Me, age 33; Jim, age 31; Laura in stroller, age 2; my father in his early 60s; my mother taking the photo. Llyr, 10 probably romping near by — why she’s not in the picture
If 77’s a time to be in earnest, what is 78?
Today was my 78th birthday. I was born November 29, 1946, at around 10:30 at night. My mother had endured a long — many hour ordeal of — labor, and then a specialist was needed to use a forceps to pull me out. I was apparently not eager to come into the world. I found myself remembering on this Thanksgiving Day, my mother smiling radiantly at me as I opened our apartment door to the hall, our apartment building complex not far from where Dyckman Street crossed Upper Broadway, on an early afternoon on Thanksgiving Day 1980. My mother didn’t smile very much, much less radiantly (nor at me) but she and my father had bought and brought over a turkey, and various vegetables, fresh bread, pies to make dinner for the four adults (my parents, Jim, I, 2 year old Laura), and our 10 year old dog, Llyr, a female pace the male name. Jim and I were very poor that year, we got money back through the income tax sysytem since we had a child under 10. Not much, and you couldn’t have any assets (we didn’t).
We must’ve walked in nearby Inwood Park afterwards — and took the above photo
Today a card from my aunt, aged 90, Barbara, who took me age 3 (she was then 16) to see mother’s mother and they were reconciled sort of (my mother, Jewish, eloped with my father, born a Catholic, by then socialist, atheist). Pat[ricia], my cousin, 2 months younger than me, we’ve known one anotther since infants and while lives went very differently at times, some strikingly alike patterns, phoned to say “happy birthday!” Talked for 40 minutes. Laura (now 46) came over at 1:30 a talkative whirlwind of energy and rapid activity: she was here to help resolve issues & problems I had (such as send application forms for Metro Access through Kaiser website), and she did. But I was exhausted when 2-3 hours later she left. She’ll be back tomorrow to do more. Like drive me with old laptop to Apple store to have it fixed so I can use it again, now in the enclosed porch where kittens like to stay mornings (as room filled with sunlight as the sun comes up), to listen to books read aloud or watch movies on its internal CD and DVD player. Thao had sent an electronic card, very pretty, then phoned at 5, face-time with her boy, William, aged 2, for a half hour. She & Jeff go to Hong Kong to see grandmother, just 100. Martin wrote a note.
A new man has joined my “team,” handyman and son, they put up 4 grab bars on the walls, one in the shower, 2 bathroom towel racks, an indoor child-pet gate to keep kittens out of my study, yet they see me and I see them. Alas they can, just, squeeze through the bars, but I put them out again, and they understand they are not to come in. They are too wild, and chew wires, soon would overturn computer stuff …. I don’t want them upset not seeing me for hours (Fiona wet the bed and one of her toys!). They are not satisfied, want to feel they can come over anytime & cuddle and play. But I feel they’ll adjust, in the meantime room so much better circulation of air. I’m glad they pull me out of this study, and I listen to classical music as I read in a very comfortable chair, one of four we bought or the living room.
Fiona suddenly much longer, with large beautiful brindled charcoal striped tail — 12 weeks
ferocious, very determined to do what she wants, also very playful, at the same time, nervous, meaning easily upset — don’t be fooled by her air of contemplative harmless calm, chair and tail somewhat obscures her longer body
Elinor, bigger all around, stronger now, can leap securely, hold on — 12 weeks
with more strength now braver, quietly affectionate, now eating more, calmer, cautious rather than wary (as was Ian), will heed once she understands, licks Fiona very industriously as Fiina puts limp paws around her — she’son my home-made recumbent stationary bike, beneath pillow is a “floor desk-cycle, from an angle which dwarfs her, shorter tail: blackish greys, brindled
As with people where babies and children, adolescents too, are psychologically different from adults, kittens are psychologically different from adult cats. I wake to find them sleeping near me; then they wait while I write to my good friend, Rory who lives in Ireland my usual morning letter (on my ipad) in response to his (see below), and the sun came up, we get out of bed. I walk to the kitchen, they followe or wald ahead and I can see ware hungry. Fiona aggressive and if I put 2 bowls out she goes between hers and Ellie’s; Ellie-cat or Elinor waits until Fiona’s done. Periods of intense rough interactive play all day on and off or sleepng together or separately.
