Old Wives Tales: Living Our Lives - Becoming Ourselves Twenty-Five Women's Stories

By Peg Elliott Mayo

Welcome to a gathering of extraordinary old women. Let me be clear, to us old isn't a dirty word. Old is ripe, self-aware, experienced and accomplished.
The youngest you'll meet here is sixty-seven years and the eldest is thirty years her senior. If you saw any of us in the market, you'd probably offer to help with bags, adapt to a slower pace and open the car door. You might even admonish, "Be careful," as if the evidence before you didn't suggest a responsible driver for longer than you've lived. Sure, some oldsters shouldn't drive, same as some forty-year olds. We know our limits in many dimensions by having tested, learned and applied.
The sense of Self cannot be manufactured. Dignity is as natural as breath and not to be confused with anything hoity-toity. Perspective comes from having a view of the terrain.
Twenty-five of us share our attitudes toward everything from vicissitudes to pleasure, youth, maturity, spirituality, relationships, challenges and, sometimes, unwarranted exuberance. For the fortunate, with sufficient means, health, relationships and insight, age is fulfilling. Those less fortunate must inspire our compassionate respect and help with their troubles.
My choices, writing and editing shaped the loaf. I have chosen to classify Old Wives as a work of fiction based strongly on the factual material thirty women (and couple of men) have provided.
This is not just my book: it is our book. Thank you (choose as many that apply) ladies, mothers, daughters, wives, lovers, leaders, creators, mischief-makers, religious, rebels, lesbians, chairpersons, followers, husbands and partners. Select as many adjectives as suits your need for definition. We are as multifaceted as the finest diamonds. To see who we were, examine the cover.
Had I been born two hundred years ago, I would have been an Irish shenache. A storyteller. The sighs, laughs, groans of the neighbors gathered on a chilly night would have nourished us all and made me useful in old age to family and neighbors.
Here are the Old Wives, and a couple of good men, who have trusted their life learning to your reading.
May ye be in h'aven before the divil knows yer dead!
Peg Elliott Mayo

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peg Elliott Mayo
• Release date: May 28, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301992706

Peg Elliott Mayo

Born March 31st,1929, Easter Sunday on the cusp of April Fools Day in the year the stock market died. So much for karma! Don, is the tall Shy Guy, spouse, creative force & phenomenal companion. Three living middle-aged offspring who are neither children nor “mine,” KT, Stan and Peter. When your “baby” is eligible for AARP you search for new descriptors. Three outstanding grand “children.” Jane and Anna Rose, college students, and Aaron a graphic designer, metal artist, gardener, creative force, all around good sport and friend. Home is a modest place on the banks of Coast Range Oregon river, 28 miles from “town.” I’m part of a mixed neo/retro hippie, artistic & staggeringly diverse forest community. Identity at various times: daughter, wife, widow, mother, grieving parent, Aries, failed factory worker, potter, basket maker, sewin’ fool, adequate organically-committed cook/food preserver, clinical social worker specializing in PTSD, loss, relationships & creative expression, hospice volunteer, tree hugging ecoappreciator, party girl, recluse, foolish risktaker, writer, computer graphics-photography neophyte, established writer & storyteller.

Book preview

OLD WIVES TALES

LIVING OUR LIVES — BECOMING OURSELVES

Twenty-Five Women's Life Stories

Peg Elliott Mayo

Copyright

©2013

Smashwords Edition

RiverVoices Press

20971 Logsden Rd.

Blodgett, OR 97326-9341

[e-mail]

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Forward

Introduction

Chapter 1 Melody

Chapter 2 Alice

Chapter 3 Thelma

Chapter 4 Helene

Chapter 5 Deirdre

Chapter 6 Lolo

Chapter 7 Betsy

Chapter 8 Noreen

Chapter 9 Ella

Chapter 10 Bridget

Chapter 11 Patricia

Chapter 12 Sydney

Chapter 13 Abigail

Chapter 14 Alexis

Chapter 15 Grace

Chapter 16 Catherine

Chapter 17 Opel

Chapter 18 LaBette

Chapter 19 Amy

Chapter 20 Phyllis

Chapter 21 Karen

Chapter 22 Fiona

Chapter 23 Maxine

Chapter 24 Hope

Chapter 25 Eve

Author

Appendix

FORWARD

Welcome to a gathering of extraordinary old women. Let me be clear, to us old isn't a dirty word. Old is ripe, self-aware, experienced and accomplished.

