The Way I See It
- Ivy Pittman


The Way I See It is just that. True to VisibleWomanOnline’s mission to address a  particular topic in each of the bi-
monthly issues, The Way I See It column is rooted in opinions and observations related to the topic.
Whether it is about mental  and physical health, relationships, race, class and identity, beauty and fashion, religion and
spirituality, finances or love, The Way I See It will speak personally on it.

With age comes experience from which comes lessons, from which comes the  burning desire to say what needs to be
said – and not caring about whether or not it  is right or wrong, or who likes what you have to say or not.

Take it or leave it, my viewpoint may certainly not be the way you see it or then again, maybe it is.  
In the spirit of VisibleWomanOnline, The Way I See It will take a cutting edge, funny,  introspective twist on things that
often go unsaid. So with that being said, The Way  I See It is my personal soap box. Yes, I said it. After all, the way I
see it, we all  have a right to free speech whether it offends or uplifts. Unfortunately many are  silenced from speaking
their mind or choose to be silent because it is easier to just  be quiet. I leave you with these words from bell hooks…”I
made speech my birthright…talking back became for me a rite or initiation.”

I totally agree.  

On The Age Thing . . .
- Ivy Pittman

Recently I turned a half a century. Even as I write this, it is still  amazing to me. Frankly I can’t believe it. If it weren’t for
the fact that I have friends who I have grown up with who too are fifty or certainly a step or two away from it, I would
think that my birth records had become mixed up with someone else’s, or that my mother has been lying to me about
my real age. But I know this is not so.

The weird thing about being fifty is that I don’t feel like what my perception of fifty would feel and look like. I feel young
and I look young. After having recently been carded it dawned on me that  perhaps on a good day the only thing that
separates me from the twenty and thirty-somethings are my life experiences. Depending upon how one feels about
being mistaken for twenty or thirty, it’s not so bad.

When I was younger, fifty sounded like a different world. It was an age that sounded old and well, settled. When I look
at pictures of my grandmothers, both of whom were stunningly attractive women in their forties and fifties, they
personified their age group. It was a different time. There was a reserved look about them that spoke their age. But
rarely was age something that women of that era discussed. They accepted and wore it for what it was. Today, as
women we are bombarded with advertisements proclaiming to make us look younger, and feel younger. It is little
wonder that when a woman reaches a milestone birthday she may feel like she has hit a brick wall and needs to do  
something to keep her youth. The options are enough to make any confident woman dizzy and confused.   

While it may feel good psychologically to hear that fifty is the new thirty, the body still knows otherwise. Botox,
liposuction, plastic surgery will not fool Mother Nature or Father Time.  Months before my birthday I was having trouble
accepting that I was going to be fifty years old. Because I didn’t feel what my perception of fifty had always been, I told
myself that I just wouldn’t claim it. But then I realized that not claiming it would be just like getting cosmetic surgery.
The truth would still be there under the surface. I may have been able to fool people, but I could not fool myself. Now
that I am a few months into my half century status I have grown comfortable with the reality. It is not as scary as I had
thought it would be. Although it still feels odd when someone asks me my age and I manage to say “fifty” with
confidence and sometimes amazement. It’s great when I get the deer-in-the-headlight look that says, “no way.” It’s
truly an Oscar moment when someone tells me they thought I was thirty-five. I nearly want to kiss them and smother
them with gratitude. But there is a grace that comes with age and instead I say, “Thank you,” because it’s enough.   

Anyone breathing knows there is an alternative to aging. Not being here to watch it happen. I have lost friends who
didn’t live to see thirty, forty or fifty.  When I think of them I am reminded of the miracle of life and living long enough to
be grateful to have reached this age. I was just not prepared for the years to arrive so quickly. It’s almost funny when I
think of it in that way. It’s impossible to be mad at a blessing. And while all of the years have hardly been a walk in the
park, turning fifty is a gift. The transcendence of each decade are reminders that the years are getting shorter. With
every funeral I attend I think about my own mortality.

I have to accept that at fifty unlike thirty or even forty, my life is probably more than half over. It’s startling when I look
at aging from that perspective.  Looking back, when I turned thirty for no apparent reason I cried. As I approached  
forty I felt scared, then turning fifty forced me into momentary denial. Maybe there is something to be said about
milestone birthdays and the self-inflicted mystery it brings. I don’t know. But it is okay. Each decade since reaching
adulthood has brought something new to my life. It may not have always been pleasant, but a lesson is a lesson all the
same and I am grateful for having been around to get it. Maybe that in itself is the mystery and gift of aging.   

I laugh when I read articles about women who proclaim a particular decade as being the best years of their life.  I
wonder who these women might be since I know successful, educated, average, gorgeous, tenacious, resourceful, bold,
witty, funny, compassionate, serious, smart, women, who will admit that while they are grateful to be alive they can’t
claim any one entire decade as being the best years of their life.  
I think the charm in aging is making it through the years mentally unscathed. Everything else is gravy. Recently when I
found myself thinking that it couldn’t be possible that I was going to be fifty, I tried to imagine the alternative. I turned
on  some music and danced! I began to think about the struggles, disappointments, and plans gone south and I danced
harder. Then I thought about all of the wonderful experiences only I could have had and will  have and I nearly tore up
the floor! I realize that it has been one hell of a journey.  And if the journey is about what living is all about, then mine,
thus far, has been grand. So, while turning fifty still amazes me, I have further reached the conclusion that I have
obligations to the universe I must meet, that my purpose here on earth is far from complete. Therefore, am embracing
fifty with bravado. After all, what else can I do but hop on the saddle and see where the next century takes me?

Anyway, that’s the way I see it.  


What About Her
Ivy Pittman

Whenever I think of a park bench I am reminded of an old soul. Steady and strong. That is where I go when I need to
think. On one of twelve ninety-degree days in August, I went to the park to think. I let my thoughts float with the
urgency of a damn on the brinks of bursting.

I was rounding out one of several musings running through my mind when I spotted an elderly woman a few benches
down. I left my own thoughts hanging in limbo to watch her. I had an empty, unsettling feeling. I looked at my watch.
Thirty minutes and lunch would be over. Time was always running. It was like a fleeting enemy taking all that is precious
with it.

A heavy tapping in my soul made me wonder what was going on. I thought about the dreams I once had. I wondered
when a dream becomes too old to thrive. I could no longer tell the difference. But I still had many. I looked around and
wondered how many others struggled with a withered, withering dream. I thought about the stories that never got
told, that were held inside the bearer’s soul. I hoped mine would not be one of them. My thoughts spiraled to a calm
place. I took a deep breath and allowed my mind permission to be vacant. I turned to look at the old woman. She sat
regal, almost as if she were waiting for someone. But for no reason at all I didn’t think she was. The more I stared at
her the more inclined I became to create a story about her. Maybe it was the heat or a gush of sentimentality for old
folks. But I sat watching her, not wanting to take my eyes off of her.

I watched her watch mothers with babies walk pass her with out so much as a glance. I wondered how a young man
could sit across from her eating an apple and not even acknowledge her. I wondered if this was what it would be like
when I got old. To be alive but invisible. It was a wearying thought.

I glanced at my watch again. Twenty-six minutes. Just about an eight-minute walk back to my office. That left eighteen
minutes. I started memorizing what the woman looked like. I wanted to be able to say, "She was caramel complexion
with a mole just above her right eyebrow, and she wore a faded blue dress trimmed with yellow pansies, and wore
white gloves and sensible-looking white shoes." I didn’t know why I felt like I needed to know these details. But it felt
good to store them in my memory.