One substack newsletter I get asked how do I greet the morning; author’s expectations for an upbeat self-push acount … Well, said I, the very early hours — newly refreshed mind — are precious. and I regret to say I frequently waste them. Before the pandemic and after my husband died, I really did read good or hard books first thing, or one bringing me comfort and strength. Specific authors I recall from that time: Julian Barnes’ Levels of Life, Claire Tomlin’s autobiography, Claire Harman’s biographies of women writers. But then we were all “shut away” and I couldn’t resist looking at my email or FB page, now it’s my ipad and its news journal apps. (To me the phone is the worst form of communication, immediate [email not], yet not accountable [in person is.]
Now for several years I write back to an Irishman my age who writes me everyday; we met on a listserve; I’ve met him once f-to-f 2 years ago for 2 hours, will probably never again. He writes his in the morning Irish time, me upon getting up East East Coast time. He also lives alone, is a reader of books not too dissimular from my kinds of choices. I have had other correspondents like this going on for years (usually women friends), but had to wait to get out of bed because my husband there sleeping. Sometimes favorite blogs or newsletters. Worse, on-going horrific genocide I cannot shut out (though I’ve stopped blogging about it and mostly transmit from DemocracyNow), stay away from lying, sadistic vindictive Trump. I have the strength to ignore bills until later.
This morning, no Rory, it was Winifred Holtby’s book on Virginia Woolf, Judith Wright’s beautiful pro-environmental journals from Australia (decades before Rachel Carson’s Silent Spring), her poetry. Yes I crave congenial company so read internet friends’ letters first or next, if any sent. Sometimes I’ve been writing something the night before, and if it’s reachable by ipad, I get down spontaneous thoughts towards blogs, lecture notes, papers, whatever.
It’s the equivalent of getting up in the dawn and going out for a walk. I used to like to see people’s faces then in the park (I lived in NYC most of my life, so central or riverside park), as yet relatively free of tension, not yet being ground away at. I’d walk my dog. Nothing like this in suburbs unless you get into your car and drive to a park or lake and then the driving destroys it
I’ll backtrack for more perspective: since my Jim died, and for a long time afterward and during the pandemic I’d wake at 4 am. So since I tend to stay in bed until the sky is light, that would give me 3 uninterrupted hours to do this restorative congenial reading — or reading I’ve got to get done to teach or write a review or or posting or blog that has accurate useful content. Then I don’t get to walk in the morning. This summer so hot and the air quality so often bad, I would force myself out of bed and dressed by 7 am, shoes on, keys, cell phone (I promised my daughter I would not go out w/o a cell phone so if I fall or anything bad, I can reach someone) so as to walk 25 or so minutes, without having to endure the hot sun or bad air. Anyway here in suburbs I hardly meet anyone in early morning; they are all jumping in their cars or catching a bus/train, or working remotely. And there I am reading the ipad app news DC weather gang (accurate, witty).
This morning though, after Judith Wright’s essays & poetry, I read (started 4:00 am) a witty (catty) entertaining novel by Vera Brittain, The Dark Tide (years leading away from, WW1, then up to WW2), comparable to Dorothy Sayers’Gaudy Night,
Flood Year
Walking up the driftwood beach at day’s end
I saw it, thrust up out of a hillock of sand —
a pale bleached clench of fingers dried by wind —
the dead child’s handAnd they are mourning there still, though I forget
the year of flood, the scoured ruined land,
th herds gone down the current, the floods drowned,
and the child never found.When I was there the thick curling waters
had gine back to the river, the farms were almost drained
Bansihed, half-dead cattle searched the dunes; it rained;
river and sea met with a wild sound.Oh with a wild sound, water flung into the air
where sea met river, all the country round
no heart was quiet. I walked on the driftwood sand
and saw the pale crab crouched, and came to a stand.
thinking. A child’s hand. The child’s hand.