The youngest you'll meet here is sixty-seven years and the eldest is thirty years her senior. If you saw any of us in the market, you'd probably offer to help with bags, adapt to a slower pace and open the car door. You might even admonish, Be careful, as if the evidence before you didn't suggest a responsible driver for longer than you've lived. Sure, some oldsters shouldn't drive, same as some forty-year olds. We know our limits in many dimensions by having tested, learned and applied.

The sense of Self cannot be manufactured. Dignity is as natural as breath and not to be confused with anything hoity-toity. Perspective comes from having a view of the terrain.

Generalizations lose the particular as proved by the individualistic respondents you'll meet in Old Wives Tales.

Twenty-five of us share our attitudes toward everything from vicissitudes to pleasure, youth, maturity, spirituality, relationships, challenges and, sometimes, unwarranted exuberance.

As the old curator of response to penetrating prompts (see Appendix), I find it exhilarating to be confirmed that the best is yet to come. For the fortunate, with sufficient means, health, relationships and insight, age is fulfilling. Those less fortunate must inspire our compassionate respect and help with their troubles.

The material in Old Wives Tales is composed of twenty-five profile chapters gathered from written and recorded prompts. To see who we were before our half-century birthdays, examine the cover.

I have created an interviewer, Maeve. She was chosen as a was I could participate as a member of the clan. As I write, in 2013, I am eighty-four. My body is in better shape than I deserve given my go-for-it temperament and I'm startled to find how good life in age can be. Really.

I've given serious attention to privacy. Names, locations and dates are manufactured. Content is truthful. Not every woman at ninety wants to explain her adolescent excursions to the great-grandkids.

Words quoted were actually spoken or written. No single chapter is just one woman. For those who want to be identified, I've left hints and teasers they can point to as their gift to us all. Contributors had a choice: be acknowledged in the Forward by name or not.

My choices, writing and editing shaped the loaf. I have chosen to classify Old Wives as a work of fiction based strongly on the factual material thirty women (and couple of men) have provided.

This is not just my book: it is our book. Thank you (choose as many that apply) ladies, mothers, daughters, wives, lovers, leaders, creators, mischief-makers, religious, rebels, lesbians, chairpersons, followers, husbands and partners. Select as many adjectives as suits your need for definition. We are as multifaceted as the finest diamonds. To see who we were, examine the cover.

I'll admit a hunger. Hearing from participants and readers is the nourishment that keeps me writing. Had I been born two hundred years ago, I would have been an Irish shenache. A storyteller. The sighs, laughs, groans of the neighbors gathered on a chilly night would have nourished us all and made me useful in old age to family and neighbors.

I hope for emails: [e-mail] describing readers' responses. How else am I to learn? Enough.

Here are the Old Wives, and a couple of good men, who have trusted their life learning to your reading. I'll pass along your com

May ye be in h'aven before the divil knows yer dead!

Peg Elliott Mayo

CO-AUTHORS

The women who contributed to Old Wives Tales are not named in the text. Indeed, I have gone to considerable slight-of-word to be sure privacy is protected. Each profile is taken from our pooled responses.

Those who have chosen to be known as major contributors are listed by-first-name alphabetically below. Some are more discreet, and I promised anonymity if they so chose.

Be Davison Herrera, Carol Adams, Elaine McFarlane, Ellen Hamill, Fran Oppenheimer, Jude Gladstone Cade, Loi Wilson, Mary Ellen Lind, Nan Tonkin, Nyla Newman, Pam Anderson and myself.

Other important contributors: Margaret O'Neill, Paula Horner, Nancy and Bruce Priddy, Gary Starr, Donna Eden and Jerry Campbell.

Thank you all, old sister and brother dears!

INTRODUCTION:

LIVING OUR LIVES: BECOMING OURSELVES

Maeve Murphy, Ph.D.

When the okay came from the Gerontology Dissertation Committee for my topic I was fundamentally different than today. Gathering the stories of twenty-five old women was more than instructive, it was life changing. This book is a spin-off from the dissertation. I am hopeful it will be of interest to non-academic readers.

I’m not the point of this writing, yet a judicious reader would probably want to know a few things about the writer’s method of gathering information, history, bias and purpose. When I got the committees’ go-ahead, I was twenty-eight- years old. Now, I am forty and employed as a Home Care Supervisor in Corn Valley. I joke I’ve never committed matrimony, but might if I had a good, no-strings offer.

