Aging

My ex retired this past month. My son posted an appreciation of his dad. And he “tagged” me in Facebook on a couple of old photos with his dad and his dad’s family that I've included here.






I’ve been thinking a lot lately about growing older. I envy Richard. I too would like to retire. I have all kinds of projects I’d like to address while I still have thought and memory. It’s hard to keep at the day to day grind of work. And I’ve only done this for 10+ years not the 30+ or 40+ of many my age. I followed my bliss for quite a while and still managed to luck out with a real job that set me on the road to real retirement. The economy makes me realize that I may need to cut back. But I don’t have the fantasies I did about old ladies and cat food that I had 10+ years back.

I had a story for my life that was given to me growing up. I followed that story faithfully for some 30+ years of my life. And then I couldn’t quite live that story any longer. And that was very difficult for those around me. I’m sad that I caused pain to people I loved. But I continue to be glad that I began searching for a different story that I could live. I’m still a seeker. Never have settled into one thing. And I feel that sense these days that I should move on. I guess that the economy isn’t quite cooperating.

Looking at these pictures and calling up in my memories these old stories, what always strikes me is that the soul, the heart, it doesn’t really age. For me at least, it still seems young, forward looking, optimisitic. But that heart doesn’t quite match the face in the mirror. The facts of life.

I still think life is good. I’m glad to revisit these memories of a former life. I feel good will and some nostalgia. Even affection and love for so many of the folks I see in these pictures. I also still feel that wasn’t quite my story. I’m glad for the adventure that life has been--and continues to be.

The poetry of code

For my job I am more and more involved with the developer side of the house. For most of my career at Adobe, I’ve focused on IA (info architecture), style for end user stuff. Now I’m broadening my view, my touch, for better or worse.

So tonight I was reading a tutorial on ActionScript (trust me this is important to Adobe). What struck me is how concise and charming this language is.

If, then.
Yes, no.

That’s what it takes to create the amazing interactive online world we swim in. And today I was charmed by the language rules that enable this world. Something very like the disciplined structure of poetry. You can create this most amazing of worlds in the simplest of software--notepad, simple text. This is a world of simple, logical, concise, disciplined language.

In the first 10 or 15 pages I read some very good advice on writing. . . . . . .

• Language matters.
• We will create container to keep track of important data (details, facts, info. . . . . .)
• We need to attend to the syntax we use.
• Be careful about names.
• Some language is dynamic and some static or literal. Dynamic language depends for meaning on its context.
• Conditional statements enable different responses for different contexts.
• And now I am learning that code “listens” and “responds” to an “event.”

I’m trying to remember now why I went to English lit graduate school. . . . . . . . . .

Random thoughts

A week ago
Organizing content from the ground up, using my editing software to get content ready for a machine to translate, order in US and India, how this impacts my (work) life, emotions--especially sadness, anger, fear, happiness; agon & politics still; charisma, what is a messiah complex--who has to have one?; search, walking, a garden, retirement, on the risks of assuming continuity, is language important, Obama and language, do I still care about Joseph Smith, feeding oneself, visiting hte legislature, multiculturalism, free speech, what should we spend money on, buying houses, fixing houses, the flag, my yard, telephones, aging, senility, memory, fears, frustrations, love, fish, food, gambling, saving, bowling, exercise, shopping, walking, food for one, war, what annoys me, terror, depression. . . . , rain, spring, earthquakes, dreams, delight, shoes, what the face says, hands, vests, pens, nuts.

A year ago (4.20.08)
Work, elections, agon, feminism and somen, food, garden, beauty, books, writing, Bevin, EBT, Sarah, Nathan, Don, grandchildren, spring, weaher, driving, walking, search, technology, wood floors, color, drinking, wine, beer, farmers markets, goats, soup, clothing, cooking, ocean, rain, kitchens, colors, clothes, shoes, cheese, friends, solitude, listening, seeing, sun, forest, desert, history, Mormon, marriage, education, aging, appearance, communication.