As I rose from the bench I felt like I was forgetting something. I started walking and glanced back to look at the woman.
Just then I felt something fall on my shirt. I laughed. It was bird crap. It made me think about what awaited me back at
the office. I turned around and walked back in her direction. When I was inches from her I said, "Hello!"

At first I thought she hadn’t heard me. Then she said, "Hello sweetie. How are you today?"

I said, "Hello", again. She looked at me with very big eyes.

"Very hot day."

"It sure is. You should be careful in this heat." She looked around as if she hadn’t heard me.

Then she said, "I manage." I nodded. With nothing else to say I started to leave.

Then she said, "Would you like to sit with me for a spell?"

There was a plea in her eyes. I glanced at my watch. I had ten minutes to get back to work.

"Okay," I said. I sat down.

She held out her hand. "My name is Ruth Thurman."

I smiled. "And I am Corona Brown. Nice to meet you."

She studied me and said, "What an interesting name. Are you named after someone?"

It was the first time anyone had ever asked me that. I said, "No. My mother just wanted me to have a name that was
different."

She laughed. I laughed. I told her that I always thought that Ruth was a strong sounding name.

She said, "Well thank you. I was named after my aunt. You could say she was strong. She certainly raised enough hell
while she was living. And it sure takes strength to raise hell."

We laughed and I watched her eyes light up at what I imagined was a memory. "Oh it is such a lovely day." She took off
her gloves and shoved them in her bag. I thought, ‘when was the last time I saw a woman wearing white gloves in the
summer?’

She smiled and said, "Yes, it is. But I could enjoy this heat better on a beach."

"Ah, yes, the beach. I used to love the beach."

I glanced at my watch. I had about two minutes to get back to the office. I didn’t need to be late. But I had already
crossed the threshold into Miss Thurman’s world. My curiosity had rooted me to her.

"I remember when. . ."

She appeared to be gathering her thoughts. "What was I saying? Oh yes, I remember when I was about your age." I
remember thinking that I didn’t care that her story was going to be long.

"Oh before I start, would you like to share a sandwich with me?"

Before I could decline she had reached into another bag and pulled out a sandwich.

"Well, no, I don’t want to . . . “

"Oh please have this half. I can’t eat all of it. And in this heat it will go bad. Here take it", forcing it into my hand.

I took it, wondering how long she may have been carrying it around. The first small bite was tasty.

"This is good. Thank you."

“It’s turkey and cheese. It might be a little dry. Didn’t want to put mayonnaise on it. You know because of the heat."

"You were about to tell me a story."

She held up a finger, reached into the same bag, and brought out a small thermos. "Here you need something to wash
it down."

I studied the dark substance wondering if I should take a sip.

“Its iced tea. I made it last night.”

I took a pigeon sip and realized it was loaded with sugar and lemons. It was the best iced tea I had had in a while.

"Oh, honey what were we talking about?"

"I was telling you that I liked the beach and you said . . ."

"Oh yes! Now I remember. Well it’s not exactly about the beach."

She smiled as if she were remembering something. I chewed and sipped and waited. She stood up and looked around
the park.

"Some fifty years ago I lived in Paris, France. Yes I did."

I wondered why she went from the beach to Paris, but figured that was what old people did, jump from one story to
another. She sat down and looked at me as if I was supposed to say something. But instead I smiled and nodded.

"Many colored folks, as we were called back then, had decent-paying jobs. Many of us even owned our own homes."
She leaned into me and whispered, "Even had our own clubs and societies. But it was easier to live over there than it
was here."

Again, she looked at me as if to emphasize the importance of what she had just said. I nodded. Then she said, "I went
to visit some friends in Milan. Milan, Italy. I was restless here."

I wanted to let her know how interesting I was finding her story so I said, "Really!"

"Sure ‘nough!" she said. But you still needed some resources! You needed friends, good friends with morals, moxie and
money who were going to stick by you.”

She stopped talking and I wondered where the story was going.  Then as if she was reading my mind, she said, "I
guess you’re wondering how I managed to get to Italy, huh?”"

I agreed with a nod, wondering how much she would embellish. She lit up.

"I was always good at saving a few dollars here and there doing days’ work for well-to-do white folks. One particular
couple I worked for were pretty good to me. I often wonder about them. Anyway, I was living with my cousin, Altruna. It
was about that time that that colored woman had become big in Paris. What was her name?"

Before I could speak she said, "Yes, Josephine Baker! I set it in my mind to go to Europe. But when I shared my dream
with my cousin she told me, ‘Ain’t no such thing as a colored woman making it in Europe. The only reason that Josephine
woman is doing alright is 'cause she dancing naked all over the place.' I laughed 'cause Altruna was short sighted.  Do
you know what that is?"

I knew she was going to tell me whether I knew what it was or not. So I just said, “No. Not exactly.”  

She went on to tell me that short-sighted folks had no imagination and no dreams. I considered what she was saying
and thought about the many people I knew who were in fact short-sighted and laughed. I eased back on the bench and
listened to Ruth tell me more about her cousin and her life in Europe.

"Well Altruna felt that it would be worse for me over there than in the United States. I was hurt that she was stomping
all over my dream. But I was more hurt for her because she didn’t have a dream. You ever know anyone like that?"

Before I could say yes she said, "It was like Altruna’s mind was stuck in a dark place where only a bottle of whiskey and
maybe a quick date let some light in. Now I’m not saying that that is all bad. But everybody should own a dream. So I
packed mine and brought me a ticket to Milan. The white family I worked for knew a family over there that I could work
for. Oh, I didn’t mind. I figured I’d rather be a housekeeper over there than here. By day I could work and by night I
could enjoy Italy."

"Altruna was very mad with me. I think she was drunk the day I left. She cussed me right up until the time I was getting
ready to walk out the door! But I just grabbed her and hugged her real tight, cause I knew she couldn’t help how she
felt.  She smelled of liquor. I told her I loved her, and to take care of herself and to find a dream. The tears were falling
down her face and she said to me, 'You be careful and come back home soon!' I winked at her and left. I was treated
pretty well in Milan. I imagine some folks would argue with that. But my experience was that the white folks treated me
nice. I was speaking a little I-talian."

"Then I made friends with some folks who suggested that we go to Paris. I got a job working in one of the clubs,
running errands and dressing folks. Got to see Josephine Baker! She had a lot of style about her. She was witty and
funny! She just had a heart that was a little too good. Adopting all those children only to be kicked out of her home. Evil
will always try to tear down good. I drank with that writer fellow, Richard Wright. All of us sort of took on one another
as family. I even fell in love over there! But that’s personal. I wasn’t looking to get married. Learned me some French
though. Parlez vous something. Every now and then I try to speak a bit of it . . . when I can remember. I made pretty
good money too. I remember the first time I saw the Eiffel Tower. All my life I had looked at pictures of it. I even sent
Altruna a post card of it. I think I wrote something like, 'I’m here! Isn’t it lovely? If you want to come on over, write me
back and I’ll make a way for you to come.' Of course she didn’t write back. When I came back to the United States it was
two years later . . . for her funeral."

Up until then I had been flying high listening to her story. Then with a thump I found myself holding back tears. I
suspected the memory had caught up with Ruth. She wiped at her eyes and I tried not to let her see me wiping at mine.
Then I saw it coming. Her shoulders began to shake and she tried to hold it back. But she started groaning and crying. I
slid over and put my arms around her shoulder. I didn’t know what to say so I just held her.

We sat quiet for a minute. Then she sat up and said, "I’m okay. I’m okay. I can’t remember the last time I shared that
story with someone. So many years ago. It’s like you get old, but if you’re lucky you can still remember what it was like
to be young.  The sad part is when there is no one around that can remember with you."