I was drawn to gerontology for several reasons. First, job security. There will always be old people with needs. Second, I wanted all the lost sleep, discouragement and brain-labor of getting my Ph.D. to count for something beside my own comforts. Otherwise, I could have studied English Lit. or taken a Fine Arts path.

My parents are mismatched in a lot of ways. Mom is a good cook. Dad has little appetite. Mom says she always wanted to be a circus trapeze artiste. Dad is a Certified Public Accountant. No wonder I’m an only child.

Gramma Perkins was my best friend all through my growing up and is still my inspiration. She died at ninety-eight, when I was sixteen. Old Wives' Tales: Living Our Lives, Becoming Ourselves is energized by her memory. She knew how to comfort without pitying, which is a good thing.

Dad said if I wanted to go to college, he’d pay my tuition, but felt I should provide for all my other expenses. Then, he added, it was time for me to set up my own place, elsewhere. Mom said, Plan on Christmas as usual!

School took me longer than live-at-home students. I have worked at a lot of jobs. Waitress. Child care. Car washer. Clerk (very briefly) in Dad’s office. sales clerk, Aide for the Department Health’s Home Care Unit until I took my present position as Supervisor. Most of our clients are elders, living at home.

I was serious about college. It wasn’t easy and took longer than I wanted. I’ve been like the train in the children’s book, The Little Engine That Could. I kept saying, I think I can, I think I can, and I did.

Several women interviewed expressed unease with being seen as wise. Out of respect for those concerns, I adopted the title, though I do see them full of wisdom.

There is a polar difference between Gramma's old wise women’s adages and those widely dismissed as nonsense. The concept of wise women has been eloquently addressed by many authors and brilliantly by Jean Shinoda Bolan in Goddesses in Every Woman.

I believe the casual reader will benefit from understanding two basic psychological ideas. Archetypes and individuation are concepts of C.G. Jung, an early psychology theorist.

Individuation is the name given to the process of becoming uniquely one’s Self. Our tools are choice and chance. The first half of a typical lifespan is spent gathering sensations, ideas and experiences. The last years are spent integrating what was gathered to become one’s self and no other.

An archetype—much simplified—is a universally understood symbol or pattern of behavior. Archetypes are frequent in art, myth and storytelling across different cultures. Putting these concepts to the test refines life experiences into philosophies and patterns. My intention here is demonstrating the individuation of two dozen old women. A galaxy of multiple factors shape us from birth to death.

Profiles demonstrate how the women created their lives in familiar-yet-unique patterns of energy, accomplishment, insight and vision.

It has been an exciting and humbling experience being privy to intimate details of real lives. This book seeks to provide a broad perspective, without writ-in-stone assessments or biased assumptions.

The demographics are simple. Only women were interviewed. The eldest was ninety-seven, the youngest, sixty-seven. None are identified specifically, though some have permitted their names to be mentioned in Acknowledgements as contributors.

The material is written, blended and edited for the intelligent general reader.

The dissertation, on which this book is based, consisted of audio-taped, in-depth interviews with many old women as part of my Home Health Aide job. The women knew my purpose in recording our talks. They answered prompting questions.

My prompts. and comments are in this font, to clarify context.

Pseudonyms are used through out to increase the candor and comfort of the participants.

The Appendix provides the questionnaire used to elicit personal reactions.

Old Wives’ Tales: Living Our Lives - Becoming Ourselves is meant to confront a patronizing, wasteful supposition.

The following excerpt is from Wikipedia, the on-line encyclopedia.

An old wives' tale is a type of urban legend, similar to a proverb which is generally passed down . . . to a younger generation. Such tales usually consist of superstition, folklore or unverified claims with exaggerated and/or untrue details. Today, old wives' tales are still common among children in school playgrounds. Old wives' tales often concern pregnancy, puberty and nutrition.

In this context, the word wife means woman rather than married woman. This usage stems from Old English wif (woman) and is akin to the German weib, also meaning woman. The word is still used in Modern English in constructions such as midwife and fishwife.

Most old wives' tales are false and are used to discourage unwanted behavior…or for folk cures. ranging from a toothache to tedium.

The concept of old wives' tales is ancient. In the 1st century, the Apostle Paul wrote to his young protégé Timothy, But refuse profane and old wives' fables, and exorcise thyself [rather] unto godliness.

