Too Young To Be This Old

By L.C. Blackwell

Growing up post 1945 doesn't make all seniors stubborn, feeble- minded, or set in their ways. Squawk blogger, Judy and her friends may be in the evening of their lives, but they are progressive seniors. Not the progressive title espoused by liberal members of the Democratic party or mainstream media. These women are progressive in their belief that the principles, tenets, and fundamental rights this country's history is built upon belong to every citizen.

Life for them was different, harder in some respects and easier in others contributing to larks that make jaw-dropping stories. They have individual opinions they share as well, on men and marriage, sex and surgery, millennials and mothers, Black Lives Matter and the COVID-19 pandemic, politics and psychics, cosmetics and clothes, and don't forget kids. Sincere? Definitely. Politically correct? Not on your life. Apologetic? No way. Compassionate thinkers? Without a doubt.
        Ready to remember the passing of years? Secrets you shared? Opinions that differ from yours? Even if you disagree, respect the right of others to say what they believe. These women recognize not everyone is evil, not everyone is eloquent, not everyone is always right.

Well, fasten your seat belts, girls. As Bette Davis once said, "It's going to be a bumpy ride.* "

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: L.C. Blackwell
• Release date: Mar 21, 2024
• ISBN: 9798990279209

L.C. Blackwell

L.C. Blackwell began a career in Chicago advertising agencies writing and producing Radio-TV and print advertising in a variety of industries that included Fashion, Food and Food Service, Consumer Products, Automotive, Children's Products and Retail. Among the client brands represented: Brown Shoe Company, Johnson's Wax, Armour (Dial Soap), Goodrich, Quaker Oats, Oldsmobile, Sportmart, Echo Housewares and American Dairy. A growing interest in programming saw Blackwell become an independent writer-producer developing creative for a select group of projects. Among them: "Belleza Latina", a 13-week package of daily short-form beauty programs written, produced and licensed to the Spanish Entertainment Network for a double run; A bull-riding documentary airing on ABC and Univision affiliates in Phoenix, Arizona; A multimedia promotion that included creative, jingle and presentation production for the National Fitness Foundation presidential appointee, George Allen. Additionally, L.C. Blackwell is the author of 2 children's books as well as a licensed Managing Broker in Illinois

Book preview

This is a work of fiction. The names of people, places, companies,

and events, mentioned herein are fictitious and are in no way

intended to represent any real individuals, company or event

unless otherwise noted. They are the product of the author’s

imagination and dramatized for this story.

Edition, March 2021 Copyright © L C Blackwell

All rights reserved. Published in the United States

by L C Blackwell/Front Door Productions LLC

In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976,

no part of this book may be reproduced in any form

by any means of reproducing text. Scanning, uploading text or

audio, or sharing electronically  without written permission

of the author or Front Door Productions, LLC

constitutes unlawful theft of the Author’s intellectual property.

To seek permission, contact [e-mail].

Cover Design: LC Blackwell,

Cover Image Concept and Photography: Sergii Gnatiuk,

Interior Design: Erika BlackweIl

Paperback ISBN 978-09907115-6-8

eBook ISBN 979-89902792-0-9

A black and white logo Description automatically generated

Front Door Productions LLC

Lake Barrington, IL

Dedication

To Marilyn and Elizabeth,

friends who died way too young.

Thoughtful Words

from the past

"When you are 20, you care what everyone thinks.

When you’re 50, you stop caring what everyone thinks.

When you’re 60, you realize no one

was ever thinking about you in the first place.

You have enemies? Good.

That means you’ve stood up for something

sometime in your life."

Winston Churchill

––––––––

"Freedom is never more than one generation

away from extinction.

We didn’t pass it to our children in the bloodstream.

It must be fought for, protected,

and handed on for them to do the same."

Ronald Reagan

––––––––

Getting old ain’t for sissies.

Bette Davis

A letter from the author

Look into a mirror; who do you see? The woman you are, or the woman you remember? Does your image change when you pop on your glasses?

Remember opening an old photo album—no, not the one in Windows>C Drive>this PC> Library> Pictures—the physical album with Polaroids wrinkling at the corners, to find a woman you barely recognize with arms around your children? A woman without wrinkles or a droopy neck with cordlike lines? And hair, with color, not the absence of it?