Miss Bevin goes to Washington--Olympia, Washington

Today Sarah, Bevin, and I went to Olympia to lobby our legislators. (My two daughters and me.) Washington state is facing at least 8 billion dollars in debt over the next couple of years. In response, Governor Gregoire, recently re-elected Democratic governor, published a budget proposal for the next 2 years. Not pretty. Cut that go deep into the bone. The state constitution mandates a balanced budget. I don’t envy the governor or the legislature.

One proposed cut I suspect few folks noticed. Beginning May 2008, total wipeout of Adult Day Health Services. This hits me personally because my daughter Bevin attends an adult day program 5 days a week. Though we’ll be impacted by these cuts in a profound way, we won’t be left with the absolute horror that will confront many families and many of those receiving adult day health services. We met many of these people today. And I’m even more convinced these cuts are a horror. If you live in Washington, please read this and lobby your legislators SOON.

Adult day health services are funded largely through medicade (that means the state must mostly pay). Folks who attend are elders and handicapped adults who can’t care for themselves. These day programs provide a few hours of respite for care givers. And they provide nursing oversite for some very fragile adults--seniors with Alzheimers, adults with brain injuries, physically and developmentally disabled adults.

I went with my daughter Sarah, who lives with her husband and four children in Bellevue, and with Bevin, my handicapped adult daughter. Bevin is physically 29 years old--developmentally (think IQ) at about 18 months. Think of Bevin as a very experienced but still profoundly clueless 2 year old (sort of). We visited the offices of two senators and three legislators.

Here are the people we met today:

Chris. A developmentally disabled and handicapped adult man. He is the only child of a father and mother who have cared for him at home all of his life. His parents are at retirement age, worrying about what will happen to their only son when they die. Chris has been at an adult day health service program for about two years. In that time, he has expanded his world. Learned what it means to have a world that doesn’t revolve around him but is much bigger. He was so excited to be there today to tell people how much he loves his program. For the first time, his parents can see a successful path for him to move into the larger world and to survive--successfully--once they are gone.

Christy. A developmentally disabled and handicapped adult woman. She lives at home with her mother. She is blind, profoundly developmentally disabled, and recently had a kidney transplant. Her program allows her mother to keep her daughter at home. Christy was excited to be there as well.

Jane. A an adult woman with downs syndrome. She was a crazy lady. Excited about being there. Full of stories about what would be happening next week at her program--at the top of the list painted fingernails. She is the only child of retirement age parents. She lives at home with them. This gives them a way of looking forward as well.

Mildred. She was there alone--another woman nearing retirement. She has a profoundly disabled adult daughter who lives in a group home and visits every other weekend--her only child. She has a husband who suffered cardiac arrest two years around with profound brain damage. Now her husband has no short term or long term memory. He needs constant care. The day program allows her to have some time to herself during a week. Makes it possible to keep her husband at home rather than putting him in a rest home.

We gathered in the cafeteria at the capitol. Folks in wheel chairs. Seniors with severe health programs and with dementia. All of these people attend these day programs.

Without these programs, these people will be forced into rest homes, families will be forced to quit work. Lives will change in sad ways--ways that shouldn’t be acceptable.

My daughter Bevin has no skills. She loves to hang out. Loves to ride the bus. She goes to day programs. This keeps her engaged in the world, happy. If she is left hanging about the house she either goes under a blanket and sleeps, becomes in essense an infant. Or she becomes angry and resistant. With a place in the world, she is able to live in a lovely group home during the week. With girls who talk and laugh--some even have jobs. These girls are much higher functioning than Bev and provide a wonderful environment for her. Without the day programs, she will probably end up living in a much more institutional kind of place. Or I will be forced to give up my work and my life to take care of her. Now we both have good lives. But after today, I don’t think my story is what folks should think about.

Folks should think about Chris and Christy and Jane and Mildred. These people are at the edge. If things fail for them, our society will still pay. And more. For emergency services. For nursing homes. But everyone will lose.


