Well-Nourished: Another Lament on Aging

The year is 2012. I can remember when, in my 20’s, I used a calculator to figure how old I would be when the millennium ended and a new one began. The answer: 46. Both the new millennium and that age bracket seemed like science fiction to me then. Now I view them with nostalgia.

I have done all right at aging. My hair remains healthy—so healthy I need to have it thinned every six months—and has only just begun to grey. Through flurries of exercise (walking, yoga, and swimming, if I’m really serious), I’ve maintained what my primary physician deems a healthy body weight, though I’d like to be 15-20 pounds lighter. On behalf of honesty, I admit I took a peek at what another doctor, an orthopedic specialist treating a blown-out shoulder, wrote about me in his file: “Patient is a well-nourished, white female…” This read like a euphemistic personals ad, and tainted my attitude toward the otherwise gifted physician who cured the shoulder without surgery. I treat my healed shoulder with deference because I don’t want to go to his office anytime soon and revisit that file.

I’m vain, I can’t help it, and vanity keeps me from aging gracefully. As a young writer, I took an extension course from an LA Times journalist who, I thought, would teach the craft of human interest stories, but who rather used the class as a venue to perform, with guitar, her “Songs of Age and Rage.” Imagine the Lili Taylor of Say Anything only in her late 60’s, hair chopped off in a strangely-cowlicked pixie, shouting tuneless vitriol at age instead of her ex-boyfriend Joe. I thought the Times writer needed to get over herself. The presumption I’d care about her woes over the wreckage of time rankled me, and I quit the weekend seminar at lunch on Saturday without asking for my money back.

I invoke her memory whenever I look at my hands and see liver spots too numerous to bother counting, and when I’m soaping up in the shower and my hand passes over a raised, rough patch of skin the dermatologist calls a “barnacle.” Barnacle? What am I, an atoll? A humpback whale? I ask the doc to remove said barnacles, and he replies, “Why? They just come back again.” I hear furious guitar strumming when I ready myself for work and see jowls as I apply makeup, and am forced to gingerly zip my pants because of the dreaded belly fat. How did this happen to me? I never had a perfect body even at its optimal weight, but always a flat stomach. I’ve even given up a decades-long addiction to diet soda yet still sport my own personal adipose pouch, navel included, no extra charge.

I know I am supposed to love my aging body, that each wrinkle and scar and bulge and imperfection signifies a life fully lived. I know women of a certain, um, level of experience should be above taking inventory of superficial human flaws, their own and those belonging to others. I know these wise and worldly things, but vanity prevents me from accepting them.

And every time I think of that old raging broad with the bad haircut, I get my money’s worth of empathy.

Oh, Rocky

Jekyll Island is part small town and part wildlife reserve.  People here know each other, if not by name than at least by sight.  Even visitors to this Georgia State Park seem more familiar than not.  Here the deer and raccoon are so accustomed to sharing their island, they stroll through yards and flower beds unperturbed.  Alligators bask on the golf courses.  The most skittish creatures are likely the feral cats, which are fed and tended to by the locals.

Of course there are exceptions.

When I ask the waitress at the Sand Bar about her holidays, she says they were good.  "I had raccoon for the first time," she adds.

"Raccoon?"

"My friend made it."  She pauses with her tray on her hip and nods.  "It wasn't bad, but I couldn't get past the fact it was raccoon."

"Raccoon?"

"She boils it first and then bakes it in a sauce."

"Like spaghetti sauce?"

"Brown sauce.  It was real tender, but I kept thinking of furry animals and couldn't eat more than a bite."  She moves away to retrieve our order from the kitchen.

Around the Block in Dublin!

Come join us March 25-31, 2012 

for a whirlwind of writing, touring, and sociability

 in Ireland's vibrant historic and literary capital!

We will stay in the heart of Dublin at The Charles Stewart Guesthouse on Parnell Square.  Named for Patriot Charles Stewart Parnell, this Georgian house was the birthplace of the poet Oliver St.John Gogarty, pal of James Joyce.

The Garden of Remembrance  is across the street.

The Dublin Writers Museum is around the Square.