I glanced at my watch. I was twenty-five minutes late. But it didn’t matter, I was going to sit with Ruth for as long as
she wanted to talk. We sat quietly for a few minutes before she began talking again.

"Before I left to come back for Altruna’s funeral my friends gave me a big party. They sent me off with some lovely
presents, embroidered linen napkins, and crystal glasses. I even have a picture of all of us. Here, look!" She reached
inside her pocketbook and pulled out a black and white photo in an old gilded frame. I wondered why she would be
carrying it around with her.

"That’s me in the hat. I was something else, wasn’t I?"

I had to admit Ruth Thurman had been a gorgeous woman.

"Wow Ms. Thurman. You were really stunning! Well you still are a good-looking woman." I couldn’t take my eyes off of
the picture.

"One of the best presents my friend, Martine gave me was this."

Again, she dug down in her pocketbook and held up a key.

I said, "That key must be special."

"Yes, my dear, it is. You see Martine didn’t have any family. She had been orphaned when she was very young. The
family that had adopted her had died and left everything to her, so she didn’t want for much. She gave me this key and
said, 'Ruth, you’re like the family I don’t have. If you ever get back to Paris whether its next month, next year or twenty
years from now I want you to know that you have a place to live.’ I couldn’t believe it. Here was this sophisticated
French woman giving me the key to her home!”

I asked her, "Did you ever go back?"

She looked off and said, "Well, no. I could have had her send me money to get back over there. But times got a little
hard and I kind of lost my way, got a little lost in my mind."

I let those last words penetrate. She looked at me as if I could tell her what happened to her so many years ago. I
wished I knew. Then in a weak, almost childlike voice she said, "I got a little lost in my mind."

I took her hand in mine and said, "We all do from time to time Ms. Thurman."  I’ve been lost plenty of times and I am
much younger than you." We started laughing.

Then she wet her lips and took my other hand and held it real tight and said, "Honey, do you know where you’re going?
I mean, do you know how to take off? It’s important to know when and how to take off. You have to know the race you’
re in if you’re ever gonna have any peace. If you don’t like the race get out of it!"

I felt a chill go through me. I understood what she was saying. We sat in silence for a couple of minutes looking around
the park. I decided to change the direction of the conversation and said, "Ms. Thurman, where do you live?"  

She must have been one hell of a dancer when she was young because she knew just when and how to sidestep. She
never answered my question but instead said, "I figure as long as I have this here key I always have some place to go.
You know Martine was about fifteen years younger than me. That would make her about….oh sixty or so. She could still
be alive. And I could still go back to Paris, if I. . . "  She hung her head and let the words hang in mid sentence. I hoped
she wouldn’t start crying. But then her head shot up and she said, "Honey, I may be old, but I am still able."

"Of course you are Ms. Thurman. I can see that you are . . . well, very able. I am so glad that I stopped to talk with you.
Thank you."

"No, thank you for listening. You have given my story an eternal life. Maybe one day you’ll tell it to someone and they’ll
tell it and so on and so forth."

I knew one day I would.

She sighed and nodded, as if to say, "I’m done."

It was an awkward moment. I knew that I needed to leave. But I felt like I was in the middle of a good book. I wanted
to keep reading. Ruth picked up a rock and started rubbing it between her hands and said, "Let me tell you something
Corona dear. I don’t have children or grandchildren to share this with so I guess I am destined to give what I know to
you. Old is not bad, it just is. Nothing is better than having lived by your own rules and convictions for as long as I have.
I come and sit on one of these benches and watch life. I look at the young folks and remember what it felt like
yesterday to be young. Who knows? I could still take off, because I am still building my landscape. Remember I may be
old, but I am still able."

"I understand what you’re saying. I came today to think and well, figure out some of my own stuff. I’m just so . . . "

Ruth cut in before I could finish and said, "Confused? Frustrated? It’ll pass if you want it to. And I can tell you do." She
winked at me and I felt as if Ruth Thurman knew more about me than I knew about myself.  I felt like I needed to leave
before the mystique faded.

"Miss Thurman, I should go now even though I feel like I could sit with you for hours. I’d love to hear more of your
stories." She laughed a wicked sort of laugh and nodded.

"Well that’s all you get today! You want more, then you have to come back."

I was glad to hear that I could place a bookmark between the pages of Miss Thurman’s life and return to the same
place. Then she said, “As a matter of fact I have a birthday coming up. You can come and celebrate it with me right here
on this bench.”

I asked her, "When is your birthday?" She sat up straighter and said, "November fifth. I’ll be seventy-five." I thought
what the weather is typically like in November and said, "It might be cold then. Maybe we could plan on meeting
someplace else."

She shook her head as if that was not an option. Wherever Ruth lived—if she lived anywhere—she was not going to
bring me into that part of her life. I would have to accept the bits and pieces she chose to share.

"We can meet right here at one-o’clock."

"Okay. But I get to bring a small cake and something to drink."

She leaned into me and said, "Bring something with a little kick."

I laughed and agreed as I wrote down the date. I stood up to go. But I had to make one more attempt.

"Ms. Thurman, I have one more thing to ask you. This may seem odd, but . . . well, it’s a nice day. I have to get back to
work. But when I get off if you’re still here, would you like to join me at this little French bistro a few blocks from here?"  

As I rambled she looked at me but her mind was some place else. I sensed what she was going to say even before she
said it. But I continued anyway.

"The owner is a riot! He is so funny. They have a great pianist who plays and sings songs in French, like Autumn Leaves
and La Vie en Rose. When was the last time you heard La Vie en Rose? It’ll be fun. Please join me." I watched her eyes
for a sign.

She looked away and said, "You know I haven’t been in a bar or a club in probably fifteen years. Oh when I was your
age I used to go to all the big time places. The Cotton Club. Now that was a club!" I waited her to say yes. But instead
she said, "No honey, I am going to pass on your invitation. Oh but I truly appreciate it."  

I realized that I was trying to build something that couldn’t be built. Miss Thurman studied me and said, "Corona honey,
let me tell you something about life. Life is like being in a big, big picture. Sometimes it’s so big it can take your breath
away. It’s like you get swallowed up in its glory. It can feel so good. You know it’s not going to last forever, but it sure
feels like it. And that is the way the Divine created life to feel. Then one day, one day you notice that the picture has
begun to age, pieces of it start disappearing and falling off into unknown places. Sometimes you feel like the colors have
faded on you or that you been robbed of something. But you haven’t.  It’s just that yesterday is gone and you’ve been
a part of the minutes that make up the hours that make up the months that make up the years that make up the end."

The tears rolled down my face. Ruth Thurman knew how to tell and turn a story till it dripped with joy and pain. I wanted
to probe deeper, but I knew it was time to go.

She stood up, cleared her throat and said, "Corona, you go on now. I’ll see you on my birthday or whenever." She
placed her hands on both of my shoulders and kissed me on both of my cheeks, and said, "Just like they do in Paris."

I hugged her and said, "See you later Ms. Thurman. Take care of yourself"

"Yes dear. Take care of yourself too. Try not to get lost. Remember it is easy to get lost."

I walked quickly, refusing to turn back. I dug in my bag for my Walkman and put on my earphones and listened to the
Theme for Monterey. It always reminded me of a sunset in the Caribbean. I trotted back in the office prepared for an
ambush of questions as to where I had been. To my surprise nothing happened. For a few days I thought about Ruth
Thurman and the things she had shared with me. Whenever I walked through the park I looked for her. It occurred to
me that maybe she was a transient who was good at telling stories. It really didn’t matter. Ruth Thurman had amazed
me with her wit and charm.