Old wives’ tales originate in the oral tradition of storytelling. They were generally propagated by illiterate women, telling stories to each other or to children. The stories did not attempt to moralize, but to teach lessons and make difficult concepts like death or coming of age easy for children to understand.

These tales were often collected by literate men, and turned into written works. Fairy tales by Basile, Perrault, and the Grimm Brothers have their roots in the oral tradition of women. These male writers took the stories with their plucky, clever heroines and heroes, and turned them into morality tales for children.

Examples of old wives' tales include:

Ice cream leads to nightmares.

Toes pointed up signify low blood sugar.

High heart rates lead to female fetuses.

If you step on a crack you'll break your

mother's back .

Step on a line and break your mother's spine.

Breaking a mirror will earn a person seven

years of bad luck.

Don't swallow gum or it will stay in your

stomach for seven years.

It's bad luck to open an umbrella indoors.

Don't make silly faces or your face will stay

that way forever.

Old Wives thesis is the Wikipedia-type definition is stale, antiquated and always was.

Granny spoke of important principles in unpretentious and memorable phrases. I’ve done my best to integrated these into my life philosophy.

To have good neighbors, be one.

Old age is a privilege few are given.

You’ll never get out of this world alive.

We are given family: friends are chosen.

Fulfillment has two parents: appreciation and

awareness.

The nearer the garden, the more wholesome the

food.

If you stop learning, you stop living, even if your

body keeps moving.

Time is a delicate, transitory miracle.

Make things.

Be thoughtful and invite imagination to the party.

Create. Share. Open the windows to fresh air.

Pretty is as pretty does.

Men are like street cars, there will always be

another along directly.

Granny wasn’t alone in the galaxy to wring wisdom from life’s challenges, defeats and triumphs. This will become apparent in the life-learning of the Old Wives. I thank them for what they have shared.

Chapter One

MELODY ANTONET ZAZU EASTER

Born: April 14, 1940

Backofbeyond, Australia

Age: 70

Interviewed Faculty Lounge

Mount Could Community College

Rocky Point, Oregon

I’m glad you made time for this interview. I wanted to include an actress the book I’m compiling. Have you had time to look over the list of topics to discuss?

Yes, I’m a pretty quick subject with a script. I must say you go right for the spareribs with your topics!

That’s a funny way to put it. I’d like to start with your name and birth date, all right?

Sure. I’m an actress. A comedian. Melody Antonet Zazu Easter is now my legal name. MAZE. Get it? My birth name is a secret between me, my relatives and my attorney.

Melody because I’m so unmusical I can only recognize one song, The Star Spangled Banner, and that’s because everyone stands up. ‘Antonet’ for that French queen who was the snobbiest person whoever lived.

When someone broke the news to her that people were revolting because they had no bread, she said they should eat angel food cake instead. Snobby and stupid. Which I’m not, so it’s a funny turnabout name.

Zazu for the buzz. Sounds perfect for an Aboriginal, someone from Backofbeyond.

Easter always comes in Aries’ time. So does April Fools Day. That’s actually the day I should have hatched. Which ties in with Easter eggs. Anyone can see that.

Astounding line of reasoning. Makes my head buzz.

Supposed to. To be a comedian and an actress means changing your whole outlook on what’s real and what’s made up. Like changing clothes. If I waxed my floor while wearing a perky apron over my silk dress and high heels, who would you think I was?

I have absolutely no idea.

Then you never watched Leave It To Beaver! Do you think a real woman would do that?

So far, I’ve told you what passes for truth twice. My birthday and that I’m an actress. Next?

How about running through the survey as factually as your nature allows?

You get it! Get me! I didn’t expect it. Sure.

My daddy was a dog trainer. For the really early movies when dogs did lots of rescues and amazing stuff. He took me to work with him a lot. I saw Joan Crawford eating a crab in the studio canteen. Not a live one. You’d be surprised how those big stars looked in strong light without make-up or special hair-dos. Plain as oatmeal.

Momma was a worrier. A professional. It worried her when things went right because she knew it wouldn’t last. Her list of things I must never do was longer than the Los Angeles phone book. She had a list for Dad, too.

Lay a list like that on an Aries and she is sent on a Mission of Defiance. She told me not to go out on the roof from my second-floor dormer window. It was really steep. So, I did. Fell off and not only got splinters from the shingles, but knocked the breath out of me so bad I passed out. She cried and said I was the biggest worry of her life and she wondered if she’d see me grown. That’s how it was.

