my 70th.
I follow the news and have been wondering if I can help the state of the world, but this summer is my 70th, and it has been much easier to cook and take care of my garden. For the past three months, it has been at my house in the mountains in upstate New York. The air has been cool and the light very beautiful. The problems of climate change, war, and poverty have been shielded from me by the lawn, the hedge, flowering shrubs, and views of the mountain.
I cannot reform the Democratic Party or stop the Republicans,
nor can I keep right wing parties from taking power in Europe, but I have found
a good housekeeper, had some rooms painted, and ordered fabric and new
slipcovers. I have invited friends and
cousins, cooked, cleaned up, listened and talked. It is interesting to speculate about those in
power. Might we be better-off if they spent
some time with their friends and in their gardens?
People are endlessly interesting. I love their thinking, their histories and
concerns; the best way to talk, to hear them, is over a drink or a meal. When I was younger, this was often in
restaurants. But over the years I bought
and renovated an apartment and a house. Now,
I am happier in my own places, with a kitchen and guests.
Food is important, and so is flavor; simpler food satisfies me the most. I’ve learned a bit from better cooks, and I have started baking their easy desserts. Yesterday afternoon it was brownies. I was surprised how much sugar was in them, since most desserts are too sweet; now I’m guessing that there is even more sugar in those I buy. Wine is more complicated, and I don’t need to master it, but I read, ask around a bit and stock a few cases in a stone basement. Some of it has aged beautifully; at other times it wasn’t worth keeping, or I waited too long. Presentation and context matter, so I pay attention to how a table is set; we start with a drink outside, or in a comfortable room in winter with a fire.
This weekend a friend and her daughter shopped and cooked—a
gift. They made dinner for twelve on
Saturday and brunch for eighteen on Sunday, the largest of several weekend
gatherings for my 70th. It
had been a long time since I last had a party or a large dinner. I don’t have a large table, except in the
kitchen where my friends were cooking, so we sat at smaller tables in the
dining room, the living room and the library.
There were plenty of white dishes and glasses, and Danish
stemware that was my parents’. I brought
my silverware from New York and asked my sister to look through our parents’
things for table cloths. She chose three;
one she bought in China decades ago.
Everything was set for a personal gathering. It was a lot of work, but this dinner was for people
whom I know well and love: the friends
who cooked, my sister and her husband, my oldest friend whom I met in India in
1964, his wife, my beloved ex (since 1992) and his husband, a very good friend from San Francisco who is
frequently in New York, and great friends from my building who also live
upstate.
At the end of the dinner, I spoke about each of them. It’s something I also did on my 50th when my parents were here. I had decided against it but changed my mind; in friendship I have been unusually fortunate. I’m not sure that I have given enough, to them or to society, but that thought is for another essay.
Aging
At 70 years, I swim, stretch and exercise regularly, but deterioration is inevitable. This year has been a first for extensive repairs, addressing each intervention as I move around. This month it is my eyes—cataract removal and new lenses at a clinic in Astoria, Queens. In March I had prostate surgery at a clinic in Paris. In the spring, it was new hearing aids in Vienna. Yesterday, the cardiologist wrote that my blood sugar and bad cholesterol are a little high. It is endless, but I am lucky to have access to the technology and the care.
I am hoping that the repairs, simpler eating and some additional weight loss will stabilize things for a while. Their purpose is to be here, to delay death, which no longer seems so far away– to continue to do and see new things in physical comfort. But to what purpose? What do I want in my remaining life?
Home
Home has always been critical for me. But where home will be is less clear. I want to continue living in the city, and in the cooler mountains during the summer, but Manhattan is expensive and upstate New York distant from friends and difficult without driving.
I’m retired, in Europe now much of the year, and losing my
sense of place. Both my New York apartment
and my house are exactly as I wanted them, thanks to the talent and labor of my
ex. They are deep in my experience, like
old friends and lovers, and I am loathe to separate from them, but will they
correspond to my means and to my life?
Is it because I am single?
If I had someone to move with, would it matter? Might my sense of home be bound to another
person rather than to place? As it is, these places are repositories of my
memory and context for my personality.
They seem irreplaceable. But I sense that, eventually, decisions will have to
be made.
In my imagination, there is a large studio apartment in a small city or town, with large rooms and French doors overlooking a plaza. It is furnished with a large table, two upholstered chairs, a day bed, or perhaps a double. Here I read and write, stay in touch, and cook for myself and others. I have a lot of time alone, but I accept the loneliness. It is the life I have chosen. I am in touch with everyone; there is a cheap hotel nearby for guests, and somewhere in the background there may be intimacy. I am a foreigner; I may not speak the language, but from it, I can travel and see clearly. Perhaps it is in Italy, or in Spain, not countries where I have friends or strong interests, but for some reason I am happy, happy enough to have let go of some or all of what I have. Is this vision concrete? I am not sure, but I write it out to test how it feels.
New interests
Retired, I am trying new things, some of them productive,
some just flailing. I went to Vienna last year with great enthusiasm,
a new citizen of the country where my mother was born, an opportunity to pursue
other interests.
But no one really needs anything from me anymore; I no longer have a job or specific
responsibilities, so what I am I there, or here, to do? My
interests have shifted. I want to see different worlds and describe
what I see. Vienna’s scale, its pace, its cafés, even
sometimes its faces, are familiar, a place I’d like to further understand. Yet is quite clearly foreign.
It is time to get back to the books in my library and on my
phone, to allow them to lead me forward, so that I can plan my visits, my
interests and my writing.
Summer has ended, although mine is not over yet. There is still time to prepare for Vienna and my return in the fall.