How about a C-Section scar? If you have one, remember a time when you didn’t? Or when the surgeon said, ... the positive biopsy necessitates a hysterectomy. The good news? He promised a bikini-style scar. You know the one, horizontal, above your groin, guaranteed not to leave that ugly, vertical, skin-drooping scar down your abs. Good news? Yes, if you think a permanent tummy pouch is a plus.

Many physical and emotional scars are a challenge to overcome or hard to forget. There are joys too, but as age creeps over us, we tend to examine the scars, the misses, and the losses.

Me? I keep looking back at decades, wondering how I could have wasted so much time worrying about nonsense, nonsense over which I had no control. It just stole time from accomplishments. Oh, don’t get me wrong. I’ve done a lot...but what if I had let the real me escape the PC politeness, the need to perform stereotypical behavior of so many roles. Roles I embraced to keep the peace, hide my feelings, and avoid embarrassing myself, my family, or friends. What if I had said exactly what I felt or thought? What would I be today? A CEO, a president? Would I be remarried? Would I be in jail? Would I be a woman I don’t recognize? The more I examine my past, the less ashamed I am, the less regret I have. Oh, I still have regrets, but the list is much shorter. The more I recall, the more I treasure the lessons learned, the rules followed. And I’ve come to like the woman I’ve become—no, love the woman I’ve become, wrinkles, sags, and all.

What if all of us had a safe space in college to escape the slights and the arrows of a different opinion? Would we be able to listen to the other side and agree to disagree, or would we label and condemn them because we are right, and they are wrong— like many collegians seeking safe space on campus today—and getting it!

And what if we had helicopter moms who taught us that everyone is a winner, and we all get a trophy? Would we have competed against others to go after the jobs and the salaries we wanted—and earned?

I remember my mom saying, If you didn’t win the trophy, honey, it means that someone worked a little harder than you did today. Try harder tomorrow; maybe it will be your turn.

My mother was alive with aphorisms— her very own and those she adopted.

Ah, but if I had those ‘luxuries’, and I use that word choice with a decided smirk, I don’t think I could look back and be proud of what I’ve done, what I thought, and what I’ve personally experienced and accomplished, or what women before me have.

And as for doing wrong, my mom’s punishments usually made an impact. She designed them to match the crime. Hurling insults at others meant spending an evening writing 100 different positive observations, while un-called for criticisms meant offering a new and different complement each day for two weeks to the one criticized—in a public place where others were present, no less. Today, we often free many of the guilty while their victims suffer in perpetuity. Looking back and remembering, both good and bad, makes one reassess one’s life. One’s country. One’s political views. Especially now, when birthdays arrive faster and faster with more and more wrinkles, grey hair, and a few extra pounds to remind us, the time ahead is getting shorter. The regrets for not having said something or not having done something rise to the top of those memories.

Be you 60, 70, 80, even 90, I hope many of these pages prompt you to erase some of your regrets, replacing them with renewed goals, laughter, and images of friends who shared your secrets, your tears, your confessions, and your dreams. Mostly, I hope you take on a Rhett Butler attitude and mouth his words, loud and clear: My dear, I don’t give a damn. (For those under 40, Rhett Butler was a character played by Clark Gable in the movie version of Margaret Mitchell’s 1936 bestseller, Gone with the Wind.) Unfortunately, GWTW is being removed from many movie line-ups for being offensive. The historical significance of the book and movie is evidently irrelevant.

Join me and reunite with those who have escaped your circle: married friends who followed the path of a husband or wife, family lost for the sake of ego, friends sent away because of disagreement and pride, lovers you lost to another, and crushes you failed to admit loving. Say hello, say I miss you, say I wanted to know how you were doing, say I always cared, say please forgive me, I forgive you, say I still love you.

Erase your regrets. Fill your memories with those warm feelings, silly images, youthful mistakes, words, and thoughts that bring a smile to your heart. Re-live every moment and love it. And don’t regret your honest reactions to the world we are living in today.

The following pages do not represent a traditional memoir. They are this author’s compilation of the words, deeds, beliefs, reflections, and actions of six women. Friends. Six very close friends. Their memories and the stories they lived before turning 50 and the years beyond. Heartfelt feelings. Frustrations. Honest reactions and emotions about yesterday and today.