Later night-time routine: I blog, watch wonderfully acted written serial adaptations of 19th century masterpieces. This is my third time through. Meanwhile I was skim-reading the text, and every other week listening to an informative, intelligently insightful lecture from a professor (perhaps from Georgetown) in Russian). It’s been the kind of experience which helps me know my life is worth living, and take courage to hope that it will not be destroyed by this Trump catastrophe he’s planning for the US & no one who could is even trying to stop.
I wish I could just repeat this serial but I know I should go on include other books, films. So now reading Thackeray’s Henry Esmond, for first time intently, and at night will gradually move through 1987 and 2012 Vanity Fairs; –many many episodes! Shan’t run out too soon.
Tonorrow at 5am I must be at this computer, dressed, ready to join in 2 3 hour session course called Women’s art, women’s work (1500-2000) from OLLI at York. Fiona Fitzgerald. Last week: Wonderful session, she covered a lot while staying close to specifics of a few epitomizing picture, very much worth it. Made my week, never mind my day. Catherine McCormack: Women in the Picture. What culture does to female bodies. This is angle from which we are close reading the paintings she shows us. She defines art (painted pictures) a document through which you look at reality.
We were asked to name 5 women painters we could think of: I came up with Angelica Kauffman, Mary Delaney, Elisabeth LeVigee-Brun, Mary Beale — long 18th century. And Posy Simmons!– she illustrated Carol Ann Duffy’s Mrs Scrooge.
Question: since there were women painters, why do they not appear as painters? those who do break through, why is this? We read the classic Linda Nochli
Mary Delaney, why is she remembered? she did images women were allowed to do, other women admired — botany learning, flowers, gardening; she became a companion to rich Duchess of Portland, patronesses so could obtain for friends places, e,g,. Fanny Burney, Queen Charlotte. No children, marital history one of the kind of misery then and now acceptable to talk about; status position, young twenties, married to kind, good, intelligent man, Patrick Delany, part of Swift’s circle in Ireland
Especially good talk analyzing Mary Osborne’s strikingly memorable Nameless & Friendless, a remembered 19th century one — I attached an image — puts me in mind of Tenant of Wildfell Hall by Anne Bronte — Helen Graham with son presenting herself as respectable widow, making money by making selling paintings. Context also the difficulties having a career, profession for a woman. Osborne friends with Barbara Bodichon and painted her.
Nameless & Friendless
by Mary Elizabeth Osborne
******************
As to my partial recovery since my stroke, especially my troubles walking and lack of progress in mobility, I’ve finally decided I am indeed shorter on my right side; or my right shoulder slopes down. Summer I assumed so many of my tops or dress shoulders were just falling off my shoulder because I’m thin or they were not evenly made. Now wearing fall things which should not slip off and they all do. The accident in my right knee long ago (35 years) smashed my femur into my thigh bone, and the PT people tell me it’s weak, not healed well, “don’t keep going when pain comes” – which it does (on the bike for example, doing PT). An operation they said then would have caused hemorrhage and I was to wait until I get arthritis. So now I’ve deteriorating disks on my right side too – no arthritis. I’m probably walking badly. I overdid exercise (listening to PT people) on my right upper arm last March, and it remains badly sore aching until this day..
The left is the side that was paralyzed for a few days and still is not wholly attached to my brain (especially fingers of left hand when typing). Whence after 20 minutes walk, my hip hurts, I feel so strained. But good as walk, and stationary bike riding is for me, I must not risk falling. Stories of people injuring their bones seriously, leading eventually to death. That’s what eto my mother. Be content with Zooms, which I do love as structured with a moderator controlling.
I really am like a character in a 19th century English novel, A cross between Elinor Dashwood (I ish) Jenny Wren and Miss Haversham? Or Maggie Smith character, Judith Hearne.
Margarita Kukhtina, retitled Imagining Me as young girl in training for old age with ClaryCat by my side
Ellen at 78