For pictures of the day on Facebook: Miss Bevin Goes to Olympia

Obama as Reagan

I thought that this opinion piece from the New York Times today provided an interesting perspective on the way that Obama might take some lessons from Ronald Reagan. I was never a fan of Ronald Reagan at the time he was president. And I still have serious disagreements with pretty much most of his ideas. But over time I have come to respect more things about Reagan. One thing I did learn is that he was a man who cared about words and wrote many of his own. I also believe that words matter.

Some of the points that struck me reading this piece.

• Reagan also became president at a time of economic crisis.
• He understood that getting the economy on a good footing was the necessary foundation for transformational changes he wanted to make in what government was about.
• He had to build coalitions with Democrats and keep some of his conservative supporters at bay in order to pass legislation that was important to him.
• When he made some key deals, he kept his word.

Obama about Reagan from his autobiography: ““Reagan spoke to America’s longing for order, our need to believe that we are not simply subject to blind, impersonal forces but that we can shape our individual and collective destinies, so long as we rediscover the traditional virtues of hard work, patriotism, personal responsibility, optimism and faith.”

What's the point? Why not phone?

That was the question from my sister JoAnn, older than me and in her seventies, when I engaged her in her first “chat” on Facebook. We had chatted back and forth about how she came to be on Facebook: her daughter made her join. But then she to to her point : What’s the point of this chat thing? Why not just phone?

That’s not a bad question. I’m new to Facebook myself. I was instructed on how and why to join over Thanksgiving when I was visiting my son Nathan and his family in Williamsburg. Jacob, a first grader, was the one who insisted I join and stepped me through theprocess. His most immediate wish--to have another account to use to play games. He taught me how to bowl and we created a pet for me--Sadsack. He also instructed me in how to care for Sadsack. Also showed me how to create, send, and receive “flair.”

I discovered my husbands children already online and a goodly number my mom and dad’s descendants. I had three older siblings--10 to 14 years older than me. One younger sibling. A goodly number of their children and grandchildren are actively on Facebook. What fun. Even found my husband there--with no friends. So I’ve been adding friends--family and then friends via my old life in Utah and friends via my current life at Adobe.

I wasn’t surprised than my son and his family--Nathan, Heather, and Jacob--were on Facebook (Beth, not quite two, hasn’t yet developed her mouse and keyboard skills). Facebook did teach me something about Heather’s family (and now about Nate’s and Heather’s nuclear crowd) that I hadn’t quite understood: the extent to which games can organize family dynamics. I’ve never had the game gene myself: find it nigh impossible to make it through scrabble game, monopoly, a puzzle, a crossword, solitaire. Nate is has the game gene. (Don and his family mostly do.) Heather comes from a family that is nigh onto game obsessed. And Jacob is learning. He could definitely beat me in a game of Scrabble (with a few winks from his mom).

I’ve been following what happens with Nate, Heather, et al for years via the internet. Both are good writers and energetic bloggers: Nate's new blog Akrasia , Nate on Times and Seasons , Nate on Concurring Opinions , Heather on Mormon Mommy Wars and Segullah . Sometimes I stand back and realize that I haven’t talked to them on the phone for weeks and weeks. Yet I feel like I know what’s going on. I’ve been reading these wonderful blogs and commenting. Thinking about them.

Prety much every day, I read the wonderful blog of a friend of mine from graduate school (Lisa's Hightouchmegastore ).

I don’t much like the telephone. No longer even have a land line--only a cell phone. And I never use my minutes.

I’m having fun on Facebook. Something very satisfying about being a silent voyeur, a watcher on others lives. Sending out my feelers to find others. There is something very satisfying about this.

Where to begin. . . . Why not the phone indeed.

Serial Killer Redux

Much to my surprise (really), the audiobook I listened to post Heartsick turned out to be another:

• Book by a first time author
• Book with a sequel
• Book about a serial killer

The details of this book were unknown to me as I began my listen. I purchased the book because of the number of times it appeared on the best of 2008 lists. But I remembered no details. And this somewhat accidental book has confirmed (alas) my reluctant disappointment with Heartsick (Reader as Goat ).