Our Summer Writing Classes

Lake Chautauqua from the porch of Hotel Lenhart

Here in Richmond, VA, the temperature hit 90 today, and the air is filled with the scent of honeysuckle. It's been a lovely May, a great pre-cursor to Summer.

Once again, Liz, Tracy, and I will return to Chautauqua County in July for a week of writing workshops. Although every Around the Block Writing Workshop is an adventure for us, this year we are adding more new elements. This year our classes will meet July 18 - 22 in the historic Hotel Lenhart Dining Room at Bemus Point, New York.

It does take some coordination to pull our classes together from our three different parts of the country, but we're happy with our results! Here they are:

Monday, July 18 -- Out of the Nest: The Free Fall of Writing by Tracy
Many of us like to feel we are in control, but good writing requires that we let go and allow the words to take control of us, especially in the drafting stages. In this class, we will revel in the joy of stepping out of inspiration’s way.

Tuesday, July 19 -- So To Speak: From the Poet’s Toy Box by Liz
Whether crafting a poem, writing a prose vignette or describing a fictional character or place—even when we’re just excitedly relating a story to a friend—we all use figurative language to enliven our narrative voice. Come play with various toys usually stowed in the poet’s toy box—a few figures of speech and devices to amplify sound and rhythm—and see how these can be used to enhance your poems, proems or poetic prose pieces.

Wednesday, July 20 -- Hero Worship by Sara
Whether writing memoirs or creating sympathetic characters, we sometimes depict humans as being a little too good to be true. Today’s class will study real life “heroes” to guide us in writing about people who are both flawed and likeable.

Thursday, July 21 -- Wooing the Muse, Part One
Our tempting menu for this class of tricks to inspire ideas good enough to write: “Literary Mad Libs,” “Food, Glorious Food,” and “Monologue: When One Voice Is Better than Two.”

Friday, July 22 -- Wooing the Muse, Part Two
Another day, a brand new menu of idea inspiration: “Putting Gossip To Good Use,” “What’s the Attraction?” and “Recipe for Baking a Poem.” Get ‘em while they’re hot!

Once again we look forward to seeing our writing friends and to meeting new writers. We anticipate our time together and our time with friends in the Creative Energy Workshops at Morning Glory Inn in Bemus Point. (Email us at info@writearoundtheblock.org for details.)

In short, we look forward to Summer, and wish the same for you.

Up Next

Come Join Us July 18-22!



Around the Block returns to Chautauqua County for a week of writing workshops in the lovely Hotel Lenhart at Bemus Point, New York. We will meet every afternoon from 1 to 3 p.m. for sessions in poetry, memoir, and fiction. ($25/day or $110/five-day week.)

Details on specific classes and activities to be announced soon.

Day 6: Andy Sachar on The Arts/ Jamaica

The view from Calabash House looking toward the road by Sherwood Brown











Art generally pops into being on its own in Treasure Beach. Flowering trees are currently showing red, orange, blue, white, yellow and pink. The sea is all turquoise blues and beach glass greens. And so on.

The women's cooperative down the road and off to the right sells carvings, clothing and other crafts from local artists, and hosts art classes for the community. Over by the market, a pair of teenage drummers perform an incredible duet, all smiles and pride. Calabash House itself is awash with its mosaics and paintings.

And then there's Sherwood Brown. While the rest of us are up on the veranda writing and laughing and making sounds of awe in class, Sherwood grabs his hat, walks outside with his paint brushes, paper, and the big enamel pan he uses as a water color palette, and comes back every day with a painting.


The view from the hammocks at Calabash House by Sherwood Brown


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Day 5: Kathleen Worrell's Ode to Calabash Dining

What about the food? Has anyone talked about the food? That stunning bouquet of colors that Suzett arranges on our breakfast table: purple of star apples, pale pineapple, rose colored watermelon, the coral and orange of papaya and mango, creamy bananas. The richness of ackee scrambled with onions and peppers (ackee is a Jamaican fruit that is a buttery yellow with a large purple-black seed when opened. And you never eat it when unopened, or it will be your last meal). There is the exotic design of dinner: white meaty king fish with rice cooked in coconut milk and thyme, glistening jerked pork and rice and beans, peppery beef that falls apart on the tongue, the local green, callaloo, luscious salads of crisp green lettuce and rosy beetroot. And we still have two more days to go.