Okay. Husbands and children. You didn’t ask about playmates. It would be entertaining. Maybe. Tom Carruthers was husband one. Shotgun wedding. Mother made the mistake of warning me about inappropriate behavior.

It took some research to find out what that meant. I did the field work on the beach one starry night when I was fifteen. That led to doing time in a home for unwed mothers.

The only real fight I ever saw my parents have was over the child. Mother was worried I’d keep the baby and Dad was afraid I wouldn’t. I felt like a deer on the tracks with trains coming from both ways.

Tom’s father and my father had a man-to-man. Which meant Tom and I got married. The baby was born July 14th. He had a bad heart—I’m not making this up—and he died. I named him Beaureguard, spelt like it sounds, not like the Frenchies do it. Tom and I cashed in our wedding vows and headed in separate directions.

After high school, in 1958, when I was eighteen, I joined Women Accepted for Volunteer Emergency Service. The WAVES. Part of the Navy. By 1960, I was a second-class petty officer at the Naval Hospital in San Diego. I was in charge of the surgery’s linens—sheets, pillowcases, towels, blankets, bedspreads washcloths—which sounds boring because it was.

My life changed when a USO troupe performed at the hospital. They recruited three of us WAVES to be part of the show. I even had a line that I remember to this day.

Sorry, Charlie, you missed the bus. It was like giving ice cream to someone dying of thirst in the desert. I gobbled it up. Showing off and getting applause! Unbelievable!

I didn’t reenlist, instead I went to Hollywood. Three things happened the first year. I got to be an extra-with-lines in Irma La Douce. I got married and had another spontaneous baby. Oh-Oh!

My husband, Chuck E. Cheese, was a hunk and I didn’t scare the horses. Mentally, we had less in common than fruitcake and gin.

Our post-nuptial conversations were body language between the sheets. I was knocked up within seventy-two hours. Just lucky, I guess.

We blamed each other, of course. I said he was a selfish flash-in-the-pan without the staying power of a butterfly. He somehow took offense and said I was an intolerable tease and a man does what a man has to do.

Then it happened again. Two days into the new year, 1963, I had a pretty baby girl with a bad heart. Sheila Marie lived two weeks. As soon as I could navigate, I had my tubes tied and divorced Chuck E. This is another instance of me telling you the facts.

I heard somewhere that when you take a clown’s mask off, you see a tragic face. All I knew was I wasn’t going to be that miserable again, ever. I do remember Beaureguard and Sheila Marie on their birthdays. Some things you don’t ever get over, even if you have a clown mask on.

Let’s take a break. I empathize with your losses. I’d like to walk around the block, look at flowers, then come back. Do you have the energy to join me?

Yes, I need to change gears. After all, if you fall in a ditch you either climb out or stay in a open grave. What do you think of all this?

I think you’ve found a way to cope. You’ve given laughs and amazement at your turn of phrase.

There’s something else. I can feel it, right?

I’m here to gather info for my book. I’m not trying to influence you or judge you. I do have a reaction. Who wouldn't? Do you want to hear it? I’m okay either way.

Lay it on me.

I believe you would heal up better if you talked to a counselor.

Oh, sure! A headshrinker. If my knob shrunk any more you could use it for a golf ball. If I don’t talk about Beaureguard or Sheila Marie I don’t have the nightmares.

Nightmares?

No! No! No, you don’t! Not now, not ever. I shouldn’t have brought it up.

I don’t think it would affect your clowning. You could still do workshops like the ones you’re teaching here at Mount Could.

You’ve got to get it! Most of the time, I’m as right as Richard Nixon.

If they’d lived, Beau would be fifty-five and Sheila Marie would be forty-six. I can’t bring them back to live their lives. I did what I did to save mine. There is all this chatter about a woman’s right to choose. Which I did. I do know no politician or so-called-religious busybodies, man or woman, has any business laying their trip on anyone who hasn’t invited them.

One thing for sure, it’s nobody’s business, but my own. Let’s go around the block and stop in at the Last Chance Co-Op for an ice cream bar. Then we can put finish your survey. Okay?

A lot of your survey questions are about influences at different times of life. I gave it some thought.

You’re going to think that deep down, I’m shallow, but I came up with a few that matter.

1. Other people’s reactions. Sometimes watching people is like looking in a fun-house mirror. Or it’s disbelief or a lifted lip. Clowns don’t talk. That’s saved me a lot of grief, because I haven’t got in many fist-fights as if I had talked. Not more than two a week.