A couple of months later I decided to go sit in the park. An elderly man was sitting on the bench I had occupied with
Ruth Thurman. I found another empty bench. It was breezy but comfortable. A young man, probably in his thirties, was
sitting on the bench where Ruth and I had sat. He was balancing what looked like a cake box on his lap and seemed to
be looking for someone. Eventually he stood up and scanned the perimeter of the park, sat back down, stood up again,
then slowly walked away looking around him as he left. Ruth came to mind and it dawned on me that her birthday was
about a month away. I made a mental note to pick up a little cake and small bottle of bubbly. It would be fun. Although I
wondered what the weather would be like.

On November fifth I set off for the park at about one-o’clock. It was a windy, cloudy day. I was bundled in a hat, scarf
and gloves. I picked up a small chocolate cake, and had them write ‘Happy Birthday Chere Ruth’. Armed with plates,
cups, forks, a small bottle of champagne, and a card I hurried to the park. I braved the wind as I glanced around for
Ruth. I could almost count the number of people rushing through. I sat on the bench and tried to appear comfortable
while I waited and my face took a beating from the wind.  After forty minutes or so I realized that Ruth was probably not
coming. I felt that same weird sadness I had experienced some months ago when I first saw her. An empty
indescribable angst. I laughed at my gullibility. I took it a step further and imagined Ruth back in Paris at her friend
Martine’s house, stretched out on a chaise-longue sipping champagne for her seventy-fifth birthday. Like she had said,
she was still able. I sat there starting to shiver and realized that it was probably unlikely that Ruth would take off for
Paris after so many years. But who knows?

I uncorked the champagne, sat one glass on the bench, next to a slice of cake, gulped down my champagne and wished
Ruth Thurman a happy birthday wherever she was.  As I was running out of the park I noticed the same man from a
couple of months ago entering the park. We exchanged hellos and kept moving. For no reason in particular I wondered
who he might be meeting.


The Metausine
Claudine Wright

What if there were a machine that could magically wipe away the ravages of time, and return you to the best year of
your life? Would you take advantage of it? Three people in the mythical town of Normal decide to take up a mysterious
stranger on this intriguing offer and are left to deal with the consequences.

His name, he said, was Monsieur Suleiman, and although he was vague about precisely where, that he was from the
East. None of the people in the small town was surprised when the mysterious stranger arrived. They woke up one
morning to find that M. Suleiman had settled into the old shop on the corner where Main Street, running north to south,
intersected with From Street. It was a strange intersection, From and Main, or Main and From, depending on your
starting point. Stores sprang up and closed with such regularity that the townspeople would glance twice when a new
sign appeared, and would remark: that used to be the hardware store, or the bakery, or whatever store happened to
be there two or three stores ago. The new occupants were invariably out-of-towners or foreigners with hope in their
hearts and desperate dreams of bright futures. And one by one, they fell to the same fate.

The rumor was that there was a vortex at From and Main, a sort of energy vacuum, a place where ley lines radiated
outward, leaving a perfect circle of nothingness. The spot looked normal enough, if a little bare. There was a lone tree
on the sidewalk, its branches cut out in the middle to allow the crisscross of wires that brought in electricity from the
pole on the opposite side of the street. No-one was ever quite sure who owned the place or who rented it to the
stream of hopefuls who came and went. Some of the old-timers remembered that an old man had lived there once.
Without family and with few friends, he moved away one day without notice or fanfare, and shortly after, within weeks
actually, the parade of renters began to show up.

So, for the people of Normal, it was rather routine when they woke up on a Monday morning in late August to find out
that a new tenant arrived. There was a huge truck parked in front—it must have slipped in the night before—although
how such a huge truck could have sneaked in without making a ruckus remained a mystery. The sun had not yet risen,
yet a man, presumably the new tenant, was already at work, taking large pieces of what looked like sheets of metal
into the small, slightly shabby wooden building. Silvery, with a dull patina like the wrong side of aluminum foil, each
sheet of metal, or whatever it was, was sturdy, yet pliable, and didn’t seem at all heavy despite its massive size. M.
Suleiman moved them around with ease, bending and measuring and sliding them through the door of the small shop.

As people went about their business from the safe distance of the opposite side of the street, they wondered at the
new tenant and what sort of enterprise the short, intense man could be setting up with all those huge sheets of metal.

Whatever the contraption was, it was being assembled inside the building with much flourish and a good deal of noise.
It also seemed to require a lot of dismantling of the old shop. The man, single-handedly, had removed the weather-
beaten shingles from the roof and replaced them with seven narrow panels of glass arranged in heptagon around a
center panel made of solid brass. After a week or so, the assemblage seemed to have been completed as the man
erected a huge sign in front of the shop that read, M. Suleiman’s Amazing Metausine, and began sitting on a straight-
backed chair by his puzzling sign.

The people of Normal were curious but wary. No-one had any idea what a metausine was, and although they whispered
amongst themselves, everyone was afraid to ask the man directly. There was something different, something slightly
scary about M. Suleiman. For one thing, unlike the others who had come before him, he seemed unconcerned with trying
to ingratiate himself with the locals in an effort to make them into customers. And those who glanced in his direction
long enough to catch his gaze came away feeling vaguely displaced, as if they had slipped sideways out of themselves.
He was, at the very least, they thought, slightly mad, but whatever his form of madness, M. Suleiman’s manner did not
invite questioning.

So they were left to puzzle amongst themselves. What is a metausine? After much consultations with dictionaries and
language mavens, someone said that usine was a French word for machine or factory, and meta was Greek for beyond,
so perhaps the metausine was something beyond a machine? But even so, what did it do? Or look like? If M. Suleiman
had expected the name to explain his machine, he didn’t succeed. No-one had the courage to ask M. Suleiman about his
metausine directly, but they were intrigued.

Much to the puzzlement of the townspeople, M. Suleiman seemed unconcerned that nobody visited his store within the
first few days after he put up his sign. For seven days, he opened the store promptly at 7:00 am, sitting near the
entrance on his stiff-backed chair until noon, when he would disappear inside, eat lunch by the open window on the
right side of the building, and come back to sit until 7:00 pm in the evening. On the eighth day, curiosity got the better
of Sam Sullivan. One of the town’s most adventurous residents—some would say reckless—Sam Sullivan decided to
strike up a conversation with M. Suleiman.

Sam Sullivan, depending on how you felt about him, was either the town eccentric, or the town crackpot. He was the
man who, before he retired ten years earlier, had attempted to train his dogs to pull him on a sled so he wouldn’t have
to drive himself to work. This escapade lasted only for a few hours before the mayor cited him for animal cruelty. Sam
Sullivan was also the man who dissipated his pension, much to the consternation of his children, trying develop a
machine that could translate thoughts onto a typewriter. It’s all energy, he would explain, if sound could be encoded
and transmitted on radio waves, why not the same for thoughts?  So it was no surprise that Sam Sullivan stopped by M.
Suleiman to find out what this metausine could do.

M. Suleiman was thrilled to explain his machine to one so earnest. As he walked Sam Sullivan around the machine, M.
Suleiman explained his machine, lovingly stroking the sides of the cool silvery metal.

There were seven sides, he said, to form a heptagon to mirror the seven panels of glass in the roof. The marble slab in
the center of the table beneath, coincided with the solid brass panel in the ceiling. Each of the seven glass panels was
ground and tempered in such a way to filter just one just one of the seven colors of the spectrum. The separated colors,
diffused so their individual properties could be bestowed on the person lying on the marble-topped table below, became
intensified as the silvery metal sides of the metausine concentrated their effects. Once bathed in this refracted light, the
person’s chromosomes would realign, and instead of losing information, would regain all the information they had lost.
Skin would become taut again, muscles would thicken, and mental sharpness would return. Moreover the machine was
keen to the emotive state. Anyone who entered the metausine, would be restored to the age and time they felt and
looked their best. The cost for this privilege, he said, was nine hundred dollars. Something to do with the sum of the
metausine’s internal angles.