The book I just finished: The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo by Stieg Larsson, a book translated from Swedish. (Literally translated from Swedish the book would be called Men Who Hate Women. This is a first of a triology called in English the Millennium triology. All of this I’ve learned since finishing the book (Stieg Larsson bio).

Larsson died at age 50 of a massive heart attack. He was a well known journalist, whose own bio shares plots with those of his hero Mikael Blomqvist, also a journalist. At Larsson’s death three books were completed, another almost, and ten addition books sketched out in some form. He wrote in his evenings, only worked to get the books published shortly before his unexpected death. So the three completed books were published in Swedish after his death. The book I listened to was publishd last summer in English. The second in the triology was just published in UK, scheduled in US for the summer.

Here are some of the things that this Goat liked about The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo:

• Set up as a pretty traditional mystery. A girl went missing long ago. On a small island cut off because of an accident. That means the cast of suspects is very small and finite. And the ground has been gone over again and again for 40 years. Yet something new does eventually turn up in a surprising but believable (at least I was willing to suspend disbelief) way.
• Our hero is new to the country side. So you learn lots about the Swedish country side as well as the city as he goes back and forth and contemplates his surroundings.
• There is a somewhat strange second character set loose in the narrative, the girl with the tatoo. Odd girl. Almost autistic. Perfect memory. A hacker. Maybe a stereotypical character. But what is she doing in this narrative. We know that eventually we’ll find out.
• Okay (now I’m being a little bit of the spoiler) about half way through this turns out to be about a serial killer. But that’s over pretty soon.
• And then we still have to solve the original mystery of the missing girl.
• And finally we move on to the story we started with--a big bad industrialist and how we’ll bring him down.
• And before we’re done we have to set up some loose ends to make us want to find the sequel. For both journalist and odd girl.
• And by the way the odd girl manages two extra plots about abuse and sadism as well as high financial intrigue in offshore accounts that are a bit ancillary to the main plot. Besides figuring out who she is is almost a book.
• Not to mention figuring out who Mikael Blomqvist is.

Why did I like the book? A certain resistance to the ending. Blithe overplotting. Too much story at an almost leisurely pace. And to give me all this in the outback of Sweden--not quite the Orient Express or the Library.

Who can resist? Not me. I just ordered (from Amazon.UK since I can’t wait until July): The Girl Who Played with Fire.

Not sure if this is another serial killer. Stay tuned.

Reader as goat: A minor crisis

I recently noted on my blog (Read and Drive) that my reading tastes are a tad eclectic--that I’m something of an omnivore. My son replied no, Mom, you’re a goat.

He has some evidence for this view. I have licensed his computer to access my Audible account--my secret audiobook list. He knows the full scope of my reading (listening) shame. I’m sure that it seems, looking at that list, that I might read anything, that I have no scruples.

My latest audiobook listen has left me contemplating that possibility: Heartsick by Chelsea Cain.

I do have reasons for choosing books. I think the reasons for purchasing Heartsick were something like this:

• I do have a certain interest in serial killer novels. Recently I’ve been interested both in the books and the series Dexter. Horrifying, you both think and laugh about serial killing.
• Cain is a Northwest writer. The book is set in Portland. I was living in Seattle in the 70s when Ted Bundy was killing here and in Utah when he was killing there. And recently we had the Green River killer. The Northwest should have a good serial killer character in fiction. And I support Northwest writers when I can.
• The book was fairly well reviewed as a first novel.
• The serial killer is a woman. Compared to Hannibal. Okay, I’m hooked.

So why the crisis? I was pretty annoyed by the writing and by the narrative plotting. I was prepared to review this with an enthusiastic thumbs down (okay, so I’m reviewing on LibraryThing and Facebook and I do realize no one cares). And yet today I did some google reading about Cain and purchased her sequel. Have I no principles? Am I easy?

