idea or thought lives freely for long, it is immediately set upon by people who want to tell you what to think or write.

If older people wrote and talked more about love, perhaps the subject would not be forbidden and unknown.

You might have said what you thought: How dare this old guy talk about “still doing that” at his age – you can add patronizing to offensive, Arleen –  when he should just be hiding it, walking the dogs, or playing checkers like older people are expected to do, then withering and turning to dust.

I wouldn’t care to offer too much detail about my sex life, that would make me queasy, but much as I wanted to share my mental illness, I also want to let people know that older people do have sex, and like it.

Older people like me want to have sex as often as I can possibly have it, and it is surely not the same for me as it once was. In my hospice and therapy work, I often encounter older people in love, and sometimes having sex, and good for them, they ought to shout it from the rooftops.

Older people have sex – “doing that” – all of the time, Arlene, and even though I am no Brad Pitt, I am grateful to be having sex. If I were Brad Pitt, I doubt you would ever send a message like that.

I hope I can die having sex, I’d love to go that way. I’m not eager to talk about it a lot, but it ought not be hidden either. It is nothing to be ashamed of.  This is one of the reasons I do not ever do “old talk.” At our age, we are all slowing down, good for you for “still doing that.” Speak for yourself. I am on fire, reborn and excited about my life. Don’t tell me what I feel, just because it is what you feel. I am just getting started in so many ways.

I did not have sex for too many years and I am here to tell you that having sex is so much better than not having sex, at any age. The other day I wrote about my experience with mental illness and neither you, Arlene,  or anyone else wrote me to ask if I “have to talk about being crazy.”

So you are not a prude, but it’s okay to write about mental illness, but not about the love I have for my wife and her body? That says a lot about our country to me.

According to the National Center for Social Research, more than half of the men over 70 (54 per cent) and a third of the women (32 per cent) are sexually active. For people over 60, the numbers double. For some younger people and magazine editors and movie producers, older people and sex seems to be a taboo subject. We are not the demographic advertisers want.

People like Arlene seem to believe physical love dies with age, and must not be discussed. It makes  her uncomfortable that I mention love.

In recent weeks, I have been speaking up about Muslims and refugees, and I am not inclined to be silent about making love. Prejudice is prejudice, and it ought to be challenged whenever it pops up.

I love my wife, and  she would not be happy if I gave up on sex. if I should be uncomfortable about anything, it is the fact that I have been reluctant to write more about our love for one another, and about my love of making love. Shame on me for that. How could I write honestly about missing her when I began censoring some of the things I miss the most? To withhold truth is to cheat my readers, and I promised early on that I won’t ever do that.

Arlene, I am not clear what your purpose was in writing me, I guess it was to tiptoe around the fact that my talking about Maria’s breasts made you uncomfortable and you wished I would stop so you could read about the dogs and donkeys.

At the beginning of the message,  you wrote that you love reading my posts.

But that does not strike me as sincere. It had the odor of hypocrisy.

If you love my posts, you know that I will try be honest and authentic about my life, and not accept the strictures and social conventions that keep so many people from being truthful and helpful to others. That is perhaps, the core idea of the blog.

If you don’t love this about my writing, then you don’t love my blog , and might  be more comfortable reading somebody more proper. And if you don’t wish me to write about my love for Maria, you are definitely in the wrong place.  Eventually, I will horrify you. You are welcome to stay, but I warn you, no I promise you, that it will happen again.

And one last thing, perhaps you will give older people a bit more thought before you write about them as if they were children in need of a gentle scold.

I didn’t see Ellen when we first came into the Mansion today but Red did. She is new and is settling in. The other residents keep an eye on her and make it a point to sit with her and talk with her, but often, when I come in, she is sitting by herself in a corner of the big old dining room.

I can only imagine the adjustment it is to leave your worldly belonging and life behind, and begin life anew. Red senses need, I don’t know how it works, but he saw it across the room. I believe he helped. He is an amazing animal, and I am so lucky to have him.