2. Sensation. All the senses, including humor and bummed-out feelings. These are more than mere influences, they tell me I’m alive, strong as an ox and almost as smart. Appetite, pleasure, fear—the whole list includes teaching, preaching, nagging, partying and lusting. That’s Aries. Lots of sense, not much of it common.

3. I know, I know. Astrology is all superstitious rotgut. Except I am impulsive. I do like danger which is why I took up skateboarding. Not a lot of seventy-year-old women do that. I’m good too, but not ready for a skateboard park. It’s hard for me to learn from others’ experiences. I’m a show-off part of the time and a hermit the rest.

4. Curiosity. I want to know everything except arithmetic, Greek, the ambiance of Chinese latrines and politics.

5. Sharing. Peculiar how giving doesn’t take away from what I have, rather it makes me feel richer. Wherever I am, I always do a couple of acts for sick kids, because seeing them laugh feels so good to me. One thing about sharing is it has to be voluntary, from the heart. I know a couple of circus people who do it because they feel guilty. They should all over themselves. Bad pun, but the truth.

6. Impatience. Oh my gawd, yes! Let me count the ways—

7. Hope. The big one. Maybe a dozen times in my life I’ve been hopeless. There didn’t seem to be reason to get up in the morning.

Food was tasteless as straw. There was nothing to look forward to. Yep, hope is gas for the engine. Which reminds me of a story, but I’ll spare you any more of my flatulence. I’d like to take a break and gather up the pieces.

You’ve done a fabulous job, Zazu. Fifteen minutes?

Sold!

Your list of influences seem to be distilled from the past. I’m wondering about this time of life.

You don’t mind getting personal, do you? I’ve basically lived my life to prove Mother wrong. She could have found the backside of winning a $10,000,000 lottery.

I think if I were stranded on a desert island and was dying of starvation, I’d hope first for a miraculous rescue. Barring that, then hope the Ever-After is as good as advertised.

The crop you cultivate is the one that grows. Simple as that, except sometimes the ground is stony or pigs get in the corn or the rains don’t come. Those are tests. Wishful thinking isn’t the same as hope. Wishful thinking is a sandcastle within the high tide line. Nothing holds it in place. It crumbles.

Hope is a digging a tunnel through a mountain. It takes effort. You might find a seam of gold, but it is pick-and-shovel work to come out the other side.

You have to believe there is an other side. That covers that.

What are the advantages and liabilities of being a woman or a man?

Women have the advantage of flexibility. Some are better at it than others, of course. I mean mental flex. Men have the advantage of strength, as in carrying suitcases. An impossible question because everyone of us is different from all the others.

I tried to behave after Sheila Marie was born. I tried to think as if I’d been neutered. It didn’t work. My skin itched to be touched. Back then, going for a massage wasn’t part of my script

When I was working in Hollywood, I met a lot of out-of-the-ordinary people. I hadn’t even heard of lesbians before. Not a clue. Beautiful women, the ones on magazine covers or the front line of the chorus, had their troubles with men. They may get attached to other women. I didn’t like it.

There were always men around. Even with tied tubes, for a long time I was afraid to go that way, again. Finally, I needed holding so much, I coaxed one of the lion tamer’s assistants to follow me home. Turned out we both got what we wanted, no harm done, no promises made, no complications. Your question can’t be answered it's too big.

Who in history or literature do you most admire?

How’d you know to ask that?

Seems important. You know, role models and all sorts of challenges. Interesting places, that sort of thing.

It was after I joined the circus, forty-five years ago, that I got down with reading. There was more than enough time between performances, especially on the road. I read mysteries or what was left in the dining car’s book bin. I don’t know who left Gone With The Wind, but I still have it!

Scarlett O’Hara was feisty, ingenious, cunning, brave and decent. Even to sticky-sweet cream-puff, Melanie, who got herself knocked-up by Ashley. Rhett couldn't fool her. Scarlett, I admire.

I know about Eleanor Roosevelt and the queens of England. Lots of others, too, but Scarlett had to learn everything for herself. She even used the drapes to make a come-and-get-me dress! There are lots of good ones, but she’s the best!

What, if anything, do you regret about your life?

I regret my babies died.

I’ve been a manipulative bitch more than once.

I regret not getting a schoolhouse education.

I’ve either committed or wanted to commit every one of the seven deadly sins.

Wrath, frequently. It pours out of my mouth like a fire hose.

