The virgin turns 65

It was a milestone birthday I had been anticipating with trepidation – dread, really. I was painfully aware that 65 is the age at which my father died, the age at which one becomes an official senior citizen, when one starts to be dismissed (at least by some) as “old” (although, now that I think about it, Hillary Clinton turned 65 just four days before me, and who is more vital than Hillary Clinton?) The day proceeded without fanfare, then it was over. But I took strange comfort from an unlikely source, for someone who is not as social-media attuned as my younger friends – and that is all those messages on Facebook, from people who just took the time to drop a line and wish me well. And from the friend who sent an old-fashioned card saying he had dedicated his morning walk to me. Blessings, all. Though I still can’t wait to turn 66.

Restored faith in humanity

Monday is my lottery ticket-buying day. I do it once a week – no more, no less – and for those of you who pooh-pooh this exercise, I can only tell you that I am my mother’s daughter. She loved scratch tickets and I can’t tell you how many hours we spent giggling over our tiny wins and fantasizing about the big one that would certainly come later. Anyway, this past Monday, I stopped in at the usual gas station to pick up this week’s tickets and I asked the guy behind the counter for four $5 tickets. “Not those,” I said, as he reached for one of those word game tickets that take too long to scratch. So he handed me four tickets and I gave him my $20 and left. Only when I got home and Rick and I were scratching the four (I do let him in on the fun) did I realize that I had four TWO-DOLLAR tickets, not five-dollar ones, and the guy had squeezed me for twelve bucks. Not only that, but there were only $6 worth of winnings in the four. I was indignant. All the next day I stewed at work over how to confront the scammer. Surely he would remember my handing him the $20, but would he admit it? Should I demand the name of his supervisor and relate what had happened? Should I shame him in front of other customers? Finally, the long work day ended and I stopped back at the same gas station. He wasn’t there. In his place was a young, intelligent-looking woman wearing thick glasses and green fingernail polish. I was flummoxed. “You probably can’t help me,” I began, “but yesterday…” and I told the tale. “Oh, but I can,” she replied, and reached over next to the cash register to pull out a receipt with $12 neatly folded in it and numbers showing how a lottery customer was owed this money. The young man I had so vilified in my head had taken the time to set things right in case I came back. What could I do? I told her to thank him, put together the $12 and my $6 in winnings and bought three more $5 tickets. One of them is worth $10. And tomorrow, of course, I plan to turn it in and buy two more, going after that really big win. And if I hit, some guy who works behind a gas station counter is going to get SUCH a tip.

Talkin' ta tas

One of my favorite support groups in the world is the Tanner Ta Tas, a group of breast cancer survivors from Woburn (home to the former tanneries so vilified in the book and movie, “A Civil Action”) and a place where there seems to be an unusually high number of breast cancer cases among YOUNG women. I had written about them many times while editor of the Woburn Advocate but yesterday they asked me to do something I had never done before -- be one of the speakers at their annual Brunch and Learn. I told them about losing my friend Cissy this year. She was a seven-year breast cancer survivor who died of a heart attack and she had been at a Ta Ta event last year, when the group had its annual “turn the common pink” night, where DPW crews flip a switch and the trees on Woburn Common are illuminated with pink lights during Breast Cancer Awareness Month. And I told them how Cissy was a Ta Ta at heart, because the Ta Tas are known not only for their kindness to breast cancer patients and survivors from the area, but for their sustaining sense of humor. (Some members who have lost a breast to cancer affectionately call each other “winkies.”) I recounted how Cissy, when she met with the surgeon who was going to tattoo on a nipple where her real one had been removed, told the guy she’d only agree to the surgery if the tattoo said, “If you can read this, you’re too close.” They loved it. And I told them I plan to keep writing about them, because the story of these young mothers --who are not only demanding answers about their high incidence of breast cancer but are supporting each other in ways I’ve never seen any organization do – is one that deserves a broader audience than Woburn’s. It’s a promise I intend to keep.

What earthquake?

I was driving home from work Tuesday after a long day, with my cell phone unintentionally turned off, when I heard it ping that I had a message. It was Rick’s voice. He said he was sitting in the studio outbuilding that is set in a grove of beech trees at the back of our property, the place we call The Beech House. “Mark the time, 7:12 p.m.,” his voice said. “The building just shook for about 10 seconds. I think we just had an earthquake.” Yea, right, I thought. But I turned on the radio and immediately heard the last of an initial report that a magnitude four-point-something quake had just struck in York County, Maine and had apparently been felt by everyone in New England (and in some cases, beyond) – except by anyone who – like me -- was behind a wheel. No damage, no one injured. But – bummer! – I missed my first earthquake. Oh, well, I’d rather report that I felt the earth move for other reasons.