So preposterous was this notion, that when Sam Sullivan explained it to the others, no-one was interested in trying M.
Suleiman’s “amazing” machine. It was all too convoluted, and for many, this explanation confirmed what they had
suspected all along--M. Suleiman, like Sam Sullivan, was a madman.  

But Sam Sullivan was fascinated. Not having much more than nine hundred dollars remaining to his name, he bartered
his thought machine, still in development after twenty years, with M. Suleiman for a spell in the metausine.

Perhaps it was because he was already crazy or perhaps because his mind was open to the possibility, but Sam Sullivan
felt the impact of the metasuine the instant he lay down in it. In a flash he saw the story of his life played out as if in an
old black and white movie fast-forwarded without sound. He saw his parents, laughing and tossing his infant self in the
air, he saw scenes from his childhood, and the first time he attempted to fly in the machine he had invented and had
strapped to his back. He saw Sally, with whom he first fell in love.  And he saw all these images with the original
emotions that had attended them. When he got to age twenty-two, he felt a surge of energy charging through his
body. He felt his body vibrating, so much so that his teeth began clattering against each other, and his arms and legs
began jerking and flailing as if he had fallen into an epileptic fit.

M. Suleiman ran into the room as he heard the clattering.

"Only one in a million, one in a million", he kept repeating, barely able to contain his excitement. The vibrations had
stopped, and Sam Sullivan was sitting upright, breathing heavily.

"My friend, you understand, don’t you, you understand the power of the metausine?" His eyes were intense, blazing, as
they searched Sam Sullivan’s for an answer, an acknowledgement.

"Yes, I understand", he said quietly. "I understand". Sam Sullivan brushed at the lint the intense light revealed on his
khaki-colored slacks.

"You understand that this is forever, the choice you have made?"

"Yes. Yes, forever,  Sam Sullivan replied somewhat impatiently. "So much to do! So much to do!"

"You understand the metausine?"

"Yes. Yes. It is amazing. I am humbled."

Sam touched the machine reverently with his fingertips as he got up from the marble slab.

"This does not compare," he said, thinking of the barter he had just made. "My machine is a toy compared to yours."

M. Suleiman dismissed this notion with a wave of his hand.

"Seven weeks," he said. "When you believe, the time is shorter. In seven weeks you will see the difference."

M. Suleiman kept his shop open for three more weeks without another customer despite Sam Sullivan’s enthusiastic
endorsement. At the beginning of the fourth week however, rumors began circulating that Sam Sullivan was beginning
to look younger. The changes were not dramatic, but soon, more and more people began to notice. Sam Sullivan's face
was beginning to smoothen, and if they weren’t crazy, he seemed to be getting taller.

John and Jane Russell were the first to entertain the idea of following Sam Sullivan into the metausine. Plain and
ordinary as their names, they were tired and worn out after thirty years of teaching, he, as principal, and she as biology
teacher. Each succeeding generation of children had become much more badly behaved than the last, and by the end of
thirty years, teaching had become more of a combat sport, than the imparting of knowledge their idealistic hearts had
hoped so many years before.

Jane had long lamented the loss of her firm, taut body, her beautiful hair, her unlined face. John longed for his virility, his
stamina, not so much minding his greying locks, as his hair remained full and thick, unlike his wife’s whose curls had
dwindled into a few wispy strands. So, over their grown sons’ objections, they withdrew money from their savings and
paid a visit to M. Suleiman.

M. Suleiman was excited, but not surprised that he finally had another customer. He knew human beings can wonder
about something only for so long before trying it out.

John was the one who insisted on a full explanation. How does this machine work, he wanted to know. Jane knew that
no matter what  M. Suleiman’s explanations were, they would be bizarre. Biology was fact. This was fiction. Nothing, not
vitamins, not exercise, and certainly not a machine, could reverse aging. But then, there was Sam Sullivan. He was
changing.

"How can we be sure of the results?" John asked, his skepticism at M. Suleiman's discourse on the metausine audible in
his tone.

"How can you be sure?" M. Suleiman repeated, raising his eyebrows and peering upwards at him, "Why I’ve used it
myself!”

Jane studied M. Suleiman more closely, and she had to admit, he was impressive. Strong-jawed and muscular, he had
only enough lines in his face to make him look interesting. His teeth were even and white, and he had a full head of
glossy black hair. If the metausine worked half as well on her husband as it had on M. Suleiman, she would be very,
very happy.

"When will we see the results?" she piped in, her mind darting to the possibilities.

"It’s very gradual," M. Suleiman said, "it’s like carrying a grain of sand at a time to fill a bucket. At first it seems
impossible, but one day you realize that the bucket is full."

"What if it doesn’t work?"

"It always works."

"What is our guarantee?"  John asked in a tone that suggested a full refund would be expected were this to fail.

"For that." Mr. Suleiman said, looking at them directly, "you’re going to have to trust me."

Jane wondered at the wisdom of subjecting herself to this strange machine, and felt queasy about handing over
eighteen hundred dollars to the creepy stranger with the intense eyes. But she quickly dismissed any doubts or
thoughts of delay, reached into her purse and handed M. Suleiman a sealed white envelope, thick with bills.  Regret
could come later. Right now, youth was waiting.

Lying in the metausine was anti-climactic. She saw nothing. The colors of the spectrum did seem to filter through the
glass panels as M. Suleiman had said, but she couldn’t tell whether this actually so or whether it was just her
imagination acting upon the tortured explanation she had just heard. She thought she felt a slight warmth, but then
again she couldn’t be sure. There was no fan to move the heavy air about, and lying in sunlight under glass was
enough to make anyone warm. Her toes and fingertips seemed to tingle, and she thought she felt a slight buzzing in
her ears, the left one more so than the right, but she had recently felt this buzzing and had made a mental note to see
a doctor.

After ninety minutes or so, her thoughts racing from 'what have I done' to 'what if this works', M. Suleiman came back
into the room, flipped a switch, and told her time was up. Her husband took her place on the marble slab, and promptly
fell asleep. All Jane’s attempts to elicit his experience for comparison in the metausine, were met with his sullen
response:

"I don’t know, I was sleeping."

Their neighbors were curious to hear from John and Jane about what happened  while they were in the metausine. But
not wanting to say too much just in case it didn't work, they remained mum, only allowing that they felt "energized."

After four weeks not much seemed to have changed for John and Jane. They felt embarrassed. Taken for ride. Their
sons berated them for wasting eighteen hundred dollars. They knew their neighbors were whispering about them,
calling them gullible, even foolish. They took to staying indoors, grateful that they embarked on this grand experiment in
the summer, when they only had to leave the safety of their house for trips to the grocery store.

M. Suleiman sat by the entrance of his shop every day for two more weeks with no other customers coming take up the
offer of the metausine. Sam Sullivan did indeed look younger, but given who he was, that could have been due to
anything. For all they knew, he could have taken to wearing makeup. The people who mattered, those who were
normal like them, had not yet changed. Behind their backs, the neighbors snickered at John and Jane.

But, one morning, as she raised her arms to fix her hair for one of the infrequent visits to the store, Jane noticed that
her arms, reflected in the mirror, were not quite so flabby as they were before. Dropping her brush, she pushed her hair
into a part with her fingers to look at the roots. They were darker, thicker, not the dull grey that had grown in twenty
years earlier.