The goat annoyed:

• The writing was too clunky, overwrought and explained. I’m annoyed when I find myself thinking about the writing. With a really good book, I rarely even think about writing the first time through. I was often thinking about the writing, the plot--and not the characters and the story.
• I am a willing suspender of disbelief. I understand this is the basic release that makes pleasure in reading possible. But this book pushed me way beyond my endurance. A scary book is scariest when the steps that lead there have been dipped in a dose of reality. This book continually tested (and trashed) my patience.
• Way too much gore. Now I understand that I read this book partly because of the comparison to Hannibal. But there is a point at which the imagination rules and the explicit, relentless explainer diminishes the narrative. I’m a forgiving reader, but often I was horrified and not enough intrigued.
• Byronic hero. This must convince me. I am a fan of Byron himself after all. What I like about Dexter is the humor. Laughing at death and gore makes me think, implicates me. This hero is just way too romantic and serious and tortured. I want to love him and to sympathize. But often I just groaned and checked how many minutes to the end. Maybe it’s harder to sympathize with love story and serial killer than I imagined. And give me a break with that pill box!

And why, goat, did you finish the book and buy the sequel?

• Okay. The relationship with victim and victimizer did engage me. Though please, the little side bar about the Stockholm Syndrome--Patty hearst, etc. Who hasn’t heard about this who would conceivably read a book.
• Northwest. I’m still trying to be a fan. That’s a big part of this.
• And again, I read the reviews. They tell me she’s getting better.
• And, as Nathan says, I’m a goat.

And so, today, I bought Sweetheart, the sequel. Stay tuned.

Curl Envy

I have a serious case.

During the 80s I pretended with perms. Tried to impersonate someone carefree, wild, curled. Can’t say it exactly worked.

So in recent years I’ve submitted to the hair dryer. Time spent styling every morning. And that morning routine came to seem ever more looming--a daunting barrier to run each morning.

Finally I said no more. Told my hair lady to layer away. Assume I’ll just stir it up in the morning. Give my pathetic curl and resistance a chance. It’s been several months now with the let it go hair. No dryers, no brushes, really no combs. Just fingers. I can’t say that I look or feel glamorous. But I’ve decided I’m beyond that. (Anyone want a hairdryer?)

What I have is a whiff of simplicity. A small sloping knoll to walk in the morning, not a mountain to climb.

Is this old age?

Endings, Take 2

I finished the book, alas.

I find evidence that the book itself contemplates this may be the final P. D. James novel (I still hope not). Don’t read on if you don’t like folks spoiling endings. . . .

Adam Dagliesh does marry Emma. Kate gets back with her ex. Dagliesh contemplates whether this might be his last case. And one of the final scenes is that of an elderly lawyer, living in an upscale senior care facility who medidates on the end of life, age, and what it’s like.

Perhaps the pressure of this ending captures my imagination because I am at that point in life where I more and more find myself thinking about age, growing old. . . . . Clearly I am very much nearer the end of my life than the beginning. The pressure of the ending.

I can only hope for another Adam Dagliesh novel. In the meantime, I discovered that I missed a number of the earlier novels. So now I plan to begin again, keep the ending at bay in that way. . .

Endings

I’m about 3/4 of the way through P. D. James most recent Adam Dagleish story, The Private Patient. I’m a fan of Adam Dagleish and a fan of P. D. James. Who can resist the writer or the detective. Not me.

I always have mixed feelings when I’m immersed in a good book. Enjoying myself. Driving toward the ending--wondering what will happen. But resisting. Knowing that the sadness associated with being done will be as strong as the pleasure of finishing.

This time I find myself thinking incessantly about the fact that P. D. James is 88 going on 89. How much more can I expect. Could this be the last one? No not that ending.

Adam is musing on retirement, and planning marriage to Emma--looking forward. I’m thinking that those events won’t happen in this novel. Which gives me hope. There may well be more in the wings. . . . . . .

If only. . .

Trying this out

Posting from my iGoogle page. How easy is that.

And Drive

I love to read and drive.

A habit I acquired when I drove each Friday night from San Jose to Sacramento. I found that music, which I love, put me to sleep. Listening to audiobooks engaged my mind enough to keep me awake. And so the practice came into my life.