The women’s names are fictional, but their actions are accurate, their expressions are real. Their beliefs are embedded in their souls. And their conversations are genuine.

Come. Meet six friends in their senior years who are irreverent and unapologetic women—real women, most definitely too young to be this old.

L.C. Blackwell

Chapter 1

Meet the Women

Judy, the Blogger

Lynn, the Entrepreneur

Jane, the Politician

Carol, the Realist

Marilyn, the Sexpot

JoAnn, the Socialite’

Judy, the Blogger

Advertisers hound her, wanting a presence on her blog. Others avoid her because they don’t want to ruffle feathers suggesting they may agree with her. Makes no difference; Judy only accepts ads from companies that produce products she believes are right for her readers and the country. And, of course, they must be made in America.

The oldest of her friends, Judy, is the group’s reader—she always had her nose in a book. When anyone needed to know something, she was the go-to.

Of course, that didn’t make her nerdy or a know-it-all. In fact, she was often the instigator of adventure—sometimes questionable and sometimes il- legal. Take, for example, Lynn’s misfortune due to her age. On her graduation year birthday, she would turn 20—she had just turned 16 when she started MSU. No, she wasn’t a child prodigy; she just had an over-achiever mother.

All she could talk about from her freshman year on was that she would not be able to go to the Gables, the local student beer joint, to celebrate with all` her friends. So, Judy found a source to change Lynn’s birthdate— driver’s license, birth certificate, et al. As a result, Lynn could chugalug from 17 on. Oh, Judy didn’t just turn Lynn loose at the Gables; she and the others made sure Lynn behaved herself—no Gables table-hopping until her Junior year when she would "turn 21’ at the age of 18.

Judy didn’t look like someone who took risks. She was this innocent preppie, pressed and ponytailed with her ever-present backpack filled with healthy snacks and water plus her current reading material—either a mystery or a political expose. Her mother was convinced Judy would end up teaching first grade, not the occupation a woman who prided herself on her political achievements was willing to accept. A member of the DAR (Daughter of the American Revolution), Judy’s mother included her in every political rally, meeting, and fundraiser, hoping against hope that Judy would eventually run for local office. And from there, who knew?

Judy? She wanted to be a reporter, an investigative one, no less. That’s where she aimed her arrow. A journalism major at MSU wouldn’t guarantee a spot on any prominent newspaper, but Judy knew what she wanted, and if anyone had determination and hootspa, she did.

She was an incredible researcher, way before Google came on the scene. She would hunt the card catalogs at the library, sourcing little-known facts that seasoned her papers for class. Professors were impressed and gave her tips and lectures in sessions that lasted long after the classroom emptied. She soaked up information and knowledge like a sponge.

When Clark Kent became a classmate, Judy found her match, her superman. Together they researched and wrote stories submitting them to every publication that would print them. They married, had two beautiful children, and on their 15th anniversary, Clark met his kryptonite—Cancer. He died three weeks after his diagnosis.

After more than 30 years, Judy still grieves for him.

Lynn, the Entrepreneur

Lynn is the glue that holds this group of women together. She’s the organized one. Always has been since they all met at Michigan State University in the late 60s. She’s the one who writes the quarterly newsletter, keeping each of them in the loop—the one who arranges the get-togethers, the trips, the support when one of them needs it, and the hilarity that seems to add to their togetherness.

You wouldn’t think women so different, living miles from each other, would still be friends after almost 50 years. As I said, Lynn is the glue.

Maybe it’s because she’s a Type A personality, or perhaps it’s her career choice. She majored in art, econ, and finally, communication arts, eventually establishing a successful public relations firm in Chicago.

Even though she keeps tight rein on friendships, she’s a little lax when it comes to her children. They have a pleasant relationship, but not as close as it was before her divorce. Justin and Leigh Ann haven’t yet forgiven her for dumping their father. However, after some twenty years, they began to understand.

Lynn regrets not taking the divorce plunge sooner. She was Catholic, still is, but not quite so restrictive in her thinking now.