She called excitedly to her husband who came rushing in, wondering what all her shrieking was about. It was then that
she noticed. He had run, run, into the room. She suddenly saw that his face was younger, his arms bulky and bulging
once again.

“Look!” she cried, gawking at their reflections in the mirror, “it’s working!”

John looked closely at his image. He had felt more active, but he was still smarting from being called an idiot, and he
dreaded to compound that notion by actually saying that the metausine was affecting a change, but it was undeniable.
There were changes. The metausine worked! He was getting younger!

Their belief accelerated the process. Although the changes continued to be gradual, each day brought a new revelation.
After several more weeks, Jane’s belly, stretched and sagging after having given birth to four sons, became smooth and
firm once again. Gone were the aching joints, the tiredness, the fuzzy memory. As for John, his muscles began to come
alive. His hair was growing in dark again, and best of all he could perform like an eighteen-year old again—at everything.

John and Jane felt vindicated. They began to proudly parade around town, happily telling anyone who cared to ask
about the wonders of the metausine. But the people didn’t really need to ask anymore. They could see for themselves
what had happened to John and Jane and especially Sam Sullivan. And for only nine hundred dollars!

Where once, everyone avoided M. Suleiman, now everyone flocked to his little store. There was even an occasional line
of people extending down the block, each waiting to spend their ninety minutes in the metausine. For the next six
weeks they happily paid their money, each person describing in colorful detail all the sensations they felt, or all the
visions they saw while lying in the wondrous machine. Oh it was a glorious time!

Then one morning, after most had taken advantage of the metausine, he was gone just as suddenly as he had arrived.
M. Suleiman, his truck and all remnants of the "amazing metausine" were gone. The only thing left was a gaping hole in
the roof where the seven glass panels had been, and a pile of shingles in the corner that were the roof before he
arrived. The vortex, they murmured. Must be the vortex. But no matter, M. Suleiman had brought them joy. Each day
was a new change, a new revelation:

"I can run as fast as I used to."

"Look at how my hair is growing in!"

"All my wrinkles are gone!" And on and on.

The first hint that something was amiss was when seven months after M. Suleiman had left, Jane and John had their
first argument in a long time. They had just come back in from one of their now frequent trips to the store and about to
enjoy their Friday night pastime--curling up together on the old sofa eating bowl after bowl of ice-cream.  As she tossed
her newly-grown locks, trying not to scrunch her face too much lest the wrinkles come creasing in again, she reached to
scoop a spoonful of ice-cream from her husband’s bowl when he suddenly pulled away and screamed:

“Mine!”

Stunned, Jane dropped her spoon to the floor and looked at her husband in disbelief. He was standing in the kitchen by
the sink balancing his bowl in the crook of his arm and holding two cartons of ice-cream, one in each hand, his face
resolute in its stubbornness.

"Mine!" he repeated.

"Why can’t I get some?" Jane asked, puzzled by his sudden outburst.

"One’s vanilla, and one’s strawberry and they’re my favorite!"

"They can’t both be your favorite,”"she said confused. "Why can’t we share like we like we always do?"'

"I don’t want to!" he screamed, stamping his foot.

Jane, now angry herself, grabbed one of the cartons from him, "You have to share!"

John began screaming, and in an action that surprised them both, threw himself on the floor, flailing and kicking in the
throes of a childish tantrum. Jane, shocked, tried to reconcile herself to what she had just seen. Her husband of almost
thirty-five years, a man in his seventies—albeit his altered seventies—was throwing a tantrum about ice cream!

As they looked at each other perplexed, Jane dimly remembered something that M. Suleiman had said: the metausine
returns you to the time and age that you felt your best. What they did not realize then was that the time one felt best,
did not necessarily coincide with the time one looked best. Jane felt best when she was thirty, but looked best at
twenty, and this was just what the metausine bestowed on her. Her husband looked best at eighteen, before the
accident that left the thick scar at the side of his face that took away his confidence and led him to marry Jane in the
first place, but he felt best when he was two, basking in the unconditional love of his mother.

Sam Sullivan was the only one who had understood the metausine. He knew he looked best at twenty-two, but he
knew that he felt best at sixty. His bargain with the metausine was to retain the wisdom of his years, and the strength
and good looks he had in his twenties: the best of both worlds, the vigor of youth and the wisdom of age. And to have
that forever! In exchange for a “thought machine” that might never work! It was the best barter he ever made.

Jane’s frustration’s grew daily. She was often brought to tears when her beloved husband, unable to help himself,
dissolved into a tyrannical two-year old at the slightest hint of disagreement.  

The rest of the populace began in short order to realize the Faustian bargain they had made. In their zeal, their
eagerness to hold on to their youth, none had thought to ask M. Suleiman if the changes were reversible, or how long
they would last, and no-one had thought to ask him where he would go next.

The town of Normal became anything but. It became a strange place where the children got older, but the parents
remained trapped in a weird sort of limbo, with age and emotions irritatingly out of sync. All attempts to locate M.
Suleiman came to no avail, and no-one knew how to get things back to the way they were.

Then, one morning, just like many mornings before, another store opened up. The new sign said the owner was Rose,
and that she was a teller of fortunes and a caster of spells.  She had been drawn to that spot, she said, because she
had heard there was there was a great need. But one had to be sure, before consulting her, she said, very sure.


Aging–It happens to the best of us!
Claudine Wright

Unless you’re talking about fine wine, some cheeses and assorted other foodstuffs, aging has a slightly negative
connotation. Getting older we can stand, but aging has the uncomfortable subtext as being never-ending, a slow
deterioration leading to inevitable decrepitude and (whisper) death. Frankly, it’s something we’d rather not do.

We are all familiar with the outward signs of aging, but what is it that actually sets the process in motion? Why do some
people seem almost "ageless" while others seem to "get old before their time?"

What is aging?
Biologists call it senescence and it is defined as "the combination of processes that contributes to the gradual
deterioration of an organism." There we go again, "gradual deterioration.." More unpleasant words! There are many
theories as to why things age. Ancient philosophers believed that each living being possessed a finite amount of life-
giving substance, or a pre-determined number of breaths and that we declined and eventually died as our supply of
substance or our number of breaths were used up.

The relatively recent science of Gerontology, or the study of aging, aims to find the answer not a single theory, but looks
to understand how some of the main theories popular today may explain the process of aging.

Is it all in the programming?
Programming theories of aging rely on the fact that every species of animal, and for that matter, plants, seem to have a
natural lifespan. While individuals within a species may live longer than others, all eventually succumb to disease and
death. Proponents of the programming theories argue that aging is a necessary part of the evolutionary process—if we
didn’t need feel the biological imperative to replicate ourselves, we probably wouldn’t.  We would choose to live forever,
and therefore stop evolution in its tracks. Our cells are programmed to die because in a perverse way, our lives depend
on it.

Telomeres, a copying glitch?
If you’ve watched Dr. Mehmet Oz on the Oprah show, you’ve probably heard of telomeres. Telomeres are sequences at
the end of our chromosomes that in the past were considered "junk DNA", bits of proteins that, because they were not
true genetic material, were thought not have a particular purpose. Or none that science could determine at the time.
Today, however, telomeres have emerged as one of the leading contenders in the modern theories of aging.

The theory is this: telomeres, though not genetic material themselves sit at the ends of the chromosomes, and their
function seems to be that of protecting the chromosomes from damage. When cells reproduce, the tips of the
chromosomes do not reproduce exactly, making the chromosome shorter and shorter with each duplication. Think of
photocopying the photocopy of a printed page, and each time, not placing the paper on the copier exactly. Eventually
the first line of the page will be cut off, and with each copy, more and more of the first line gets cut off, and becomes,
after many reproductions, becomes unreadable. Much the same thing happens with telomeres. Shorter telomeres
leaves the cell unprotected and vulnerable to damage.