I don’t remember my parents reading to me. I doubt that they did. Though we had books (and my mom was an English teacher). So audiobooks introduced me to that pleasure. Having a book read to me. I grew to young adulthood in a time when “speed reading” was seen as positive. Graduate school taught me that “slow reading” was better. But listening to a book read with relish and talent really taught me about slowing down with a book, sinking into the world, enjoying the slow, delicious sound of each word spoken a relished.

And there is definitely a practical side to being read to (AKA listening to audiobooks). I still read in bed, at tables, over coffee, sitting on the couch, in restaurants and libraries. But now I can read in times and places never before possible. A truly blissful discovery for the girl always called a bookworm. I can read while I’m doing dishes and cleaning the house. I can read while walking, running, exercising. I can read when I wake up at night--I don’t need to sit up, turn on the light, wake myself up. I can almost look forward to my insomnia.

And I can read while I drive. This brings together two blissful experiences from my childhood. A good book. A drive (with my folks that generally meant towards the Tetons or Yellowstone, a picknick, a move in the direction of mountains and streams and creaks) on a Saturday or Sunday afternoon.

Now I drive as a hobby? An obsession. And a good part of the pleasure is the pleasure of the sounds of books--trash, classics, histories, thrillers. I’m an omnivore on the reading front I’m afraid.

And so the the real sub-text of my story about fear on the roads in the snow. I was a afraid. But I was also enjoying myself. In the middle of a good book. Which kept me from worrying too much on the other front. And with my perfect driving/ reading companion--Bevin. She never complains about what I am listening to. All she needs is an occasional poppy and a stop from time to time to relieve herself. And food (though she, my daughter, will eat most anything).

A good part of my recent two-week plus holiday was spent in the car (a hybrid, my nod to responsibility on driving as a hobby/compulsion), reading. (A couple of books may have been part of my Thanksgiving driving in Virginia. . . . . .)

Here are some of the books (what pleasure)--I have included brief reviews of most of these on my Facebook account (Susan Staker) and on Library Thing linked here on my blog:

Netherland: A Novel by Joseph O’Neill
When Will There Be Good News by Kate Atkinson
The Comfrots of a Muddy Saturday (Isabel Dalhousie) by Alexander McCall Smith
Fingersmith by Sarah Waters
A Mercy by Toni Morrison
His Illegal Self by Peter Carey
I See You Everywhere by Julia Glass
Fleshmarket Alley (Inspector Rebus) by Ian Rankin
The Interpretation of Murder: A Novel by Jed Rubenfeld
The Story of Edgar Sawtelle by David Wroblewski
The Careful Use of Compliments (Isabel Dalhousei) by Alexander McCall Smith
The Secret Scripture by Sebastian Barry (this one may have been before the trip)
Home: A Novel by Marilynne Robinson
The Girl of His Dreams (Commissario Brunettie) by Donna Leon

What grand fun!

Whence the moment?

In a famous passage in William Wordsworth’s autobiographical poem “The Prelude,” he is on a walking tour in the Alps. He imagines the moment when he will come to the highest point in the walk and begin the downward trek into Italy. Looking forward he has grand plans and expectations for the moment. But at some point he realizes that he has already passed the summit and has been heading down for some time.

For some reason, this moment in the poem popped into my head as I thought about my experience the weekend before Christmas driving in the snow toward California. It may seem a stretch, but who can second guess the free association of the mind (I think I was driving back to Seattle when this came to me).

I spent the Saturday before Christmas looking for chains that would fit my car. With all of the snow in Seattle of the previous few days, finding chains was not an easy task. I was not the only person in Seattle to decide that buying chains was a good idea. After several stores and many hours, I finally found a pair that would fit my car.

Sunday morning was a horror. Snow everywhere and still falling. Forecasts for more snow and freezing rain all along the I-5 corridor into California. But Bevin and I set off in the morning for Sacramento. I finally decided that I would be better off cutting to the coast (I love to drive the coast but I do think there was basic sense in my decision).