Gardening by flashlight

“Gardeners, beware,” the meteorologist on the radio had warned that morning while I was driving to work. “A frost is coming.” I tried to leave a little early, thinking of the last of my tender babies in the garden – an acorn and a couple of butternut squash, maybe a zucchini or two, cherry and regular tomatoes, some kale, some chard and a forest of arugala. But what is usually a one-hour commute from Concord, Mass. to my New Hampshire home can be double that on Friday nights, as leaf-peers and weekenders head north for the White Mountains. Even using the traffic report on my GPS, I got home after 6, as dusk was settling. I ran out and picked the winter squash and searched in vain for the zucchini. Rick came out to help, dropping the few remaining tomatoes into a plastic basket. It was cold, even with our winter coats and hoods on, and it was rapidly getting dark – too dark to see. So we finished our harvesting – almost – by flashlight (a first), laughing in the dark and rubbing our freezing hands together. Eventually, we hoisted two large tarps over the arugula and kale and sent up a little wish that they would survive the night. They did. In the morning, I picked a bunch of kale and literally a shopping bag full of arugula. We had arugula salad and pasta with a tomato, arugula and artichoke heart sauce for dinner. I swear, the meal tasted all the better for the memory of tucking in its ingredients by flashlight the night before.

Connecting with a late husband's first wife

It sounds so strange, I know. But I hope to make a small contribution to a book that is being partly written by my late husband Jim Ragsdale’s first wife – the same woman to whom he was married (though they were separated) when Jim and I fell in love. The book is about the historic home they lived in – one in which I also resided for a time. But I care less about the book than about the relationship that Karen and I have managed to sustain across miles and time for more than two decades. Not that we’ve been best friends. Our contacts have been infrequent, but caring. She’s a remarkable woman. The first time we met, under the most awkward of circumstances, she simply gave me a hug. When Jim died, she took me out to lunch one day. She was happily remarried, and had no cause to reach out except kindness. She included me, and later Rick and me, in a couple of family get-togethers. We’d been out of touch (except for Christmas cards) for some time, but when I got a letter asking me to contribute to the book project, I was happy to respond. We’re talking about getting together for lunch to discuss it. I look forward to it. Our shared history might not be one most people would celebrate, but what could be better than spending time with a creative, big-hearted woman? There should be more like her.

Country livin'

So I was picking some forgotten garlic in the garden when a truck rolled into the yard. Out stepped a man I vaguely recognized, who said he was the son of my neighbor, Leroy. Then he something that was a first for me. He just wanted Rick and me to know that he and his dad were putting their cows in the back pasture, meaning they’d be right next to our property, and – not that he anticipated any troubles – but if we should find some cows roaming in our driveway to please give him a call. Then he handed me his card with his number on it. I couldn’t help but chuckle. I could just picture calling my boss to say I was going to be late for work because there were cows blocking my car. “Good thing I’m vegetarian,” I almost said, but didn’t. But I’ll tell you, waking up to moo-ing is a heck of a lot nicer than waking to an alarm clock.

Standing among (amiable) ghosts

They were barely more than an arm’s-length away – a primitive desk, a simple chair and an old, low-to-the-ground metal bed frame. But they were the very furnishings that Henry David Thoreau had used during his time at Walden Pond, where he wrote some of the most memorable lines in American literature. I had been a major admirer when I studied him in college – writing down his instructive observations (“Beware of all enterprises that require new clothes,” comes to mind) in a special notebook and even christening my first car, a used Volkswagen Beetle with a peace sign I applied to the side, “Henry David Car.” And here I was, standing before the desk where those lines had likely been written, and the bed – brought with his other furnishings back to his family home after he left Walden Pond – where my hero had actually died. It was my first visit to the Concord Museum in Concord, Mass., but the first of what I’m sure will be many. For not only were Thoreau’s belongings on display, but, in the very next chamber stood Ralph Waldo Emerson’s furniture, arranged exactly as the pieces had stood in his study in the Emerson House across the street – including the desk where he wrote. It is a special place, this museum, with more than 35,000 objects spanning the history of historic Concord, from the time of the Native Americans to the present. Even a lantern, taken from the steeple of the building where Paul Revere began his famous ride, is there. Thoreau and Emerson were great friends in life, of course, and I couldn’t help but wonder what conversations might still go on between those two great men after the visitors leave and the lights in the Concord Museum go out every night. I wish I could be there to listen.