Free radicals, the rogues of the aging process
It may sound like a throwback to the hippie culture of the sixties, but the free radical theory of aging is one of the most
widely accepted by mainstream medicine, and may be the reason many of us swallow “antioxidants” like Vitamins C and
E daily. First conceived by Dr. Denham Harmon in 1954, the free radical theory suggests that as our cells go about their
normal metabolic functions, they produce highly unstable, oxygen byproducts that Dr. Denham labeled “free radicals”.
Without getting too complex, unlike other molecules that come in pairs, free radicals are unpaired, and seek to pair up
with other molecules in a sort of degenerative mating dance. Once they attach themselves to other molecules, they
cause damage by chemically altering them, often permanently. Free radicals damage collagen, elastin, and even our
DNA, which scientists say, explains among other things, the sagging skin and the degenerative diseases that come with
increasing age.

Wear and tear—it happens to bodies too
Way back in 1882, Dr. August Weismann, a German biologist credited with being one of the founders of the science of
genetics, posited that the body’s cells became damaged over time through sheer use and abuse. Toxins, both in the
body and in the environment, and excessive consumption of fat, sugar, caffeine, and nicotine, he believed, wore down
the body’s tissues and contributed to the body’s decline.

The endocrine theory—our hormones are to blame
First proposed by Drs. Vladimir Dilman and Ward Dean in the 1960s, this theory points to the fact that the endocrine
system, the complex of glands that secretes hormones throughout the body, changes as we age: the thymus gland, for
example, often referred to as the “youth gland’, shrinks from an average 250 grams in infancy to a mere 3 grams in late
adulthood. The reduction in size seems to correlate with suppression of the immune system which itself, it is theorized,
leads to our vulnerability to age-related conditions.

Our genes, ourselves?
Other theories focus on our genetics. In the genetic theory of aging, it is assumed that the body, much like an
automobile, has a sort of built-in obsolescence. The outer limit of the human lifespan we now know is about 120 years.
This is potentially possible for all of us, but our individual genetics dictate our personal lifespan and aging schedule. We
all know people who, without plastic surgery, look "young for their age", while others seem to be on an accelerated
pace to old age.

All of these and the other hundreds of theories seem to have some basis in fact. But whatever the theory, the result
remains the same—gradual decline. But is aging an inevitable fact of life? As we discover more about human genetics,
might our theories of aging change along with life expectancy?

Changing the aging landscape
Despite the news headlines about obesity, diabetes, high blood pressure and all the other diseases that are shortening
the American lifespan, we are living longer. The US Census Bureau, in June 2008, estimated that there are about 95,000
Americans over the age of 100. This number is expected to more than quadruple to an estimated 1.1 million by 2050. If
we take heed and take better care of ourselves, might we continue to push the limit of the human lifespan?

The Methuselah Foundation, named for the Biblical oldster who in the book of Genesis is said to have lived an
impressive 969 years, thinks so. The Foundation’s stated goal is the "defeat of age-related diseases and the indefinite
extension of the healthy human lifespan." To achieve this goal, the Foundation funds two projects the MPrize, a
research prize for the successful extension of the life-span of the laboratory mouse, and the SENS (Strategies
Engineered Negligible Senescence) Project. This dual-pronged research, they hope, will give us humans the tools to
repair "all known forms of aging-elated damage to the body."

Forever young
Defeat of age-related diseases? Is this even possible? We’re not there yet, but we are getting closer. We’ve been told
that healthy diet, exercise, and stress reduction contribute to healthy aging, and there are communities of people
worldwide who seem to have done a remarkable job of remaining healthy and vibrant well into their advanced years.

Back in the late 70s, yogurt manufacturer, Dannon, launched television ads featuring men and women in then Soviet
Georgia who, fueled by bacteria-filled yogurt lived to energetic old age free from the diseases of their American
counterparts. The Hunzakut who live in the lush Hunza valley in

North Pakistan, the area said to be the inspiration for the fabled Shangri-La, are also touted to live long, disease-free
lives. Okinawa island in Japan, boasts the largest concentration of centenarians in the world. There are also significant
numbers of centenarians in regions as wide-ranging as the Nicoyan Peninsula in Costa Rica and the island of Sardiniain
the Mediterranean where Western diseases like heart attacks stroke, cancer, dementia, and obesity are rare.

Why do these populations do much better at aging than we do? Well diet for one. People living in these regions eat a
variety of locally grown mostly unprocessed foods, and consume roughly 1,900 calories per day compared to the 3,300
fat-and sugar-laden calories for the average American. They also live relatively stress-free lives, have a strong sense of
community, and live in extended families.

Insights from the very old
The oldest woman on record, Jeanne Louise Calment who at her death in France at age 122, was relatively healthy and
lucid to the very end, probably ate the typical Mediterranean diet and had the glass of resveratrol-filled red wine that
doctors recommend today, but she also smoked until she was 117, giving it up briefly for a year when advised against
it, before resuming the habit at 118. Madame Calment attributed her longevity to her genes—her father lived to 97, but
her two children predeceased her, dying in their thirties.

Dutchwoman Henrikje van Andel-Schipper, was also a bafflement to modern science. After her death at 115, an autopsy
of her brain showed none of the degeneration that would be expected in a woman of her age. Not only that, but van
Andel-Schipper was extensively studied for her cognitive functioning at age 112-113, and was found to perform at the
level of the average 60-75 year old. Weighing a frail 3.5 pounds at birth, she jokingly attributed her durability to the
picked herrings she had enjoyed all her life.

Maria Esther de Capovilla of Ecuador, 116 at the time of her death in August 2006, had never smoked, was deeply
religious and ate small, regular meals. She surmised that the donkey milk she had drunk since childhood contributed to
her long and healthy life. Four months later, Elizabeth, “Lizzie” Jones Bolden, the daughter of freed slaves, also died at
age 116 in Memphis Tennessee. Ms. Bolden revealed no great secrets to her longevity. In failing health in her later
years, she nonetheless lived long enough to see her 40 grandchildren, 75 great-grandchildren, 150 great-great-
grandchildren, 220 great-great-great grandchildren and 75 great-great-great-great-grandchildren.

So how do we live to a "ripe old age?" After all the theories and explanations, it seems clear that aging is an intricate
mix of genetics, chemistry, our individual physiology, and behavior that we are still trying to sort out. We can attempt to
achieve healthy old age by following the recommendations of doctors and using common sense about diet, stress, and
exercise, but in the end, Jeanne Calment’s advice might be the simplest, and the most telling: "Keep breathing."


Old
Claudine Wright

“I only saw an old lady in the elevator.” This was her response to my question, “Did you see my mother go by?”

Old lady? I was momentarily puzzled. There were no “old ladies” on our floor.

“Was she wearing a blue and white dress?” I asked, a sudden startling realization dawning on me.

“Yes."

Her eyes widened as her mouth fell open in that familiar expression of amazement mixed in with disbelief.

“That was your mother?”

For reasons that I couldn’t fathom then, and still can’t quite understand today, I was angered at her reaction.

"My mother isn’t old!" I snapped at her. I was amazed that she could make such an obviously crass statement. And to
my face on top of it!

"Well, she looked old to me.”"

"Old!" I bristled. "She thinks my mother is old! How dare she?" At the time my mother was in her sixties. The young
woman who had thus maligned my mother was new to our building and she and her family of eight lived in the
apartment across from me. While we were both in our twenties; she was probably about two years younger than me.
Yet I wondered. How could she perceive the woman I saw as being young and vibrant, a woman with nary a wrinkle
and a full head of hair its original jet black, as old?