We did fine until Aberdeen. But the drive between Aberdeen and Astoria was some of the worst snow driving I’ve encountered. First I took a wrong turn that added 40-50 miles extra to the drive. And then I headed up into the coastal mountains. Hardly anyone on the roads. Nothing plowed, just tracks of previous cars and those filling fast. For nearly three hours plus I drove at about 20 miles an hour, encountered one highway that had been closed and had to retrace my tracks.

I kept wondering when I should stop and put on the chains. No signs that said do it now or you can drive no further. Encountered no one else putting on chains--or using chains. (Actually few other vehicles and most, in retrospect, were pickups.) So I kept wondering and thinking about the chains and finally I was on the road along the coast, leading across the bridge and into a very snowy Astoria.

I’m relieved we made it. And left remembering that it’s hard to tell when the moment is passing, when it’s downhill from here for better or worse.

2009 Resolutions

        ❑        Finish an article on 1830 and send for publication.
        ❑        Write at least weekly on blog. I need to develop a habit of writing.
        ❑        Less meat, more vegetables.
        ❑        Go to the dentist and the doctor.
        ❑        Take Bevin to the dentist and the doctor.
        ❑        Lose 10 pounds.
        ❑        Walk. At least 2 days a week. Can it be more. How do I add more exercise to my life? Figure this out.

In defense of lethargy

Watching the economic melt down this past week, I’m a little bit happy about my laziness of the past year or so. I kept meaning to go talk to someone and do some responsible, forward-looking planning for retirement--which I am fondly dreaming is coming very, very soon. But it meant all that paperwork. Making an appointment. Doing all that stuff first.

And I never quite got there. So my savings (from selling some of my stock from work) just stayed there in that brokerage/savings account. Over the past few weeks, I’m not so unhappy about that. I’m almost ready to stuff the money in my mattress--it’s just that I’m not entirely sure whether I should stuff dollars, euros, rupees. . . . . . . Gold? Now that would take more goal-oriented behavior than I seem able to manage. And my 401K--responsibly invested in stocks et al. Well that seems to be under water.

I’m left not sure exactly what next. I remember my father--who was so defined in crucial ways by the depression. That always seemed so much in the past for me. And now I think. Could my hard-won savings not be worth what I thought. That’s not the present, the future, but the past. How can that be?

Left a bit breathless. But also mostly glad I’m lazy.

Living with someone who is depressed

My husband has a decades long bout with depression. Currently he is in deep trouble. He quit taking his medication. On one hand, this is admirable because it took a great deal of determination to do this. And decades on anti-depressants is a scary thought. But now he is a depressed mess. He doesn’t have a doctor/ professional he is talking to. And here’s what it’s like to deal with him:

• He’s very irritable. Everything makes him annoyed.


• He’s very negative. He puts a negative spin on everything.


• He’s paranoid. Everything that I do is somehow personal, limited, at least something to make him feel bad, if not worse.


• He’s very trapped in a personal world. He interprets things very personally. If he feels bad, then folks are hurting him. If he can see no other view, there is no other view. If you talk about yourself, you are being selfish.


• He’s paralyzed by his misery. Nothing matters. Nothing is good. Nothing can be done.


• If you are silent, you are ignoring him. If you agree, you are patronizing. If you speak and don’t agree, you are arguing.


• No one loves him. No one cares. No ones understands. Nothing matters.

If you read any book about depression, you’ll see a set of symptoms emerging here. I’ve not exhausted the story.

He is a sweet man whose depression overwhelms the sweet, smart, quirky, kind, funny man I have seen and love. Occasionally I still glimpse this man.

Another night at the convention

I realize I have no hard judgment. I can't respond objectively to the democratic convention. Here's where I'm left after 8 years of the Clintons and 8 years of the Bush Republicans.

Bullets follow, the signal of random thought:

• I was sick of the Clintons, their approach, the nasty heat that followed. That led me to Obama as much as anything else.


• I'm sick of Bush and the Republicans being in charge. Just plain nasty (do you see my mindless mantra here). I've hear too much of that. The nasty liberals, the nasty elitists, those bad folks who aren't really Americans like us. I've had my fill of that too. And too sure of what "right" belief is. I'm a skeptic on folks who know what is right. And that's a long story for me, but a deeply felt one.