Summer 2023
my 70th.
I follow the news and have been wondering if I can help the state of the world, but this summer is my 70th, and it has been much easier to cook and take care of my garden. For the past three months, it has been at my house in the mountains in upstate New York. The air has been cool and the light very beautiful. The problems of climate change, war, and poverty have been shielded from me by the lawn, the hedge, flowering shrubs, and views of the mountain.
I cannot reform the Democratic Party or stop the Republicans, nor can I keep right wing parties from taking power in Europe, but I have found a good housekeeper, had some rooms painted, and ordered fabric and new slipcovers. I have invited friends and cousins, cooked, cleaned up, listened and talked. It is interesting to speculate about those in power. Might we be better-off if they spent some time with their friends and in their gardens?
People are endlessly interesting. I love their thinking, their histories and concerns; the best way to talk, to hear them, is over a drink or a meal. When I was younger, this was often in restaurants. But over the years I bought and renovated an apartment and a house. Now, I am happier in my own places, with a kitchen and guests.
Food is important, and so is flavor; simpler food satisfies me the most. I’ve learned a bit from better cooks, and I have started baking their easy desserts. Yesterday afternoon it was brownies. I was surprised how much sugar was in them, since most desserts are too sweet; now I’m guessing that there is even more sugar in those I buy. Wine is more complicated, and I don’t need to master it, but I read, ask around a bit and stock a few cases in a stone basement. Some of it has aged beautifully; at other times it wasn’t worth keeping, or I waited too long. Presentation and context matter, so I pay attention to how a table is set; we start with a drink outside, or in a comfortable room in winter with a fire.
This weekend a friend and her daughter shopped and cooked—a gift. They made dinner for twelve on Saturday and brunch for eighteen on Sunday, the largest of several weekend gatherings for my 70th. It had been a long time since I last had a party or a large dinner. I don’t have a large table, except in the kitchen where my friends were cooking, so we sat at smaller tables in the dining room, the living room and the library.
There were plenty of white dishes and glasses, and Danish stemware that was my parents’. I brought my silverware from New York and asked my sister to look through our parents’ things for table cloths. She chose three; one she bought in China decades ago.
Everything was set for a personal gathering. It was a lot of work, but this dinner was for people whom I know well and love: the friends who cooked, my sister and her husband, my oldest friend whom I met in India in 1964, his wife, my beloved ex (since 1992) and his husband, a very good friend from San Francisco who is frequently in New York, and great friends from my building who also live upstate.
At the end of the dinner, I spoke about each of them. It’s something I also did on my 50th when my parents were here. I had decided against it but changed my mind; in friendship I have been unusually fortunate. I’m not sure that I have given enough, to them or to society, but that thought is for another essay.
Aging
At 70 years, I swim, stretch and exercise regularly, but deterioration is inevitable. This year has been a first for extensive repairs, addressing each intervention as I move around. This month it is my eyes—cataract removal and new lenses at a clinic in Astoria, Queens. In March I had prostate surgery at a clinic in Paris. In the spring, it was new hearing aids in Vienna. Yesterday, the cardiologist wrote that my blood sugar and bad cholesterol are a little high. It is endless, but I am lucky to have access to the technology and the care.
I am hoping that the repairs, simpler eating and some additional weight loss will stabilize things for a while. Their purpose is to be here, to delay death, which no longer seems so far away– to continue to do and see new things in physical comfort. But to what purpose? What do I want in my remaining life?
Home
Home has always been critical for me. But where home will be is less clear. I want to continue living in the city, and in the cooler mountains during the summer, but Manhattan is expensive and upstate New York distant from friends and difficult without driving.
I’m retired, in Europe now much of the year, and losing my sense of place. Both my New York apartment and my house are exactly as I wanted them, thanks to the talent and labor of my ex. They are deep in my experience, like old friends and lovers, and I am loathe to separate from them, but will they correspond to my means and to my life?
Is it because I am single? If I had someone to move with, would it matter? Might my sense of home be bound to another person rather than to place? As it is, these places are repositories of my memory and context for my personality. They seem irreplaceable. But I sense that, eventually, decisions will have to be made.
In my imagination, there is a large studio apartment in a small city or town, with large rooms and French doors overlooking a plaza. It is furnished with a large table, two upholstered chairs, a day bed, or perhaps a double. Here I read and write, stay in touch, and cook for myself and others. I have a lot of time alone, but I accept the loneliness. It is the life I have chosen. I am in touch with everyone; there is a cheap hotel nearby for guests, and somewhere in the background there may be intimacy. I am a foreigner; I may not speak the language, but from it, I can travel and see clearly. Perhaps it is in Italy, or in Spain, not countries where I have friends or strong interests, but for some reason I am happy, happy enough to have let go of some or all of what I have. Is this vision concrete? I am not sure, but I write it out to test how it feels.
New interests
Retired, I am trying new things, some of them productive, some just flailing. I went to Vienna last year with great enthusiasm, a new citizen of the country where my mother was born, an opportunity to pursue other interests.
But no one really needs anything from me anymore; I no longer have a job or specific responsibilities, so what I am I there, or here, to do? My interests have shifted. I want to see different worlds and describe what I see. Vienna’s scale, its pace, its cafés, even sometimes its faces, are familiar, a place I’d like to further understand. Yet is quite clearly foreign.
It is time to get back to the books in my library and on my phone, to allow them to lead me forward, so that I can plan my visits, my interests and my writing.
Summer has ended, although mine is not over yet. There is still time to prepare for Vienna and my return in the fall.