Later when I saw her mother coming home from taking her seven-year old sister to the park, I understood. Her mother
was at most in her mid-forties, time enough indeed to have borne six children compared to my mother’s three. Sharon,
the oldest, and my mother’s accuser, I later learned, was born when her mother was twenty.  I made peace with her
reasoning. I thought her mother was young.

I have always had a non-judgmental relationship with age. My father, three month’s shy of his forty-seventh birthday
when I was born, was himself almost two decades younger than some of his siblings, yet I never saw my uncles or my
aunts as old. Even when they were crippled with arthritis and unnamed aches and pains, I saw the diseases as unkind
invaders, not the natural consequence of old age.

I rather enjoyed having family of advanced age. I loved it when I accompanied my aunt for a walk or an errand and
people would look on favorably as she almost raced ahead, using her walking stick for leverage on the uneven Harlem
sidewalks, and ask, “"s that your grandmother?"

"No. My aunt", I’d respond, and watch them look at us puzzled. Surely, I was too young to have an aunt that old!

"Your aunt! How old is she?" they would whisper, their faces a mixture of incredulity and reverence.

"Ninety", I’d whisper back. I would watch with pleasure as they silently mouthed, “Wow!”

"God bless her!”", they’d say.

"Oh, She does!" I’d respond. (I sneak gender equality in wherever I can.) Later, my aunt and I would chuckle over the
incident.  

After she died and I told a colleage at work that my aunt had passed away, she asked me if she had been ill. She had
Parkinson’s was my reply. This prompted her to ask the question one assumes is the case with Parkinson’s disease.

"Oh! Was she old?"

I hesitated, turning the question over in my mind, trying to reconcile the conflicting images of advanced age and the
blitheness of spirit that was my aunt.

"Well, not really."

"How do you mean ‘not really’. She’s either old or she’s not. Was she in her seventies, eighties?"

"Well . . . actually, she was ninety.”"

"Ninety! Claudine, I have news for you, ninety is old!"

I acquiesced, but only end the conversation. I had never thought of my aunt as being old. Despite the fact that she
could recall the 1918 flu pandemic and how she staved off certain death by tying garlic around her neck; the harsh and
brutal realities of the two world wars; the misery of the Depression; the date FDR signed the Social Security Act in 1935,
and the first time an automobile drove into her rural village in Jamaica, I never saw her as old. Yes, she had lived a long
time, and yes, she was alternately hobbled by arthritic hips and stiffened by Parkinson’s disease, but old?

It probably helped that I met her when I was in my twenties and she was already well into her eighties. That side of my
family had migrated to the US years before I was born, and having made the first trip by boat, my aunt wasn’t sure that
she trusted the new-fangled airplanes that had taken over international travel to bring her back to the country of her
birth. I never knew her when she was young, so I never saw her age. For me, she appeared fully formed, like the
goddesses of Greek mythology who began life as fully fledged adults. I couldn’t compare how she walked then to how
she walked now, or how active she was then, to how sedentary she was now. We had no personal history, so we were
unencumbered by expectations. We only had the present, the now.

It also helped that my aunt made no reference to her age, nor complained about her infirmities; even when she was
clearly in pain, she always said she felt "a little bit better" when asked how she was faring. She was also one of the
fortunate few who possessed a childlike openness that allowed her to marvel at all things new rather than look back at
all the things she had missed. If she regretted that her husband left to join the Marcus Garvey back-to-Africa movement,
and never returned to the US,  she never mentioned it. If she was unhappy that she had not had children of her own
she never spoke of it. Instead, she was proud that she had helped her nieces and nephew grow into accomplished
adulthood, with children of their own. And she took delight in all that the world had to offer without a hint that she
would miss anything when she was gone to "the place where they all go", as she would put it.

I remember once when we watched an Apollo launch together, she recounted the first the moon landing of 1969, and
she asked me if they really went the moon. Yes, I assured her, they really did. She paused for a moment, and spoke of
earlier days when most travel was by boat. "Look at what I’ve lived to see!" she exclaimed. She was grateful for her
long life, and while I was saddened when she died peacefully in her sleep, I was comforted that hers was a life fully
lived, and wonderfully appreciated.

Yet the process of achieving peace with the process of aging is nor easy: aging is not kind, my friends in their seventies
and eighties tell me. They speak of memory lapses where words, events and whole anecdotes they’re in the middle of
recounting suddenly recede as if snatched back into the black hole of the unreachable, only to re-appear at moments
inopportune to their remembrance—like at the hairdresser, or in the dentist’s chair, or on the taxi ride to the orthopedist.

Aches become a constant companion as various joints in turn announce their degeneration. Old sports injuries, dormant
for years reassert themselves. Eyes dim, hearing fades. Aging is not for wimps, a friend, himself a robust eighty-five,
once told me.

So what are those of us past the threshold of forty to look forward to? Should we fear the oncoming years, anticipating
aches and steady degeneration, a life of pills and potions for this malady or that? Or do we instead look forward to the
freedom old age will bring us as the poem by Jenny Jones[*] famous on the Internet suggests, to wear purple with red,
or run our sticks along the public railings, to "make up for the sobriety of our youth?".

The truth is getting older can be as damning or freeing as we want it to be. We are lucky to live in a time when our
choices are seemingly infinite: we can go back to school for a second or third degree; we can start a new business; if
we are financially sound we can choose to travel the world unaccompanied. We can be wiser in our choice of mates or
choose to be without one altogether. We can choose to get fit, and resist attempts to "replace" our hormones.

We are also free to choose to be Botoxed, extremely made over, or "cougared" with a man half our age, forgetting how
desperate we thought men looked to us when they went the nip-tuck-skirt-chasing route. More and more, it seems to
me that accepting aging, or my preferred term, getting older, is like everything else in life-–a matter of choice. We can
choose live in denial or regret, or we can fully embrace the oncoming years. And choose to wear purple with red, or
even yellow.



--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[*] Warning, by Jenny Joseph


What We're Reading Now

With each issue we will let you know the books or articles we are reading, and what we think about them.  Let’s hear
from you. What are you reading now?

Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison
Invisible Man was not the inspiration for naming VisibleWomanOnline, but it certainly prompted a re-reading of Ralph
Ellison’s seminal work. After being buffeted around by circumstances not entirely of his own making. Ellison’s unnamed
hero finds out that throughout all his life he, his essential self, remained invisible, and those around him merely used
him for their own ends.

Eat Pray Love by Elizabeth Gilbert
One Woman’s Search for Everything Across Italy, India and Indonesia
This book is a must read for any woman who has ever felt something pulling at her inner core. This is simply a
magnificent and surprising journey about self-discovery.

Other People’s Skin by Tracy Price-Thompson & TaRessa Stovall
These four contemporary novellas are engaging and enlightening, revealing deep- rooted and subtle nuances around
the age-old color issue amongst African Americans.  

That Mean Old Yesterday by Stacey Patton
We were moved to tears while reading Stacey Patton's recounting of her life as an abused foster child.  The horror
Patton endured and the outcome of her life is amazing.   

The Story of a Marriage by Andrew Sean Greer
Literally an intriguing story revolving around three characters, each of whom has something to lose and gain through a
game of deception. Set during a time when races didn’t mix, and sexuality was not talked about, this story has many
surprising twists.

Pig Candy - Taking My Father South, Taking My Father Home by Lise Funderburg
Funderburg has written a sentimental and nostalgic memoir about the trips she and her father took together back to his
birthplace. Intertwining family history with humor, she gives the reader an invitation into her background, and the
importance of family and traditions.
Premier Issue
Issue 1, Volume 1