Red veered off, skittered across the polished floor (he hates polished floors) and made his way to her. Red seems to know who needs him and who doesn’t.

And Ellen needed him, I think, she leaned over and held him close and they sat like that for a long time. You can write Ellen c/o The Mansion, 11 S. Union Avenue, Cambridge, N.Y., 12816. I believe she would like to hear from you.

Connie and Red are great friends, Red goes bounding down the hall to her room, and the two of them just cuddle. You can see some of the boxes in the background that are filling up Connie’s room, tomorrow I will try and get a wider shot. Connie is going to be busy for a long time, she has a thick folder of patterns, five or six large boxes of yarn, she is already hard at work on her baby hats for the Albany Medical Center.

Connie asked me to take her picture today at the Mansion Assisted Care Facility so I could send it to Maria with her message: “Come home. We miss  you!” Me too. I told Connie Maria will be home Sunday and will visit the Mansion once she gets some sleep.

Meanwhile, Connie was surrounded with newly arrived boxes of yarn (and thanks for the patterns.).

She says she can’t fit any more yarn into her room, and it was true, I couldn’t even turn around in there. She is hard at work, she’s planning to make her baby hats (the first three below) for the Albany Medical Center and then, perhaps some blankets, to use up some of that yarn.

She says she has no room for more yarn and asks that people hold off sending more for now, until she gets to use some of it up. I didn’t have a wide-angle camera, but I’ll try and get a photo tomorrow of her room, she is sitting in a sea of yarn patterns and someone sent her a beautiful  embroidered red cloth bag to hold her knitting needles. She got a package from Germany and England.

She was almost speechless surveying her room, there was just about enough room to get to her bed. She wanted me to send this photo to Maria as a hello, I told her Maria can’t send her any postcards because they don’t have postcards in India. One of the Mansion staff asked me to thank you all again,”I cant believe what these people have done for the residents,” she said, “I hope they know.” I think they do, the Army of Good is on the march.

Check out the baby hats below. Many more are heading for Albany. “I can’t believe it, ” she said, “please thank everybody, but I think they have to stop right now, because there’s no more room.”

That’s a wonderful problem to have, she added. (You can write Connie and the other residents of the Mansion at 11 S. Union Street, Cambridge, N.Y., 12816. (I’m thinking Easter.) I am getting a new list of names of residents who wish to receive messages, I will post it when it is ready, thanks.

It is a wonderful thing to see this smile on Connie’s face, she is busy and happy and engaged. Great work, and thanks from me as well. You nourish my faith in humanity.

Katie Perez, the Mansion director, told me that she is bringing in some Arroz con pollo (chicken and rice) for me to take  home, in case I am hungry while Maria is away (as if Maria cooks!). The Mansion is my family, feels like. Better than my family.

It’s become a habit of mine to take portraits of good and honest working people who come through my life. If you are like me, you are dependent on people to fix things when they break, to tend trees and patch up barns and put up gutters and fix broken well points and take care of the farm when we are away.

Cassandra has come into my life in two ways – her full-time job is at the Cambridge Valley Vets, she is a steady and competent force there. While Maria is in India, Cassandra has been coming to the farm in the mornings to help with the farm chores and give me a head start on my writing.

She brought her husband George over the other day, he is an arborist and I asked him to take a look at our apple and birch trees.  He thinks they can live a good while, but need some help. It was good to hear an expert say that, Maria and I are very fond of these trees.

I was struck, of course, by their open faces, full of character and connection. I think of a young version of the famous American Gothic portrait, I am always looking for couples like that.

I welcome George and Cassandra into my life, and of course, into the life of the blog, since this is where I share my life. I so love taking these portraits, they capture a part of the American character, often overlooked and forgotten. There is no mass media out here, and they will never come here unless an airplane crashes in our midst. So we have to notice our own.