• So where can we possibly go from here. Obama is obviously young, inexperienced, someone not quite with what we expect as the one who might be president . But to a certain extent I'm okay with that, though worried. I suspect that the transformational figures were mostly there when they popped onto the national scene. (Lincoln, T Roosevelt, Kennedy, Clinton, for better or worse.) I see good signs with him (smart, pragmatic, decent). But I worry about some things--especially global economy. But I tell myself he's smart, pragmatic, decent. And what are my choices. I think I'll go with smart, pragmatic, decent, open. I do think he's open, not dogmatic.


• I'm starting to get old. Not hugely old but 5 weeks older than Hillary Clinton. That makes me think that McCain really is pretty damn old for someone we're thinking about electing President. And that worries me. Because I spend a good deal of time these days thinking about what it means to get old. There are other things about McCain that worry me.

Hope? How?

I've been watching the Democratic convention over the past few evenings. This sort of thing does leave me interested and discouraged:

• Why are the Clintons so damned good, talented, smart, moving, when I can't trust them?


• Things will be nasty again. I especially hate the way it will be nasty against the Obamas. Why is this part of American politics?


• I don't see how we can be against global economics. This is a fact and mostly good. Our politics needs to find a functional way to deal with this.


• Obama. I basically like him and his wife. What a weird combination of black and too educated (read elistist), who could have imagined his combination.


• I'm not against educated (even graduate school educated folks). Why is this unAmerican. It should be that person is impressive, or annoying, scary. Just like everyone else.


• I seem to be in the gut a Democrat. Not always easy with a son who interviewed to work for Clarence Thomas and a husband who listens daily to Rush Limbaugh, et al. . .


• I do listen nightly to PBS, CNBC, CNN, Fox in an attempt to have a spectrum. I also read the Economist.

When yes may mean no

My hunch for some time now in working with my colleagues in India is that folks always want to be accommodating and positive. This means that pretty much no matter what I say, my colleague in India--I'm thinking in particular of the editorial manager most parallel to me in the food chain--will agree with me. And then he starts talking. Rapid-fire, India English. A very specialized dialect, discourse. It's hard to track in detail. But invariably I come away with the deep hunch that this yes was a yes, but. . . . . . A qualified yes. Perhaps very close to a no.

Communicating with a team in India is a challenge. Some things to know about India. All of India is in one time zone. At a general level this means two time zones have been combined and halved. This accounts for why meetings with India or either 12.5 or 13.5 hours off times in Pacific Standard Time--Seattle or San Jose or San Francisco ( the main crowed I'm dealing with right now). The .5 is accounted for by the fact that India decided they wanted the country on one time zone, took the two main ones and cut them in half: that's the .5. And then the 12.5 or 13.5 hours--that's because India has no daylight savings times. At the equator this makes sense. There really isn't time to "save" with the seasons.

So communicating. It means that in meetings with India you can meet 7:00 a.m. PST (which is night time in India) or 9:00 p.m. PST (which is morning in India). I found that my colleagues, as a rule, arrive at the office between 9:00 and 10:00 a.m. (India time) and leave between 6:00 and 7:30 p.m. (India time). My colleagues in India want to be home by 9:00 p.m. or so--when the evening meal generally occurs in homes in India, so I'm told.

Lots of details here. But realize that the bottom line means that there is basically an hour at about 7:00 in the morning and another hour at about 9:00 at night that a person on the west coast of the USA can communicate in real time (meetings, back and forth with e-mail) with colleagues in e-mail. Other than that you send an e-mail--get an answer 24 hours later.

So here's the trick. Communication is very indirect. Yes probably means no. You need to negotiate. Figure out where you are. Be positive and supportive. (Not particularly direct.) And you have an hour a day to do this. Not particularly quick.

And so my trip to India Amazingly useful. 7 working days, face to face, 8+ hours a day. What an useful, productive run of hours, discussions questions, answers, concerns. I think my company probably got it's money worth.

And I had this amazing encounter with this weird, scary, wonderful country.