Perhaps if she had left her husband when the kids were younger, she might have remarried. But it was difficult, she often would say, to trust again after struggling through a twenty-year marriage just to soften the damage to be visited upon her children. And it was for naught. The salesman in Robert convinced both kids that Lynn was the bad guy.

As the years passed, she learned to live alone, regretting some of her decisions, especially walking away from one, particular man. She said her feelings for him frightened her, afraid she’d lose control of her life. Besides, Lynn is the kind of woman who doesn’t put her responsibilities on someone else’s shoulders, so she walked away from him. But Carol, the common sense one in the group, knows Lynn often thinks of him. Jane says she wonders if he has married, if his hair is still as white as hers, if he changed much from the friend she remembers in the 20 years she last saw him. And most importantly, did he ever think of her?

Most of the time, Lynn covers her vulnerability with a semi-aggressive attitude, at least in business. She doesn’t tolerate stupidity, appreciates her friends’ concerns, and will drop anyone off her communication list if they exhibit disloyalty to her or any of her friends. She keeps busy—an avid reader and, surprisingly, a talented knitter.

Jane, the Politician

Jane and Lynn have an incredibly close relationship. No surprise, seeing Jane lives in the Northwest suburbs, a mere forty-five minutes from Lynn’s city condo in Streeterville.

They are close yet absolutely miles apart when it comes to personality.

Lynn is outgoing and always says what she thinks—at home, work, even in social situations, but she’s timid when meeting someone new.

Jane, on the other hand, keeps her lips tight when confronted with a new group. For example, at cocktail parties, she waits in the corner until someone seeks her out. Then she shines, smiling and saying little. Immediately, they latch on to her. It’s because she listens as they blab on and on, making them feel extraordinarily important. She’s always been that way. Her friends couldn’t believe she was the first one of them to marry.

And Jane’s David? He loves her as much as he did when they met. With Jane, he’s always right. He’s always strong and handsome despite the thirty-five pounds he’s packed on that belly of his since they married—for- ty-eight years ago and counting.

And Jane? She loves her David. His hair is gone, but his smile is the same. And he’s terrific in bed, at least that’s what she tells us: He makes me happy. If I don’t complain, he just tries harder. A simple sigh can create wonders. And I don’t just tell my man I love him, she cautions. I listen to what he says, agree with him, even if I don’t. I make small suggestions, and he eventually comes round to my way of thinking. What’s more, he thinks it’s all his idea. When he knows that I believe in him, he believes in himself —he reaches heights he never dreamed he could.

She’s always giving her friends advice. And when they get together, Jane’s humor blossoms, her opinions have value. She’s more confident and surer of herself. Some of her comments even shock them. Yet somehow, she manages to say anything with such sincerity no one is offended. In fact, they applaud her.

Both Judy and Lynn have tried to convince her to dump the short, white hair and get it styled or dyed. And of course, lose at least ten pounds. She could run for office and get elected in a heartbeat. But she’s happy just as she is, Lynn says.

Judy agrees. She loves her life and has no real regrets. She may be a generously bodied woman, but I have to hand it to her, she walks tall, and she’s proud of it.

Lynn’s convinced her mother had a lot to do with it.

Carol, the Realist

Carol is the youngest of the friends. She entered MSU when Lynn was starting her senior year.

If one believes in the profiles that identify astrological signs, Carol is the ultimate Cancerian. She mothers everyone, younger and older. She generates love for whoever crosses the path she walks. Generous to a fault, homemaker personified, a gourmet chef, and an artist who touches hearts with simple subjects in melodies of color on canvas, spelling stories bold, beautiful, and joyous.

Lynn and Carol met at a gallery opening in East Lansing, the armpit of Michigan, but according to Jane, a city home to one of the most stunning university campuses in the Midwest.

The friendship blossomed at coffee houses, art studios, and sorority houses. Carol lived in Lynn’s dorm and pledged Lynn’s Alpha Delta Pi house, where she became close with the rest of the group.

The women were well matched, each with a distinctive personality and character. Their one unifying commonality? Respect and appreciation of their individual differences.

Carol, exceedingly bright, but not a woman particularly enamored with the prospect of 8 AM classes, writing papers, unannounced quizzes, and other measurements that identified a student’s capabilities. She dropped out of State at the end of her sophomore year.

