Guide to old family sewing meals

I have given this endeavor a dumb, keyword-spamming kind of title. However, I will change it when I figure out what this blog will really address. Right now, I'm guessing no one will find this oddity unless I send him/her to it, so I'm keeping my stream-of-semiconsciousness name for now. Anyway, here goes...

I went to bed a while ago and was about to read, but was suddenly inspired to create this blog about my aunt Maxine, how much I adore her, and about today's visit with her. Well, actually, I guess only today's entry will be about that. I can't write indefinitely about one visit with my aunt, no matter how much I love her (and that, as you will see, is a lot).

Most Tuesdays, I meet Maxine in the tiny Treasure Chest, a thrift store nestled in the bowels of her retirement place (which is much nicer than the word "bowels" would suggest). After we purchase our knick-knacks, toys, books or vintage blouses (just to give you an idea of what's available; we don't really normally buy stuff like that), we take the freight elevator to her 6th floor apartment, however long that may take -- and sometimes it takes many, many minutes -- and have a visit.

I love Maxine more than I can express. It's not just because she was nice to me and my siblings when we were kids -- although she was indeed very, very nice.

Her husband Earl, who died last summer, was very kind to us, too. Case in point: He accompanied me to the funeral home after my mother died in 1984. I was a slip of a 31-year-old, and would have chosen some sort of pine box for my mom if Earl hadn't intervened. (I think I was influenced by The American Way of Death, if that's the title -- not that I'd read it), but Earl prevailed and had me choose a nicer coffin than I would otherwise have done. Heck, I was barely older than my elder son is now -- what did I know about choosing caskets? The responsibility for arrangements fell to me, as my dad was so...devastated? enfeebled?...by my mother's passing that he couldn't do much of anything, including visit my mom during her last days -- which she spent in a coma, so who knows if it even mattered.

Anyway, while my mom was alive -- and maybe after, although things changed a whole lot after that -- Maxine used to visit my parents' house once a week, faithfully. She'd sit in the kitchen and smoke a couple cigarettes, drink several cups of Mr. Coffee coffee, catch up on stuff with my mom and whoever else was around. My mother, usually still in her house dress, would drink coffee and smoke with her -- and I would, too, if I was visiting from college and my dad was away (for some reason I was afraid to smoke in front of him, even though he puffed cigs too, albeit not heavily, for several years). If he was present, I'd just drink coffee and enjoy the chat.

Maxine has always kept in touch with me and all the relatives I ever knew of, before and since she and Earl moved to the retirement place in my town. She used to recap highlights of her week ("I washed all the windows today -- what a chore"; or "Earl has a cold and is just disgusted with himself") on 5" x 7" blank postcards, dated only with the day and month, and signed "Maxine and E.T." (my uncle). She still writes to all the out-of-towners who are still alive. That includes my dad and his wife, although my dad's wife doesn't write much to anyone these days; I suspect she can't get a pen and paper together in the same room.

Maxine has always doted on my dad, who is 10 years her junior. I love my dad more than life itself, but I'm not sure he deserves her.

At the age of 91, Maxine's best trait (among many great ones) is her avid interest in her loved ones, her friends, and even the assisted-living employees who give her a shower, empty the garbage, clean her apartment, do her laundry, bring her mail -- and their life histories. She yearns to know what I and my siblings are up to, right down to what I'm going to cook for dinner Tuesday after I leave her place. (Speaking of which: She didn't like cooking very much herself, but loves talking about food -- especially food other people are going to prepare. And no, she's not overweight and never has been.)

Maxine is not your father's 91. True, she has abundant health problems; some condition she already has will probably get her in the end. But modern medicine has so far kept her alive and feeling pretty good most of the time, despite her need for a walker and lots of pills.

God knows, I will be devastated when she's gone -- and really, how much longer can I reasonably expect to have her around? I've read that a human's lifespan can't exceed about 120 years. (Have YOU ever known anyone that old?)

A secret to my aunt's longevity, I suspect, is that she never lets sad events or minor illnesses set her back for long. This is key.

When you reside in an assisted living place, sad things happen frequently. Plus, of course, my aunt has lost her husband -- albeit not under tragic or unforeseen circumstances; he was older than she, a bit further into his 90s). In some ways, she's had it easier than others. In other ways, some have had it easier than she.

Today, an ambulance and a fire truck were just leaving the place when I arrived for our semi-regular Tuesday visit. I mentioned this to Maxine as we were heading to her apartment. She said she hoped it was nothing serious -- or at any rate, nothing serious happening to anyone she knew -- but she told me a visit by fire and medical was almost a daily occurence.

At 54, I try to imagine being at an age where I would think, "This may be my last day/week/year/decade." So far -- even though any of us could go tomorrow -- I haven't thought that way. I tell myself I'm only halfway through my life. Some friends laugh at that -- so, you're going to live to 108? they sneer. The idea does seem silly, especially given my cholesterol level, my blood pressure, my fondness for martinis and Manhattans, and my sedentary life.

But hey. Maxine has made it this far, and she and I share or have shared bad genes, bad habits -- and cockeyed optimism. I try every day of my life to live up to her example of staying interested. It's easy enough to do that now; at 75 or 88, maybe it won't be. But even if it gets harder and harder, it's a lesson I'm going to try to hang on to.

Maxine is my role model for senior citizenicity. Best case scenario (only in my dreams, I know): Thirty years from now I'll creep through the bowels of Maxine's retirement place next to her, our walkers bumping along the hallway. And she'll ask me what I'm going to cook when I get home.