Greed. Not just for money or things, but attention and flattery.

Sloth. I’m a lazy bones about fiddly details and boring routines.

You already know I’m proud. Sometimes, haughty. I preen, even in costume, even at seventy years.

Lust is far more than personal encounters of the sexy kind. Try money, power or attention. I did.

Greed is a kissin’ cousin and greed knows no middle ground.

Envy has had me comparing myself with others. I can see someone who has a soft life and get resentful that I didn’t find a sugar daddy.

Gluttony. Its like succeeding and not knowing how to stop. Gluttony isn’t just for food, it is not knowing when enough is enough.

And, what do you cherish about your life?

Ah, so much! The excitement of a new crowd in a new city and them laughing with me.

I treasure good friends and I have four. Not everyone can say that! Long hours reading. So much! So much! I can’t list everything because I’m still having a rich life.

What role has religion or other guiding principles played in your life?

Religion? Me? Get serious!

Do you believe in an afterlife or reincarnation?

I don’t know about an afterlife. I think it means going to heaven which sounds pretty bland after New Orleans.

Reincarnation is a fun thing to imagine. Both earlier ones and whatever is coming up. Given my druthers, I’ll come back as an expert pediatrician, one specializing in heart troubles. I’d like to save a lot of babies for their mothers to love and raise.

What in the way of humor, wit, satire or circumstances amuses/entertains you?

Carol Burnett never flubbed a chance to be ironic, appealing and absurd. She's my heroinette.

What do you want on your metaphorical tombstone?

W.C. Fields was an old-time comedian who played an arrogant sot. Or, maybe, he wasn’t faking it. His tombstone says I’d Rather Be In Philadelphia. Mine could say, Gone Looking for W.C. Fields.

Assume you’ve been invited as an honored guest to speak to relatives and strangers. What themes or experiences would you share?

Life is one choice after another. Everything has consequences. Make the same choice often enough and you’ve got a habit.

When you’re six, if you decide to disobey Momma’s saying Don’t cross the street, and get away with it over and over again three things happen pretty quick. First, you are rewarded for breaking rules. Second, you think you’re really smart. Lastly, you think you’re exempt from what Momma says. You’re not.

I think, every birthday we should take a hard look at our habits and attitudes. Then, we should prune the dead wood, shape action to need and just put up with feeling mixed up about how to proceed. You’ll figure it out. You always have!

Entertain the idea of a life after this one. You may come back either gender, in any era past, present or future. Your call. What would you like to experience?

I would like to be a curious-but-calm person. A woman who has six or seven healthy kids that turn out all right and who love me.

It might be good to come back in the 1900s, before the First World War. I’d live on a farm and be able to handle everything. I would take my kiddos to the circus and make sure they get real educations.

What else do you candidly want to say as a partner in this book?

Being alive is a privilege. Use it!

Chapter Two

Alice Abraham Patinkin

Born: April 9th, 1921 Galveston, Texas

Age: 87

Interviewed at

Golden Age Jewish Elder Care Center

Portland, Oregon

I appreciate you being willing to contribute to my book on older women. I think our interview will go well if you tell me how the world looks now as contrasted to earlier times of your life.

Jews have come a long way in my lifetime. Got our own country back. Women rabbis. This what you want Miss?

Please call me ‘Maeve.’ I’d like your own personal experience. I care about your opinion.

Well you’re probably the only one. All I get asked is do I want my egg cooked through or half raw. I can fill your recorder with maundering, but I think you’re wasting your time because who else will care?

I'm pretty sure I'm not alone. A publisher is interested.

All right, all right. Let’s see. I was an obstreperous child, always asking questions. Nosy ones.

Mother said my straightforwardness was rude. I’ve always wanted to know what was going on without any concern for the unspeakable. That’s stayed with me right up to today.

One example was when my Great-Aunt Kizzy was sick in the back bedroom. I was eight or so. Mother had gone to the kitchen, so I went in and had a look. I hadn’t been permitted before for some reason nobody explained.

Kizzy was propped up with all the pillows in the house and she was breathing in puffs and gasps. Just staring at the wall at the end of the bed and didn’t seem to notice I was there. Didn’t blink, either.

I watched her quite a while before I heard Mother coming back and knew she’d shoo me out.

Like I’ve done all my life, I asked what I wanted to know.

What’s it like to die, Auntie Kizzy?

Well, the roof fell in when Mother heard me!

I never did get that question answered directly and I was