She was a free spirit in love with love. She wanted to learn, but to her, life was not lived in a classroom. An avid reader, she poured over books. No subject was exempt from her perusal. She would call authors and ask why they said what they said and often became a sounding board for several of them.

She was short and a little stocky, a polite way of saying she resembled a fire hydrant. Oh, but when she smiled, traffic stopped. She never worried how she looked, only that her clothes were clean. And she rarely wore anything on her face, except a delicious shade of hot pink lipstick. Still does.

Despite her size, lack of makeup, clothes that did not enhance, she was a beauty. Perhaps it was the glow of goodness and the joy of life that emanated from deep inside her stubby-wrapped shape.

Her love of books saw her gain an internship with a Chicago literary agent. She read manuscripts, wrote comments, and made the coffee. Unfortunately, she did not rise to junior agent despite her ability to find the perfect audience for every manuscript she read. She simply could not bear to reject anyone.

After backpacking across Europe, she returned to the states and worked for a series of non-profits. At one of them, she met her soulmate. She asked him to marry after seven dates. And Carol and Jim are still married, happily. Still soul mates, and proud parents of a daughter who is a doctor, a son who practices criminal law, and a daughter who paints portraits of important people.

Carol is an unconstrained liberal, a tight-ass conservative, and a wishy, washy independent, depending on the issue, its proponents, and the majority think. Always the negotiator, ever the seeker of balance, she’ll use any method or madness to bring an honest and fair solution to opposing views.

Her relationship with the group is one both she and the group treasure.

Carol is indeed the motherlode.

Marilyn, the Sexpot

Marilyn was born sexy. Piercing blue eyes. Delicate blonde curls. Rose- bud lips. A model’s body in a 5-foot 10-inch frame. And it all aged together like a fine wine. She was never particularly prideful about her looks, though; she accepted them as her entitlement. The only part of her body she rejected as an error was her bust. She was quite flat-chested. But she discovered what nature hadn’t endowed, cosmetic surgeons could.

She is a bright woman with a laser focus. An extraordinary strategist. She was the one who planned Lynn’s campaign for Senior Class President. It was a winner. The Kingston Trio¹ was still hot on the charts, still pumping up MainStreet America’s optimism in the late 60s and early 70s. And they were hot with the preppies who ruled at MSU—members of an alive and thriving Greek system. So, Marilyn planted her marketing arrow at their members.

She wrote a ballad riding off the lyrics of one of the Trio’s hits, Blowing in the Wind, substituting Voting for our Lynn. Marilyn dressed a group of Greek members in tied-at-the-waist, blue-button-down shirts atop white duck slacks. She rehearsed them for weeks, then sent them on the campaign trail to sing the campaign melody complete with banjo and guitar backup, no less. The campaign was a success.

Marilyn was always searching for the next project to sell. She was a born salesperson—always saying the right thing, pushing the right buttons. She could convince an Evangelical to march for Gay Rights.

After graduating, she worked a series of promotional jobs, but nothing rang her bell until she got a real estate license. She blossomed. The challenge to beat another agent for a listing was a little like offering meat to a lion.

As to her personal life, there were years of one-night stands, serious romances that lasted at least six months, and a one-year-long adventure.

Eventually, Marilyn married a down-to-earth, educated man, but one not terribly successful. Ah, but Marilyn was a killer Real Estate Broker. She wore the right clothes for the right clients. Neck high tight silk collars for one group; for others, one-button jackets with nothing underneath and no tape restricting visibility—think J-Lo’s² famous saucy green dress. Clothes may make the man, but a bit of the boob can make the woman earn big bucks. Marilyn’s annual earnings often exceeded 500k-plus.

She paid bartenders big tips for calling her with leads to listing or sales. She gifted high-rise door people with cash for news of residents planning to sell.

Friends acknowledged her unorthodox business practices, but they never expressed approval or dismay.

She was edgy. She was wily. Yet under those shells, she was exceedingly vulnerable. When her husband filed for divorce, requesting alimony, she learned he was involved with someone else—another man.

If it wasn’t for Lynn, Judy, Jane, Carol, and JoAnn, she might not have survived. But she’s been back in the saddle with her vulnerability packed deep inside for